Altered America (30 page)

             
The minotaur squeezed Jimmy close to him like a girl would a ragdoll. "You'll be quiet now."

             
I made out the horned heads of the minotaur's brethren standing outside the window, feathers hanging from their ears. Shrouded in darkness, they looked more like statues except for the brief moment when they breathed and dust would leap from their snouts. I counted at least six. If one minotaur of this tribe could do what he did, I didn't want to imagine seven of them torturing my brother until he screamed out for mercy.

             
"Move away from the door," the minotaur said, clutching Jimmy under one massive arm. "Let me leave."

             
"Leave my brother," I said.

             
"No."

             
My hands clenched.

             
"Don't do it," the minotaur said. "There will be nothing left of you afterwards. I promise."

             
"He's my brother!"

             
Gouts of flame erupted from my fingers, engulfing the minotaur's head. He flailed about, dropping Jimmy and rampaging about the tavern, impaling his horns into the side of the bar. Magic flared and the black blizzard burst open the door. I took my chance, snatching Jimmy up and jerking him out the door and outside into the storm. I couldn't see an inch in front of me as I trudged forward through a field of withered corn, the howling wind blacking out everything around me. 

             
I turned at the sound of wood and brick cracking from behind. Black shapes flailed their arms about, directing the remains of the obliterated tavern. First one brick came, hurtling past my head. Then more, as if being shot from a cannon. I ducked and continued to pull Jimmy. A jagged piece of wood zipped past me like a javelin, then another. A brick struck Jimmy in the knee. He yelped, but I kept dragging. Shielding my eyes, I saw the outline of Rodney's house up ahead. If I made it there, the storm shelter would be my only hope. A brick slammed into my shoulder. I dropped Jimmy only for a moment and scooped him back under my arms. I didn't know why. Other than our blood, we had little in common. But if the Depression had taught me one thing, blood is all we have sometimes.

             
More bricks whipped past. I hoped that in their rage, the minotaurs would at least lose their accuracy. The wind felt less controlled, more frantic. I inched along, pulling Jimmy even though his heels dug into the dirt more often than not.

             
"Pick up your feet," I told him.

             
"Just get me out of here," Jimmy screeched. "Get me out of here and I promise—" He trailed off. Jimmy keeping a promise? Now that would be something.

             
The wind died. A blanket of dust dumped on my head and everything became clear. Right in front of us was Rodney's house, the shelter several yards away.

             
"Our chance—" Jimmy managed.

             
It wasn't our chance. The minotaurs had ceased the raging storm to tend to their fallen brother. Amidst the wreckage of the tavern, I imagined they leaned down to regard the smoking body of Jimmy's captured minotaur with shock and sadness.

             
I set Jimmy down. "Crawl."

             
"What?"

             
"Crawl to the shelter. I know they're not going to let this go. I have to stop them before they come looking for us at Rodney's home. Or follow us to the ends of the Earth, destroying everything in their path."

             
"You're crazy, Carl." Jimmy's eyes bulged. "My knee. I can barely move. Hurry up and get me in the shelter, damnit. They'll kill me."

             
"I said crawl."

             
"You worthless son of a bitch." Jimmy lit into me, even with his mangled face and bum leg. "What would Ma and Pa think to know you're abandoning your own brother to crawl in the dirt like a slug? Help me in there now!"

             
My fists balled up.

             
"Now!" Jimmy tried to scream, but it came out as nothing more than a strangled gasp.

             
He's my blood. I had to remember.

             
As I walked away, Jimmy still cursing me six ways to Sunday, I went towards the ruins of Rodney's tavern. The six minotaurs got back to their feet, glowering at me. The dust began to rise again, brushing against my skin. The wind buffetted my face. But I went forward anyway. Paying for the sins of my blood.

             
A ball of black dust shuddered across the field and struck me in the chest. I gasped and lurched forward, falling to my knees. It felt as if being punched in the chest by a giant fist. My fingers clawed in the dirt as I tried to regain my composure.

             
"You could have left," one minotaur called out. "Apaxal willed it."

             
So that was the minotaur's name. My body wracked with coughs and I spat some of the black dust out. "Apaxal wanted to kill my brother. You all wanted to."

             
"And we will," another minotaur answered. "But not before we let the wind tear your limbs apart like so many dry branches."

