The Pulver Chronicles – 51. Hard Times, Come Again No More

Suppressing a yawn, Jackson shut down his work computer, put away the files, and turned off his desk lamp. He did all of this almost without thinking, his moves so precise and routine he felt like a robot. With a grunt, he stretched his arms and swiveled in his desk chair, accidentally knocking the picture on his desk. He managed to catch it before it dropped to the carpeted floor, and sighed.

“Sorry, guys,” he said. 

He placed the picture back where it was, with as much care as if it was a sacred idol. Which, in many ways, it was: simply looking at this picture of him, Seth, and Liz hugging in front of their new house always helped make his day feel shorter and sunnier, even as the paperwork piled up on his desk. Devout Christians probably felt the same way about pictures of Jesus, he reasoned. Finally, he got off his chair, and left his cubicle, throwing his coat over his shoulder.

The second floor of Infotech Analytics was almost deserted already. Jackson only spotted Flora Dickens and Robert What’s-His-Name still working at this hour, eyes glued to their monitors, both looking like they really wanted to just be done with it already. Al was still here as well, judging by the light coming out of his half-open office’s door. Jackson wasn’t surprised: the manager was always working late. And early. And weekends too. Jackson often wondered if Al even had a home. Supposedly, he had a wife -he mentioned her often in conversation, generally to mention something stupid she said or did-, but Jackson had no idea when he could find time to see her. With a chuckle, he guessed Al’s wife might have been the reason he wasn’t home often.

Jackson knocked on and pushed the door. Al was sitting behind his large wooden desk, typing on his keyboard. He was a portly man, with short blond hair and blue eyes, thin lips, and a large, wrinkled forehead. As always, he was wearing a cream-colored dress shirt, a pair of black pants, a leather belt, square glasses with a brown rim, and a pair of fancy black shoes that probably cost more than Jackson’s monthly treatment.

“Hey, Al. I’m heading home for the night. See you on Tuesday.”

“Night” was right. Through the window (seriously, Al’s office not only had a door, but also a window!), he could see that the sun had long since set.

“Tuesday?” Al said, looking up from his monitor in shock. He blinked. “Ah, right. Monday’s your day off. Going on that trip to Los Angeles, right?”

“Yup. Taking Liz to see the Walk of Fame and everything.”

“Lord, I wouldn’t be caught dead in LA. All hippies, drag queens, and pinkos,” the manager said, his Southern accent flaring up.

“Pretty sure you’re thinking of Frisco,” Jackson said. Al ignored him.

“Tell you what, you want to take your wife somewhere nice, somewhere you won’t get mugged, go to Boise. Great city, very safe, and it’s only a ten hour drive. My mother lives there. All good Christians, down in Boise.”

“Uh-huh, yeah, I’ll think about it. Anyway, got to go. Good night.”

Al was still ranting about California and what the Republican Party was allegedly doing to this country as Jackson closed the door and briskly walked away. He went down the stairs, passed by the reception desk, waved off the security guard stationed there for the night, and finally left Infotech Analytics’ building. The night was cold -well, as cold as they could get in the late fall in Nevada. Jackson got in his Bronco, turned on the engine, and drove out of the parking lot so fast he heard his tires screech.

Eight fucking P.M., he thought, glancing his wristwatch, his teeth grinding. A new goddamn record. Fucking Al. I take one day off, and he makes me do all these extra hours to compensate. And no overtime pay, of course, because I’m salaried. Management often pulled that sort of thing on the employees. Supposedly, it was to make up for the time off and ensure the weekly workload was done, but it was an open secret they were really trying to discourage the employees from taking any time off.

For most of the drive back home, Jackson cussed and swore at Infotech Analytics and its managers. He had been working there for almost six months now, and he was already tired of it. In all honesty, the work itself wasn’t that bad: it was simple data entry and archiving; no advanced skills, no responsibility. Basically, companies contracted Infotech Analytics to digitize their paperwork, having joined the informatization bandwagon late and not wanting to be left behind in the twentieth century. The pay wasn’t bad either, at least for a level-entry job which required minimal computer skills. Jackson didn’t even have those skills, but had claimed otherwise during the interview; it had helped that one of the managers was ex-US Army as well, and was impressed by Jackson’s service. The colleagues were friendly, too.

No, the work itself wasn’t bad. The company was. Its internal policy that frowned upon the most random things, its huge amount of paperwork, and especially its management. Jackson was hopîng he wouldn’t have to stay a full year there. But, unfortunately, not many places were hiring, especially not with a resume as short as his.

The black cloud over him dissipated as he passed through Bunkerville, followed the familiar dirt path into the small forest, and finally arrived at the house. At least, the drive home was short.

Home was a small, two-floors house built out of wood and stones. When Jackson, Sathariel, and Alizana had bought it, it had been abandoned for almost two decades, and definitely looked like it. Virtually all of the windows were broken, the front door was missing, the back door’s hinges were so rusted it could barely open, and the roof had several holes. It took a lot of work to make the place feel less like a ruin they were squatting in, and more like a home they were living in. Months later, there was still a lot to be done, but the windows had all been replaced, the doors opened and closed correctly, and the roof didn’t leak every time it rained.

