Point And Shoot Part 9

As it turned out, Project Viking did jack s.h.i.+t in this kind of war. Didn't matter how many vitamins and hormones and supplements you gave a soldier: An IED was still going to turn him into chunks of lunchmeat.

And then the people in charge of funding fell in love with drone weapons and robots and all at once Project Viking was seen as a relic, a Captain America-ish dream that belonged back in the 1940s.

"You were a Project Viking test subject," the Other Him said.

"What are you talking about? I don't remember signing up for any experiments or tests. I was just there to escape my s.h.i.+tty neighborhood and my s.h.i.+tty life."

"These kinds of experiments, they didn't ask for volunteers. They just ran them. No permissions slips, no questions asked."

"They," Hardie said, anger building in his face as he tried to find the right words, "they just can't do that s.h.i.+t to people!"

"And yet they did. Look, the files were buried deep, but they exist. There's nothing more suspicious than a blank page in someone's biography. Well, the Cabal kept digging until they found it. And once they realized who they had on their hands, you suddenly became hot property. Since then, we've dug up copies of them for ourselves. I've read them. I know what happened to you. And it's been a part of your life ever since."

"What do you mean?"

The Other Him gave a creepy look that bordered on pity. Oh, you poor baby. Which was surreal. Was that what Hardie looked like when he was trying to look sympathetic? No wonder everybody seemed to want to punch him in the face.

"You can stop beating yourself up because you lived and Nate died."

The words were like ice water through Hardie's veins.

"You may think you know what happened," he said quietly, "but every part of my life is not contained in a bunch of files somewhere."

"You lived because of Project Viking. Your body is able to rally and heal itself a lot faster than an ordinary human being's body. Just think about that for a moment. Think about what you could have done with that gift, rather than wasting it on ... whatever it is you think you've been doing."

"If this is a pep talk," Hardie said, "you suck at it."

The Other Him smiled. "Maybe this is my version. Because, buddy, you and me got a long road ahead of us."

"They're going to find us anyway, aren't they? I mean, this is your all-powerful Cabal we're talking about. How long can we hide from people like this?"

"We can do this," the Other Him said. "We have to make it to my debriefing station. That's the only way now. I have to a.s.sume the field teams working the mission have been taken out, as well as my communication channels. It's in person, or it's nothing."

"Where's this station?"

"Somewhere in Virginia. I know it by sight."

"And we're somewhere in California right now."

"If we leave now, we can be there in two days."

"Wait ... you mean drive it?"

"No other way."

"How about in an airplane, maybe?"

"They'd spot us within seconds. Especially with you, looking like the Mummy's ugly cousin. And me, wearing your face."

"Driving sounds insane," Hardie said.

"You don't understand," his double said. "I'm not giving you a choice here. This is how it plays out. Otherwise we're all dead. Including Kendra and CJ. We've gotta take down the Cabal while they're vulnerable."

"Uh-uh," Hardie said. "We get my family first. Once they're safe, then I'll do everything I can to help you bury these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. I'll do a drunken jig on their graves. But not until I know my family is safe."

15.

I'm gonna get us something from all four food groups: hamburgers, French fries, coffee and doughnuts.

-Jim Belus.h.i.+, Red Heat.

THE GREASY SPOON on the ground floor of the motel was decorated for Christmas. Strips of aluminum foil were meant to be tinsel, cotton b.a.l.l.s were meant to be snow, pine cones were meant to be ... pine cones. Plastic molded Santa Clauses and reindeer were affixed to the walls and coated with at least two decades' worth of airborne grease and dust, the remnants of past holiday customers and what they ate.

Appetizing.

Charlie Hardie had no idea what to order. He didn't know what his stomach could handle after nine months of freeze-dried and powdered s.p.a.ce food. Order a burger, and he could be seeing it again within minutes. And it wouldn't be nearly as appetizing the second time around. But he also knew he should be eating something. His double had insisted: Eat now or hold your peace for three thousand miles. Hardie realized the guy was right. His body needed fuel. He'd be of no use to Kendra and the boy if he was pa.s.sing out every few minutes.

But what? Nothing on the menu didn't make his stomach pre-emptively clench. Everything seemed to be fried, breaded, or grilled-or covered in onions that were fried, breaded, or grilled. Wasn't this supposed to be California, land of healthy living?

Whatever he ordered, he was definitely going to pair it with a beer. It would probably hit him way hard, just like it did the last time. But screw it. A man who survives a crash landing from outer s.p.a.ce deserves a cold one.

Hardie was still at a loss. "What do you recommend?"

"The pie's good," the counter girl said.

Yes. Pie. Wholesome, nouris.h.i.+ng all-American pie. The staple of American diets since the colonial days. No, seriously. Hardie had read about it in an in-flight magazine once. How pies weren't just dessert. They were entire meals. Throw a bunch of ingredients into a dough sh.e.l.l and there you go.

"Pie," Hardie said. "Yeah, a big slice of pie."

"What kind?"

"Doesn't matter. There's no such thing as bad pie. And also, a beer. Doesn't matter what brand, either."

"Beer and pie. At 7:30 a.m."