             
Flames danced on my fingers. I tried for a witty response, but decided tossing a fireball at them would be a much better strategy. I lobbed a green sphere of flame at them, rolling it through the corn field like a wobbling bowling ball. It burst apart in the middle of the ruined tavern, splashing them with liquid fire that clung to their fur and melted away flesh. Three of the minotaurs fell over dead, their bodies sizzling clumps.

             
One minotaur with half his face hanging off flung a wicked piece of glass at me. I tried to dodge, but it shattered into a million pieces before reaching me. The fragments imbedded in my flesh, propelled by the wind magic. I roared and answered back with three small balls of purple fire that hopped and skipped across the field before striking the half-faced minotaur. He collapsed into a smoking husk.

             
The glass stung my whole body, but I summoned up more flames into my feet. I bounded across the field, leaving a trail of ash behind me, dodging as bricks, wood, and shards of glass flew toward me. The surrealness of the moment still hadn't sunk in. The more angry I became, the more the flames leaked out of me. By the time I reached the tavern, my arm had become a lance of bright red flame. I shoved it through the gut of one surprised minotaur, twisting it until it died. Smoke rolled out of his open mouth. When I turned to finish off the last one, a massive gust of wind caused me to flip head over heels and crash against the cobblestone path that led up to the tavern.

             
I got back up to my feet to see the lone minotaur huddled over, shaking. He tried to hurl another gust of wind at me, but only a breeze came from his fingers. I realized this is why the black blizzard had become so strong. Why Apaxal had sat chained up to the wall for so long. Their powers were non-existent without their other brothers. The black blizzard didn't exist without numbers.

             
The minotaur's lips trembled as I stood over him. "Go on."

             
"What's your name?"

             
The minotaur looked up at me. "Why?"

             
"What's your name?" I repeated.

             
"Nulpa," he said.

             
"Nulpa, my brother wants a minotaur," I said. "He's going to take you to California. You'll probably fight for him and make him lots of money."

             
"I rather die," Nulpa said.

             
"Then you should probably run now."

             
Nulpa didn't hesitate. He got up and ran, disappearing amidst the stalks of corn.

             
As if on cue, Jimmy appeared behind me, carrying a piece of wood with a nail sticking out of it. He still looked like hell warmed over as he hobbled up to me, drool dripping from his lips. "There’s one left. I seen him. Where is he?"

             
"What about your knee?"

             
He looked down. "Hurts like hell, but I can manage. I came to help you. We have to finish them all off."

             
"He got away," I said. "Too fast."

             
"Aw, crap!" Jimmy bit his lip. "Well, we should probably get out of here. Rodney's not going to be happy to see what we did to his bar."

             
"I'm not going anywhere, Jimmy. I'm just going to sit right here for a while."

             
Jimmy's chuckle turned into a fit of coughing. "Nonsense. Let's get to a doctor and then off to California. Imagine all the money—"

             
"I'm not going with you."

             
"What? Of course you are. That power you have. It's bound to bring us out of this funk we're in."

             
"
You're
in, Jimmy. I'm not in any funk."

             
"But we're brothers. You got to help me out. Hell, you may even fix the whole Depression with your abilities."

             
I looked at all the wreckage. "I've helped you about as much as I ever care to."

             
"You little—" Jimmy's lip curled back and he began to raise up the board. After all he’d just witnessed, he still thought he could beat me. I didn't even feel angry anymore. Just exhausted.

             
"I wouldn't," I said, flames jumping to my fingers.

             
Jimmy smiled nervously, dropped the board, and limped away. I breathed in and started picking glass from my face. If Jimmy planned on going to California come hell or high water, maybe I needed a similiar plan. I definitely couldn't stay in Oklahoma anymore. Too much dust. Too much blood.

             
New York, here I come.

The Road Was Lit with Moon and Star

by Bruno Lombardi

(1)

The Road was lit with Moon and star —
The Trees were bright and still —
Descried I — by the distant Light
A Traveller on a Hill —
To magic Perpendiculars
Ascending, though Terrene —
Unknown his shimmering ultimate —
But he indorsed the sheen —

—
Emily Dickinson

July 20, 1970 –Cocoa Beach, Florida

             
David finished off his third bottle of beer and threw it into the ocean. With a loud splash, the bottle vanished beneath the waves, the ripples of its demise into the deep reflecting the moonlight like a cracked, dark mirror.