Both the front and the back yard were still covered in wild plants, except for the garden Liz had created for her vegetables. There was also a spot, further away behind the house, by a small river, where Jackson had built a cenotaph for Byron, and another for David; he went there regularly to visit his old friends and reminisce.

Jackson parked his Bronco next to Sathariel’s marine blue F-150. Sathariel -or Seth, as everyone now called him- was sitting on the small wooden bench on the porch, reading a magazine under the lightbulb. The Demon raised his head and smiled at his best friend, but the smile dimmed a little when he looked at Jackson’s mouth. Jackson then remembered he had lit a cigarette on the road, and had neglected to put it out. He tutted to himself as he took one last drag. 

Yes, Jackson had taken up smoking some time ago. It hadn’t been on purpose. Well, not really. What had happened still weirded Jackson out when he thought about it. About one month after moving near Bunkerville, Jackson and Sathariel had gone out at a grocery store to get some food for dinner. As they had gone to the registers to pay, Jackson had spotted cigarette packs behind the cashier. One pack in particular had caught his attention, although he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. Cinders Traditional, blondes, ultra-light, pack of twenty. Something really strange had happened as he gazed at it. Jackson had never smoked in his life, yet somehow, at that moment, he could remember the smell of those cigarettes, their feel between his fingers, and the taste of their smoke against the roof of his mouth. He had no idea what those cigarettes were… and it was his favorite brand.

Before he knew it, he had ordered two packs, reciting its name and type by rote, as if he had bought many of them in the past. It was only when he had left the grocery store and entered the parking lot that he had come to his senses. Then, the penny had dropped. Byron. Those were Byron’s favorites. He had stood there for a while, staring at the cigarette packs in his hand, until a worried Sathariel brought him back to reality.

“What’s wrong, Jack?” he had asked.

“Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Jackson had then shoved the packs in one his pants’ pockets, and had never wanted to talk or think about what had happened again. Despite a bad first experience involving a lot of coughing, Jackson had found out he very much liked the taste. While he was not as heavy a smoker as Byron -at least not yet-, Jackson still didn’t like that he was smoking at all, and had made a conscious decision to quit. Well, eventually. The problem was, as bad as these things were for his health, they were doing a world of good for his stress levels. And he certainly had a few good reasons to be stressed: his job, his manager, money, his manager, his people, his manager, the future…

Back on the porch, Jackson put out his cigarette in an ashtray placed on a window sill. He had probably left it there last time he had gone outside for a smoke.

“Liz! Jack’s back!” Sathariel called out above his shoulder, knocking on the kitchen’s window. Looking at the cigarette butt in the ashtray, he added: “Hate to be a nag, but… seriously, quit that shit, man. You’re the one who keeps telling me how bad it is. And you know she hates it.”

“I know, I know. I’m trying. I cut back to one pack a week instead of two already.”

Before opening the front door, Jackson made sure the cigarette was completely out. Liz, always highly sensitive to smells, had quickly decided she hated cigarette smoke, and had made it a hard rule that not a single one would ever be lit inside the house.

Liz was in the kitchen, heating up dinner. In the weeks following their move to Nevada, Liz had taken to cooking, and, although she was no cordon bleu, she had gotten very good at it. She only knew a handful of recipes, but regularly tried to add new ones to her repertoire, learning them or even inventing them. It helped that she had recently taken a part-time job as a line cook at a restaurant in Bunkerville; by her own admission, she wouldn’t make a career out of it, but the money was good, and so was the experience. Jackson hugged her from behind, his nose catching the fragrances coming out of the crockpot as he did. It seemed she was trying something new, involving chicken and spices. The latter was not surprising: Liz, like many Hellhounds, had fallen in love with all things spicy, to the point where she now rarely ate anything that didn’t at least sting a little.

“Hey, girl,” Jackson said, kissing her on the neck. “I missed you today.”

She turned her head to kiss him back. “Me too. I hope you’re hungry.”

“Oh, I am. That asshole made me work through my lunch break.”

He and Seth quickly set the table, and ten minutes later, the food was served. From what Jackson could tell, it was some kind of chicken stew with sweet potatoes, red peppers, and corn. Seth, salivating at both the sight and the smell, joyfully took the first bite… then his smile faded and his eyes grew wide. Jackson didn’t realize a Demon could turn so red.

“Oh wow,” Seth said. “That is spicy.”

With a laugh, Jackson tried it too. His laughter lasted one second after he started chewing.

“Okay, yeah, that’s pretty fucking spicy. Holy shit. Tastes real good, though.”

“Taste? I can’t taste anything through that fireball,” Seth said.

That was a recurring issue with Liz’s culinary experiments. Her own tolerance to spice was very, very high, to the point where Jackson wondered where her limits were -assuming she had any. Unfortunately, the same did not apply to Seth and Jackson. They had gotten better, their palates stronger, but there was no way they could compete with Liz’s resistance.

“Really?” Liz said, disappointed. “I tried to make it more your level this time. Oh well, just leave the broth. And the peppers.”