"That's right."

"We don't serve beer. No liquor license."

"Then I guess it'll just be the pie, then."

The waitress nodded but lingered on his eyes a bit. Hardie could tell she wanted to ask him about the bandages on his face and hands but ultimately decided that she could live without that knowledge. She turned to the Other Him. "How about you?"

"Pie sounds great, any kind. Something different from my friend's order, okay? That way if we don't like it we can switch."

"I'm not switching pies with you," Hardie said.

"What, you don't want a beer or anything?" the waitress asked, not even the barest trace of a smile on her face, even though she was joking.

"Me? No. Not this early in the morning. My friend here's the drunk."

She went off to the cooling case to pull out two different pies. They were uncut, virginal. Hardie watched her use the knife on the pies and turned to the Other Him and said, "We need a name for you."

"What do you mean?"

"I can't call you Charlie, I'm sorry. You've got a real name, don't you? Before all this you were Secret Agent somebody, right?"

"I've had a few names in my career."

"So pick one."

"I can't. They're all cla.s.sified."

"And your birth name?"

"It's been so long I've forgotten it."

"Uh-uh."

"Okay, it's cla.s.sified, too. Look, they take this stuff seriously. But more than that-if you start calling me another name, it'll mess with my mind. The key to being you for all of these months? Truly believing that I am you. It's hard enough being with you right here. The bandages help a little."

"What do you mean, believing you're me? You're not me. We've established this already, right?"

"The thing is, some part of me still thinks I am you. So you can't call me anything other than Charlie Hardie."

"You're f.u.c.ked in the head, you know that?"

"Welcome to my world."

The waitress put the pies in front of them. Cherry for Hardie, Apple for He Who Had Yet to Be Named.

It could all end here, with a slice of apple pie.

You tell yourself: Be smart now.

Quickly you plunge your fork into the center and reach into your pocket at the same time. You ask Hardie to pa.s.s you a napkin, because (luckily) the dispenser is on his side of the counter. You jab the pie with your left hand, pinch the capsules in your right. Meanwhile, Hardie's distracted, looking for a napkin. His peripheral vision is c.r.a.p, thanks to those bandages. Now. Make your move. Do it, and do it quick. Burst the capsules with your thumb and index finger. Sprinkle that s.h.i.+t liberally.

Hardie's picked up his fork now and is ready to plunge it when- "Wait," you say. "I can't eat this. I'm allergic to apples."

Hardie's head snaps to the right and his beady eyes peer at you from behind the bandages. "I've never heard of an allergy to apples. Plus, you've already stuck your fork in yours. No thanks."

"The fork didn't touch my mouth."

"I don't care if it didn't touch your a.s.s. I'm sticking with the cherry."

"Come on. Cut me a break."

"Order another slice then."

You're thinking fast, tap-tap-tap-dancing inside your own skull. Boy, this really could go in any direction right now ...

Hardie plunged his fork into his own pie, chopped off a ridiculously large portion of it, and shoved it into his mouth. Cherry juice stained the bandages around his mouth.

"You're an a.s.s," you tell him.

"Mmmmmm, mmmmm, you really should order a slice of this," Hardie says.

But you're not done yet.

Oh no.

"You've got cherry gore on your face," you tell him, then reach across him for a napkin.

"Don't touch me."

People are staring now, which is fine, because they're all focused on him and not on your right hand, which has the contents of three burst capsules in it-and now you're sprinkling that stuff right into the gaping wound in Hardie's cherry pie.

"Come on. Let me clean you up."

"What are you, my mother?"

"I'm not driving cross-country with someone who looks like he's been snacking on small woodland creatures."

"Whatever. Let's get out of here. I'm done with this."

"Will you just finish your pie? After all of that bulls.h.i.+t about ordering it?"

Now Hardie realizes that, yes, he's the toddler making the scene in the nearly empty diner, everyone is looking his way, and well ... he'd better shut up and enjoy his d.a.m.n pie. He takes another forkful, not quite as large this time, but that's okay. Because that one forkful has it all.

Go ahead, eat up.

Enjoy your pie.

And then get realllll sleepy.

Now that you know he's all right, and his head isn't about to go ka-boom, you realize you need Charlie Hardie unconscious for the next part of this trip. It'll make things so much easier. You're in charge; not him. You need him asleep and out of the way so that you can win back your freedom at long last. The tricky thing is giving him enough to knock him out but not kill him. His tolerance for poisons and gases is legendary, but you realize there has to be a tipping point. And Charlie Hardie may not be much of a bargaining chip if he's dead.

The second bite of cherry pie didn't taste as good to Hardie. Probably the d.a.m.ned fake freeze-dried s.p.a.ce food ruined his taste buds for life. That or the sting of embarra.s.sment ruined the whole thing. He wished they served beer here. What he wouldn't give for a beer.

The hipster poet pays for your pies, though he doesn't know it. You've already changed out the license plates on his SUV, but that ruse won't last forever. You need another vehicle as quickly as possible. But not any old vehicle. You've got a special vehicle in mind, one that makes you believe that all is not lost, that you can pull this off.