             
With a cackling laugh, David looked up at the full Moon. Cocking his hand into the shape of a gun, he carefully squinted one eye and sighted his index finger at the center of the Moon—and made a ‘bang’ sound.

             
“Got you, you mother...” he whispered to the universe at large.

             
Cracking open his fourth beer of the night, David Daniel Thomas Patton – ‘General DDT’ to his friends; Commander (Retired) Patton to his former Navy crew; ‘Dave’ to his family—proceeded to celebrate.

             
He was going to be the first man to walk on the Moon.

             
It was sometime after 3 am when David—having finished his sixth beer of the night—decided to stagger home.

             
“Home” was about three miles away from the point on the beach where he had unceremoniously commended a six pack of beer to the ocean depths. Under normal circumstances, the walk would have been a rather pleasant forty-five minute journey. This evening, however, in light of his rather advanced state of inebriation, it appeared that the journey home would take about an hour and a half instead, as his feet—against all protests to the contrary by what remained of his conscious brain—were intent on taking him the ‘long’ way home.

             
He came to a sudden stop as he realized where his wanderings had taken him.

             
Of course—where else would he be, especially today of all days?

             
Taking a deep breath, David walked into Apollo 11 Memorial Park.

             
He always hated the statue.

             
The statue—two astronauts standing side by side as they gazed towards the west—were completely nondescript. It was impossible to tell which one was Armstrong or Aldrin. The artist and the politicians had all given speeches about how that had been the
point—
something about ‘symbolizing the unity of man’ or some such nonsense—but David still hated it, nevertheless.

             
The plaque, on the other hand, never failed to bring a tear to his eye. As he read it again, for the umpteenth time, he felt his eyes begin to water.

             
Fate has ordained that the men who went to the moon to explore in peace will stay on the moon to rest in peace.

             
These brave men, Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin, know that there is no hope for their recovery. But they also know that there is hope for mankind in their sacrifice.

             
These two men have laid down their lives in mankind's most noble goal: the search for truth and understanding.

             
They will be mourned by their families and friends; they will be mourned by their nation; they will be mourned by the people of the world; they will be mourned by a Mother Earth that dared send two of her sons into the unknown.

             
In their exploration, they stirred the people of the world to feel as one; in their sacrifice, they bind more tightly the brotherhood of man.

             
In ancient days, men looked at stars and saw their heroes in the constellations. In modern times, we do much the same, but our heroes are epic men of flesh and blood.

             
Others will follow and surely find their way home. Man's search will not be denied. But these men were the first, and they will remain the foremost in our hearts.

             
For every human being who looks up at the moon in the nights to come will know that there is some corner of another world that is forever mankind.

             
“We’re coming, guys,” whispered David. “Just you wait—we’re coming.”

             
Still swaying, David turned and continued on his way home.

(2)

I have sat by night beside a cold lake
And touched things smoother than moonlight on still water,
But the moon on this cloud sea is not human,
And here is no shore, no intimacy,
Only the start of space, the road to suns.
—Trans Canada by F.R. Scott

May 1, 1962 –San Antonio, Texas

             
“They’re looking for astronauts.”

             
David ignored his father and continued working on the grill. It was slow going; it was a brand new grill, literally fresh out of the box, and—allegedly—both ‘state of the art’ and ‘idiot-proof’ to put together. While he had yet to have any confirmation on the ‘state of the art’ aspect of the grill, he certainly was beginning to feel like an idiot. It had been twenty minutes now and he was barely a quarter done.

             
“They’re looking for astronauts,” repeated his dad, casually.

             
“I heard you the first three times, dad,” said David, a wry smile on his face. ‘
Hmm. Now where the hell does this go?’
he thought as he picked up a T-shaped chunk of metal.

             
“Just pointing out that they’re looking for astronauts, Dave,” said his dad, pretending to read the newspaper.

             
There was a
clunk
sound and David’s dad looked up to see David staring at him.

             
“Something on your mind, son?” he said, innocently.

             
“I
told
you, dad, I’m not applying.” Grunting, David turned and went back to work on the grill.

             
“Why not?”

             
“Told you why, dad,” replied David, picking up a screwdriver.

             
There was the sound of a newspaper being loudly—and angrily—thrown down. David turned to see his dad fuming at him, the newspaper in a heap at his feet.

             
“No, you did
not
. ‘Because I don’t wanna’ isn’t a good enough answer!”