“No, but it really is good,” Jackson said. “The chicken’s really tasty.”

Seth quickly got out of his seat, his eyes welling with tears, and got some milk from the fridge. He didn’t even bother getting a glass, and drank straight from the bottle. The fridge was always packed with at least a couple of bottles of milk, usually full fat; with Liz’s cuisine, this had become a necessity. Going back to his seat, Seth tried again, chasing every other bite with a good mouthful of milk.

“How are things down at the shop?” Jackson asked Seth.

“Good, good. Busier than usual, now that Hugo has gone back to Puerto Rico. You know, that opens up a spot for you, if you want. You keep talking about how you want to leave Infotech.”

“Yeah, maybe. The pay’s good, though, and we need all the money we can save. Speaking of… Liz, have you heard from the Tulu tribe?”

Ever since the last meeting of chieftains, Liz had kept to her new job as a living database for the Hellhound diaspora. She religiously kept track of every tribe’s whereabouts, their members, their addresses, their phone numbers… Speaking of the latter, hardly a day went by where Liz wasn’t on the phone with at least one or two tribe chieftains, often spending an hour talking. She had taken to telecommunication technology rather fast, owing to how useful it was, and was now even considering buying a cellphone just like Seth. Indeed, the young Demon had gotten one for professional reasons: part of his job was road assistance, and he needed to be reachable even while travelling. Jackson, as to him, still didn’t like these things, finding them noisy and invasive; the fact that they were becoming increasingly common made them all the more obnoxious to him.

“I have,” Liz said happily. “Good news: Laru, the future new chief, will soon officially become a citizen of this country.”

“Really? Did they find another guy to get them some papers?”

One of the reasons Liz, Seth, Jackson, and the rest of the Neha tribe had left Wyoming for Nevada was that Lyndon Matthews had eventually declared he would not provide them any more fake IDs. As he had reminded Jackson several times, there was a limit to what he would do, and that limit was reached after the fifty-first fake identity he had provided. The other reason was that Seth and Jackson had not been able to find any gainful employment in Wyoming, between the end of the tourist season and their lack of experience or diploma. Thankfully for Seth, he had found that Larry’s offer was still on the table.

Of course, that meant another provider had to be found if they wanted more fake papers. This meant contacting another of Byron’s old colleagues. None of them lived in Nevada, but two could be found in California. One of them, Clarice Walburn, lived in Los Angeles. As soon as they had finally found the time to do so, Jack, Seth, and Liz had decided to take a little trip there to meet with her.

“Oh no, it’s better than that: she just got married!” Liz said.

“She did? To whom?” Seth said.

“A guy named Frank Delaney, an electrician from San Diego. The tribe hired him to do some installation in one of their houses, and Laru and he fell in love at first sight, apparently. Anyway, that means she can legally become a citizen after a year. As soon as it’s done, she’ll officially become the new chief of the Tulu tribe, and Yanu can retire.”

Retiring was becoming something of a trend among the tribe chieftains. Part of the reason behind that was that said chieftains were getting old, but another rationale was that this new world required new leaders. Indeed, the younger generation of Hellhounds had shown themselves to have an easier time adapting to Earth, its society, its culture, its language, and its technology. In fact, some of the younger ones seemed to have taken to cellphones and computers better than Jackson himself. They were better able at mingling among the people as well, though they had to do so under false pretenses. Not just the fake papers they used, but also their identity: it had been unanimously decided that Hellhounds should not identify as such, at least for the time being, and instead lead people to believe they were some kind of big Werewolves. Indeed, there was no way to explain how an entirely new kind of Humanoids had appeared out of nowhere, at least not in a way that would avoid suspicions. Some among the oldest generation questioned how this was any different from their old world, but the newest generation was convinced acceptance would come. Perhaps not before another decade or maybe another generation, but it would come.

“Hey, that’s great!” Jackson said. “Now if we could just marry off all of our Hellhounds, that’d save us a lot of cash.”

“Oh, haven’t you realized it yet?” Liz said, smirking at him. “This was our plan all along: to marry into this society so we can infiltrate it. If all goes well, we’ll have taken over the continent in five generations.”

“Yeah? Well, all hail our new masters, then!” Jackson raised his beer bottle. “Or new mistresses, I guess. You can’t do worse than our politicians anyway.”

“Or the Archdemons,” Seth said, toasting with his carton of milk.

The next morning, everyone woke up early -well, early for a Saturday morning-, took a big breakfast, then got on Seth’s F-150, ready for a six hour road trip. Jackson initially wanted to take his Bronco, to which he had gotten used, but Seth was skeptical the old pick-up would survive such a long journey. It had already shown a few issues back during the move out of Wyoming. At one point, halfway through Utah, it had even broken down; luckily, letting the engine cool down had been enough to solve the issue. Seth also insisted on driving the whole time, even though Jackson had offered to relay him. As to Liz, she still didn’t like motorized vehicles, and in fact had not touched a wheel since Jackson had taught her how to drive.

Before buckling down, Jackson patted the inside pocket of his jacket, making sure Azazel’s box had not magically disappeared from inside it. The man -or woman- known as Jesse Varley had still not been located, although in truth Jackson had been too busy to really search for them. In the meantime, Jackson had kept that box close to him as often as he could, only putting it aside to take a shower or to sleep; even in the latter case, he still kept it close, on the nightstand. He couldn’t risk losing it. God only knew what would happen then, especially if someone else were to recover it, and maybe even find a way to open it.

Jackson, who still didn’t like waking up early, especially on weekends, ended up sleeping through most of the trip, his head on Alizana’s shoulder, who in turn put her head on his. He briefly woke up after an hour or so, and was a little disappointed to have missed Las Vegas. Ever since the move to Nevada, he had promised himself and the others they would visit the so-called Sin City. But between the move, the work on their new house, their jobs, and about a million other little things, they hadn’t found the time yet; they were also supposed to be saving as much money as possible, which was rather incompatible with hitting the casinos.

They made a brief detour as they passed the Mojave National Preserve. A few miles west of what used to be the town of Zzyx was the new home of the Kele tribe, installed in an old warehouse near a river. They were living off the grid for the time being, having no access to running water or electricity. Their living conditions were not much different from the Vetrisian forest, with the exception that they lived off work instead of hunting. Seeing them squatting in an abandoned building like that made Jackson think back to those shantytowns he had seen on TV. Although Naele assured him and Alizana that their life was hard but good, he still felt more motivated to help them find their place in society.

A second detour was made to visit the Mieto tribe. They still lived near the Cleveland National Forest, though like Jackson, Seth, and Liz, they had moved their camp to be closer to civilization. Though the tribemates also mostly still lived in hiding, a good number of them had managed to find employment -not always declared- and the tribe was thriving. Aleo was no longer chieftain, owing to her age. Indeed, at sixty-eight years old, she was now the oldest Hellhound alive; she often joked that she never believed she would die of old age. Her health was declining and so was her sight, but her mind -and her tongue- was still as sharp as ever.

As for her daughter Cleo, she had once again found a job as a guide, this time helping trekkers through the mountains of the Cleveland Forest. This wasn’t enough to sate her wanderlust, however: she kept talking about wanting to travel the world, and see as much of it as possible; all of it, if she could. It seemed she devoted all of her money and free time in the preparation of this journey, and although she had no idea when she would finally depart, she was, according to her friends, growing more impatient with each passing day. In the meantime, she was taking care of her aging mother, and assisting the new chieftain with her duties to help with the transition.

It was late in the afternoon -or early in the evening- when the trio arrived in Los Angeles. They checked in at a motel away from the center; Jackson had chosen it both because it was cheap and because it had “Hollywood” in the name, though it turned out to be pretty far from the famous district. After dropping their luggage and taking a quick shower, they got back in the F-150 and drove down to Santa Monica, a few streets away from the beach. The place they were looking for was a military surplus store called Uncle Sam’s Very Own. It was a medium-sized shop located between a music store and a hair salon, with iron bars on the door and the bay window.

“The people of your country sure love their flag,” Seth said, pointing at the no less than four Star-Spangled Banners hanging at the front of the store.

“Well, it is a cool flag.”

The place was cluttered, with all sorts of items sold next to each other with little order: knives next to the MREs, guidebooks next to the camping equipment, clothing next to the flashlights. Green camo tarps covered the walls, and some kind of patriotic music was played at low volume -Jackson believed it was America The Beautiful, but couldn’t be sure. There were a few customers still milling about, but the store was evidently about to close. Jackson got to the counter, on which a young Orc, probably a teenager, was leaning, reading a magazine; from the pictures, it was some kind of cinema-themed publication.

“Yeah?” the Orc said, looking and sounding bored out of his skull.

“Is Clarice Walburn here today?”

“Who?”

“Err… Clarice Walburn? Is there a Clarice Walburn working here?”

“I don’t think so. The owner’s name is Clarice Brooke, though. Is that who you mean?”

Maybe she got married and changed her name.

“Oh, yeah. Could you get her, please?”

The teenager shrugged, closed his magazine, and went to the back through a door. Ten long minutes went by, during which Liz and Seth browsed a nearby aisle, intrigued by some tools on display. Finally, a middle-aged Human woman with a kind smile came out of the door. She was about five foot six, with long, permed blonde hair, and wearing a beige dress with flower motifs, as well as a pair of framed glasses. A pale pink purse hung beneath her arm. There was little gait in her walk as she stepped behind the counter and greeted Jackson with a kind smile.

“Good evening, sir. I understand you were looking for the owner?”

Jackson hesitated. Knowing the person he was looking for was a veteran that also used to be part of some secret agency, and now owned a military surplus store, he had imagined someone completely different. That woman looked like a suburban housewife on a sunny Sunday, about to either drive the kids down to their weekly soccer game or have a few glasses of Zinfandel with her friends.

Except… Jackson noticed her straight shoulders, some strong muscles on her arms, as well as part of a bullet scar on her chest, partly covered by the round collar of her dress. And there was her bearing, too: straight back, shoulders open, and feet apart, as if she had been made to stand to attention for a good part of her life. Jackson was actually a little surprised to have noticed these details; while he himself had been part of the military in the past, he was not usually able to recognize a fellow veteran.