             
David stood up, throwing his screwdriver onto the floor as well. “Dad,” he said, patiently, “it’s none of your business, okay? I’m not applying and that’s final!” He turned his back and bent down to pick up the screwdriver.

             
A bony hand clamped down on his wrist with a surprisingly strong grip. “David Daniel Thomas,” intoned David’s father—and David knew then that he had crossed a line, because his father only used his middle names when he was
pissed
at him—“You know damn well not to speak to me like that and I know you
God-damn
well enough to know when you’re lying to me!”

             
The venom in his father’s voice shocked David—and, he realized, shocked his father as well. His father took a deep breath and then, more calmly and slowly, repeated his question “Why not?”

             
“Because I’m scared!” yelled David, throwing down the screwdriver again. He saw the look of confusion in his father’s eyes and, after a few seconds, he had to break eye contact. He took a long, slow, deep breath and turned to look at his father again.  “I’m scared, dad,” he repeated. He saw the look of complete incomprehension on his father’s face.

             
“But... you were in Korea... your plane was in combat... why... how...” he stammered.

             
“So how can I be scared?” David asked, completing his father’s unspoken question. His father gave a nod of acknowledgement, and David shrugged his shoulders in reply.

             
“I don’t
know
why,” David eventually replied. He took another deep breath. “Maybe... maybe I’m scared of disappointing you. Or me. Maybe I can’t deal with being turned down. Maybe... maybe... maybe I’m not sure how I would feel being washed out.”

             
“But how do you know if you’ll wash out if you don’t even
try
?”

             
“Do you know how tough it is to just get accepted, dad? You remembered me telling you about all the guys who got rejected the last time?” A nod from his father. “Dad, I knew some of those guys! They were good, r
eally
good.” He paused and licked his lips. “Some of them were better than me.” David bent down and picked up the screwdriver and looked at his father. “If
they
got rejected, what chance do I have?”

             
“But son—what’s the worst that can happen? So they say no? Big deal!” He stared at David, his mouth a straight line. “Those guys who got rejected—the good ones—do you think less of them because they didn’t make the cut?”

             
“What?” David asked, genuinely surprised. “No, of course not, but—”

             
“No ‘buts!’” yelled David’s father. “If nobody thinks less of them for not making the cut, then why would anyone think less of you?” He took a step forward and rested his hands on David’s shoulders. “What have you got to lose?”

             
There was a very long moment of silence from David and then—“Okay, dad.” He let out a long sigh. “Tell you what—let Lady Luck decide.”

             
“I’ll do one better,” said David’s father. “Let’s let God decide.”

             
David smiled. “Of course,
Reverend
.” He leaned back. “What have you got in mind?”

             
David’s father—the Reverend Patton—pulled out a coin from his ‘special’ pocket in his pants and held it up in front of him, like a medallion. David had seen that coin hundreds of times in his life. It was a 1928 Peace Dollar coin. His father had picked it up from his bank the day David was born thirty-four years previously. They had been very much in demand as Christmas presents for every year of their 1921-1928 production run and the coin in his hand had been one of the very last ones left in stock at the bank. He’d promised that it would be David’s whenever he wanted it. All he had to do was ask for it.

             
David had never found the ‘right’ event to ask for it; not his acceptance into the military, not his successful return from Korea in one piece, not his graduate degree in aeronautical engineering, not his marriage to Karen, not her... funeral—not anything at all.

             
But one day, one day soon...

             
“Okay, dad,” said David. “What’s the deal?”

             
“You decide,” he said, handing the coin to David. “Heads, you do one thing; tails, you do something else.” He leaned back. “Either way, I never bother you about this ever again. Deal?”

             
David nodded his head. “Deal.” His fingers played with the coin in his palm, feeling the rough edges and lines of the coin. “Heads—I send in my application first thing tomorrow morning. Tails—I chuck the application into the garbage.” He took a deep breath.

             
The coin flipped up and up, tumbling and rolling in mid-air. It hit the top of the arc and came down with a dull slapping sound into his palm.  He deftly flipped it and slammed it onto his wrist, then took another deep breath.

             
And then looked at the decision chosen by God.

(3)

Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world....
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
—Alfred Lord Tennyson

July 21, 1970 –John F. Kennedy Space Center, Florida

             
“You know, it’s really not good for the test results if you engaged in heavy drinking last night,” the  doctor admonished David as he drew some blood.