But Byron could, a voice whispered in his mind.

“Um, yeah, I’m looking for Clarice Walburn,” Jackson replied, chasing that thought and showing Byron’s dog tags as subtly as he could.

There was a barely noticeable change in her bright eyes for a moment, as if the shadow of some distant past had dimmed them for an instant. Something flashed in Jackson’s mind. He saw himself transported in a far away place, some kind of prairie under the morning sun. The woman was there, wearing some combat fatigues that didn’t look like the ones the US Army used, a foreign assault rifle hanging off her shoulder, looking at half a dozen plumes of black smoke in the distance through a camera. In her eyes was that same shadow.

Again, that strange feeling of familiarity. This time, Jackson knew immediately where all of this came from. Those were Byron’s memories.

“Yes, of course,” the woman said, pointing at the door behind her. “Please follow me.”

“I’ll be waiting in the car,” Sathariel said.

The door behind led to a back alley, across which were a series of houses. The woman headed to one -the fourth from the right, Jackson counted-, opened the back door, and invited Alizana and Jackson in. They arrived at a vestibule that connected both back and front door, and was decorated with numerous framed pictures, depicting various people in various locations without any evident connection between them. A door to the right led to a living room, and a stairs to the left led to the second floor. The vestibule was rather narrow, and Alizana had to walk carefully so as not to bump any of the pictures with her large shoulders. Jackson was about to compliment the place -mostly just to say something-, when he felt something press between his shoulder blades. The shape and hardness of the object left little doubt as to its nature.

“Raise your hands above your head. Slowly.”

It was the woman’s voice, but now sounding completely different. Instead of the nice and kindly tone of a housewife, it was now cold and abrupt. Jackson didn’t dare turn around or even look above his shoulder, but he had the distinct feeling her facial expression matched it. Well, at least now we know for sure it’s her, he thought, raising his hands as the woman ordered. Alizana glanced behind her, her eyes going wide. Jackson nodded at her to do as they were told.

Clarice patted Jackson’s chest, quickly finding and removing his pistol. She also found the box, gave it a look, but put it back in its pocket.

“What about you, Grizzly? Are you packing?” the woman said to Alizana. Jackson noted her accent sounded a bit different, as well: less Californian and more Southern.

The “Grizzly” moniker made Alizana tick, but she calmly answered: “No, no weapons.”

“Good. Both of you, in the living room to your right. Don’t try anything.”

“Clutter” was the first word that came to Jackson’s mind as he entered the living room. The decoration was more of an accumulation of various things than an actual arrangement following a theme. There was, in no particular order, a large blue leather couch, a wicker chair with a large, round back, a glass coffee table, an oakwood dining table with five unassorted chairs, a fridge that looked like it had survived the 50’s… And again, many pictures, strewn around everywhere, covering the walls as well as the surfaces of a lot of furniture. Jackson observed several of them, an odd feeling of familiarity possessing his mind.

“All right, you’ve got thirty seconds to tell me who you are and who sent you,” Clarice said.

“Byron sent us,” Jackson said, 

He turned around to look at her. As he thought, it was like a completely different woman was standing there. Gone was the nice, smiley housewife, the person standing before him was without a doubt someone who had known action, and likely had the scars -physical and psychological- to show for it. She was pointing a Colt 1911 at them, and holding Jackson’s own Beretta by the canon in her left hand.

“Yeah?” She scoffed. “Prove it.”

“I showed you his tags.”

“And how do I know you didn’t take them off his body? Because I’m assuming he’s dead, right?”

Jackson felt the familiar itch in his hand’s palm, right on the scar, but fought against the need to scratch it. 

“Yeah, he is,” he sighed.

Clarice swore under her breath. “You got twenty seconds left.”

Shit, shit, shit. Jackson was on the verge of panic, and could tell from Alizana’s body language she was on the verge of making mincemeat of that woman. Neither reaction would help, evidently. He picked his brains, trying to find something to say, something that could convince her he did know Byron. His eyes focused on a picture of a goat on a mountain path somewhere. It was an old picture, dating probably a few decades.

“Do you still have that old Olympus?” he said.

Wait, what? The question had popped in his mind, coming straight out of nowhere, accompanied with images of a camera, black and silver in color. He saw it being handled by that same woman, looking younger and smiling warmer.

“What did you just say?” the woman asked.

“That Olympus OM-1. The one Byron gave you. You got some good mileage out of it, during your time in the agency. Do you still have it?”

Incredulous, the woman mumbled something under her breath. Then, after what felt like an eternity, she lowered her gun, slowly, and put the safety back on.

“Yeah, I do,” she said. “It stopped working a few years ago, and I bought a more recent model, so I keep it upstairs in my bedroom.”

She handed Jackson his pistol, who put it back in its holster.

“Byron offered it to me after my first mission for the agency. I’ve never told anyone in my civilian life where I got it. Never told anyone anything about the agency.”

Clarice placed her gun on the coffee table, then sat down in the wicker chair, offering the couch to her guests. She sighed, and rubbed the back of her neck.

“Sorry about this. You know how it is: no such thing as a retired operative. Could be fifty years from now, and I’d still be at risk because of what I know or what I’ve seen.”

“That’s fine,” Jackson said.

“You worked for the agency too?”

“I worked with Byron.”

“Ah, well, I guess we all did. He really is dead, isn’t he? Died in action, right?”

“You could say that,” Jackson said flatly.

“Yeah… That’s how he wanted to go. He never said that exactly, but you could tell. He was never the kinda guy who’d waste away in bed, waiting until time took him.” She sighed again, then grabbed something from her pocket. “Do you mind if I smoke? I haven’t in a while, but now seems like a good time.”

Jackson had half-retrieved his own pack of smokes, when Alizana answered:

“I do, actually.”

“Right, no problem,” Clarice said, putting away her cigarettes. “So… Why did you want to see me?”

Alizana and Jackson went on to explain that they needed some fake papers done. Clarice knew a lot of people in Southern California, including a few who could do just that. It wouldn’t be cheap, she warned them, and it could take some time. In fact, the costs she guessed were higher than what Lyndon used to charge; not considerably higher, but enough that the process of legitimizing every member of every tribe would take even longer. Jackson did some quick mental calculations, and figured it would take them years to achieve that, barring some unexpected windfall -or some unplanned difficulties.

“If you’re trying to get out of the country, I also know some people who can help you disappear, quick and easy,” Clarice said.

“Actually, we’re kind of trying to do the opposite,” Alizana said.

“All right. Well, let me know what I can do to help. Any friend of Byron is a friend of mine. Like, if you need guns, I know someone really good, and not very expensive.”

“We’re good for guns, thanks,” Jackson said, still a bit shaken by how quickly Clarice went from threatening them with a gun to treating them like friends. “Uh, there’s one thing, though. Do you know someone called Jesse Varley?”

Clarice’s eyes answered that question before her words did. There was definitely a look of recognition in them. And something else, as well. Worry? Apprehension, maybe? She crossed her legs.

“Uh, yeah, I know someone by that name. Why do you want to know?”

“We need to meet with him,” Jackson explained. “We’ve got… a delivery for him, sorta.”

“Uh-huh.” Clarice pursed her lips, cagey. “Well, Varley isn’t the kind of guy you can just meet like that. He… He lives in a different world from us.”

Jackson suppressed a smile. Different world, uh?

“Okay, well, do you know a way we can contact him? Or… I don’t know, contact someone who knows him?”

One of Clarice’s knees starting bumping over the other. “Yeah, I might. But I’m not sure I want to do that.”

Jackson sighed. “Right… How much will it take for you to be sure?”

“It’s not about the money,” Clarice retorted, offended. “It’s just, a guy like Jesse Varley… I don’t know that I want to appear on his radar.”

“What kind of man is he?” Alizana asked with a frown.

“Wealthy, connected, influential… You know, the kind of man cops never pull over.”

“What is he?” Jackson asked. “Some kind of politician?”

“No. I think he’s some kind of a businessman, or an investor, or whatever. Something to do with money. But he’s connected to politicians, I’m pretty sure.”

“Is he dangerous?” Alizana said.

“People with that much power always are,” Clarice said. She brushed her lips with two fingers.

There was a lull in the conversation, during which Jackson asked himself if they really wanted to meet with that man. It was not like Azazel would show up on their doorstep if they forewent the whole thing. Well… Probably not. Ultimately, Jackson resolved to do as he told the Archmage he would do; it just wouldn’t feel right to have taken all those riches from her and give nothing in return.

“Okay, so how about you give us a way to contact him?” Jackson said. “And we’ll do the rest. You won’t have to get involved.”

“Yeah, I suppose I can manage that. In return, if you could manage to keep my name out of any conversations you have with him, or anyone connected to him…”

“We will,” Alizana said.

They exchanged phone numbers, and Clarice told them she would call them when she had found a way to reach Varley. She then gave them her fake ID guy’s information. His name was Josh Tannhauser and he lived in a small house in Burbank, not too far from the airport; his official job kept him busy all day, and he could only be met about his other job during the night. Speaking of which, it was getting late in the evening. Jackson and Alizana bid their goodbyes, and left Clarice to get back to their car.

Tannhauser’s home was their next destination, though Alizana was starting to get hungry and wanted to stop at a pizzeria she had seen on the way; Jackson, however, wanted to do everything they had set out to do today first. Josh Tannhauser was an old, sickly-looking man, with very pale skin and a silhouette so thin it was just one step above a skeleton. He had thick glasses, a short patch of grey hair on his chin, and a nearly bald head. In addition, his fingers seemed to quiver constantly, and his back was arched as if he carried an invisible weight on his shoulders. 

When it came to business, he was direct to the point of curtness; it was obvious he didn’t want Jackson, Liz, and Seth in his house for a second longer than he absolutely had to. He made his terms and conditions clear: no negotiating the prices, no rush jobs, and if he ever said no to a request, it meant no. Unfortunately, he charged almost two thousand dollars more per job than Lyndon, meaning Jackson and Liz would have to start saving even more money. With what they had managed to put aside so far, they were hoping to give ten more people an official identity that day; Tannhauser’s prices meant they would only be able to afford six.

From Alizana’s distant expression when they came back to their motel room, Jackson could tell she was busy doing some budgeting. Eventually, she took a pencil and a pad, and noted a few numbers. There were a few payments left on the house -both for the house itself and for the repairs-, as well as four payments on Seth’s car, there was the food budget, the utilities, a few debts which had to be repaid with interest… One of their Nehan tribemates had just given birth to two healthy daughters, who would need baby clothes, toys, and the like. In addition, the births could not be made official, due to neither parents having an official existence, meaning the newborns would require fake papers as well. Also, the tribes’ communal pool was running a little low this month, following a few incidents -medical bills, for the most part.

The communal pool was an idea Alizana had come up with two months after the move to Nevada. Earning a living was still difficult for the tribes, and sometimes one of them needed outside help to afford food and necessities. Thus, it had been decided that each tribe would put some money aside each month. Thankfully, through Alizana and Tanli, all of the tribes still maintained a tight network, and were able to assist one another with ease.

Liz ended her calculations with a sigh, and rubbed her forehead before asking Jackson to massage her shoulders. He worked his fingers hard in her thick skin, trying to get to the muscles and knead them.

“How much of Azazel’s treasure is left?” she asked him as she leaned back against him.

“The Neha tribe’s share of it? Not much, maybe a third. With Tannhauser’s prices, it might be enough to get IDs for the rest of our tribemates, barring any problems.”

Liz closed her eyes and began scratching her claws. Jackson gently grabbed her fingers to make her stop.

“It’s gonna be okay, Liz,” he said.

“I thought the process would have gone smoother, but we keep running into hurdles. Births, accidents, debts… The whole thing feels like we’re taking two steps forward, and one step back.”

“Well, that still means we’re one step forward. We’re gonna get through this, babe.”

“I know… But how long will it take until my entire people can live in the open? Years? Decades? Will I even see it in my lifetime?”

Having no answer to that, Jackson just kept on massaging her shoulders. After a few minutes, her stomach growled, and Seth decided to order in. The next day, they went to do the tourist thing around Los Angeles. Jackson had long wanted to do the Walk of Fame, and was happy to finally do it, especially in the company of the two most important people in his life. Liz and Seth, however, found the whole thing pretty boring: although Jackson had done his best to introduce them to America’s cinema and TV culture, they still didn’t know many of Hollywood’s most famous stars. Liz was far more interested in the variety of cuisines offered in the city’s many restaurants, and Seth in the numerous cars he saw in the streets, most of which he had only seen in magazines before.

Tannhauser was more expensive than Lyndon, but he really worked for that money: two of the fake identities were ready the next day in the evening; apparently, he already had some blank paperwork prepared in advance; by the looks of him, he seemed to have spent the entire night working on them. The rest would be ready in a month. In addition, he didn’t just deliver IDs and driver’s licenses like Lyndon, but also birth certificates and social security cards. The work was impeccable, too: the driver’s licenses, brand new, seemed to come straight from the DMV. According to Alizana’s budgeting, this meant they wouldn’t be able to place their next order before three months. Jackson considered going to another of Byron’s old contacts, but the nearest one was in Chicago.

The next morning, on Monday, Jackson contacted Clarice to ask her where she was on the Varley thing.

“I’m working some contacts,” she told him. “People who know people who know people who… might know Varley. I might have to call in some favors, too.”

“We’ll repay you,” Jackson promised.

“You can repay me by making sure he never hears about me. I like the life I made for myself in LA; I’d hate to have to go dark again.”

“I’ll just tell him I found his phone number written on a bathroom stall.”

An hour or so later, the trio checked out of the motel, and drove back to Bunkerville.

Life went back to normal after that: Seth working at the car shop, Liz taking care of the home and the tribes’ network when she wasn’t busy with her part-time job, and Jackson punching keys all day at the office. Speaking of the latter, Jackson somehow grew to bear his job to the point where he didn’t spend most of the day grumbling and internally complaining. It wasn’t that the work had gotten any better, or the management any more likeable, it was the fact that there was a point to it: providing for his home, and for his family. It didn’t matter how boring, menial, or hard his work was: he had something to come home to, and that made it all worth it. 

Especially as Jackson’s family would be expanding soon.

A couple of months after their trip to Los Angeles, Alizana and Jackson had a little talk in their bedroom, as they were getting dressed for the day. A little talk… about children. Jackson was a bit surprised: they hadn’t discussed that subject since they had come to this world.

“We had other things in mind, back then,” Alizana explained. “And I was concerned with other problems.”

“And now, you’re not concerned anymore?”

She chuckled to herself. “Oh, I still am. In fact, I’m starting to think I’ll always be concerned. For my tribemates, for my people, for my loved ones… It’s just who I am, I guess.”

“Well, I love who you are,” Jackson said. “I love that you’re always helping others, always devoting yourself to your people. But you know you’re allowed to be a little selfish sometimes.”

“Oh, but I do get selfish sometimes,” she retorted, running a claw along his torso, down to his groin. “Greedy, even.” Clearing her throat, she went back on topic: “I told you I wanted children. And, I admit, watching many of my sistren have litters of their own only made me want it more. But I also wanted to wait for the ideal moment. A time where we wouldn’t be concerned with money, or needing to hide, or anything.”

“That… could be a while.”

“Exactly. I’ve come to realize that the ideal moment might never come. Like I said, I’ll always be concerned with something. There’ll always be problems.”

“We shouldn’t let that stop us,” Jackson said.

“No, we shouldn’t,” Alizana said with a nod. “Right now, we have a home, we have jobs, we have some money -not much, I know-, and more importantly, we have each other. Maybe our situation isn’t ideal, but… It’s good enough.” She licked her lip, her confidence faltering for a moment. “So, um… I know you said you wanted children, but… That was months ago, and a lot has happened since then, so…”

“I haven’t changed my mind,” he abruptly said. “I want kids. I want to have kids with you.”

Relief washed over her face. “Alright. Okay. Good.”

After a brief silence, during which Jackson considered whether to put on pants, he said:

“So… Did you want to get started right now?”

“Oh, no, no. I have a thousand things to do this morning. Aleo is supposed to call me, and then I have to call Nari -the Rini tribe is going to move again, apparently. But…” She flashed him a smile. “Soon. Very soon.”

That day, Jackson could barely see his work computer’s screen through the mental images of Alizana with a baby bump -and several other changes to her curves naturally brought on by the pregnancy. It didn’t help that she wasn’t wearing clothes in any of the scenarios he pictured. Amazingly, that lack of focus didn’t seem to impact his work much, given that Al complimented him on it as he passed by Jackson’s cubicle -of course, it was possible Al wasn’t paying much attention either that day.

After work, Jackson went to hang out with Seth at Larry’s car repair shop, as he sometimes did. As he parked in the front, he noticed the shop’s name had changed from “Tillman Auto Repairs” to “Tillman & Son Auto Repairs”.

“Larry’s got a son now?” he asked Seth as he found him working on an old van, trying to clean up the impressive amount of rust collected around the engine. How come everything seems to be about kids, these days? Did they put something in the water?

“No, he just thinks it sounds better,” Seth said. “He says customers like a family business more.”

Jackson glanced around at the shop. Seth was apparently the last employee present. Half of the lights had been turned off, and the desk at the front was closed. Seth sometimes volunteered to work late at night, so the other mechanic -Danny- could go home early and take care of his ailing mother. Unlike Jackson, that was actual volunteering, and Larry paid him extra for it.

“Speaking of, I think Moyree is a good name,” Seth said, grabbing a wrench to tighten a lug.

“What’s that?” Jackson said.

“Moyree. It was the name of this girl I knew when I was a kid. She was like a sister to me, growing up. It would be a good name…” He put on a knowing smile.

“Oh, you mean…”

“Yup. Liz talked to me too; told me about your little conversation.”

Seth gave Jackson a nudge; the latter scratched the back of his neck, and giggled stupidly.

“Well, Moyree’s not really a name on Earth,” Jackson said. “I’d rather call my kids something that doesn’t sound too weird. I mean, I know they’ll have their Hellhound name, but at least their Human name should sound… well, Human. Plus, we’ve got to find a name that ends in a. You know, to fit the tribe’s convention and stuff.”

“Moyreea, then.”

“Still not an Earth name. That sounds more like what you’d call an evil sorceress in a fantasy B-movie.”

“Okay, okay, just putting in my two cents.” He put away the wrench, took a rag to wipe his hand, and closed the hood with his elbow. “We’ll have to get some furniture, like bassinets and all that. How many kids do you think we’ll have? Two? Three? Four?”

“Shit, I don’t know.” Jackson massaged the blade of his left hand. “Hopefully not too many. We’ve only got two extra rooms.”

“Three with that room we were planning to turn into a music room or a theatre room or something.”

“Yeah… Let’s be honest: we’ll never have the cash for that anyway.”

“You’re not wrong. Guess that means we’ll also have to put the other project on standby.”

He nodded to a car, parked behind the garage, seen through a window, half-covered by a beige tarp. Jackson let out a little sigh. Ah, yes, their project car. Almost two weeks after their trip to LA, Jackson and Seth went to a police auction, to do some shopping. They were initially planning to only buy useful stuff on the cheap, but then an old Dodge Charger from 1972 was unveiled. It was pretty much just a carcass with chipped paint and lots of parts missing, but both Seth and Jackson decided they just had to buy it, especially given that no one else had bid on it. It had been mostly Seth’s idea at first, but his enthusiasm soon infected Jackson. Ever since that day, it had been their big pipe dream to turn that bucket of rust into an actual car. Larry had offered to find Seth some old parts at a discount -after towing the Dodge back to his shop for free-, but even so it would probably be years before that thing could drive anywhere. Especially now…

“Sorry about that,” Jackson said.

“Nothing to be sorry about. It’s not like I don’t want these kids too. The house gets too quiet anyway.”

Jackson chuckled. “I’ll be sure to remind you you once said that.”

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