Title: The Exorcist
Fandom: All-New Ghost Rider (comics)
Characters: Robbie Reyes, Eli Morrow, OCs, Gabe Reyes
Rating: R
Content notes: Graphic depictions of violence, thoughts of suicide, cursing
Summary: Robbie deals with the consequences of the last fan-flashworks challenge, in which he murdered the CEO of an egg farm that was part of a human trafficking ring. He hires an exorcist to drag Eli out of his head. (The exorcist is the same as from Zebragirl.)
More notes: for the fan-flashworks challenge "magic" and the Birthday Bingo square, "name."

The old man's skull shattered. Blood and brain spattered the bookshelf, the white carpet, the walls of the highrise apartment. His body slammed to the floor, limbs jerking, back arching. His ostrich-hide boots kicked the coffee table.

The crunch of bone, the sound and the feel of the impact, echoed through Robbie's brain. Michael DeCuster, who created all the suffering that was Trillian Farms, who boasted that he was untouchable, who'd gotten Carlos Monterozzo killed and didn't even pretend to regret it—a sudden hard blow and DeCuster was just so much meat. Robbie knew now what the twitching and gasping meant, the heaving chest, the trembling limbs in their fine wool suit: that was death. There was no more Michael DeCuster in the world. No amount of money could undo what Robbie had just done so easily.

Robbie took a slow, shaking breath, his heart pounding, and for an instant he wanted to laugh, to scream, floating away from himself on a tide of ecstasy.

Oh thank fuck, Eli said very quietly in the back of his mind.

Robbie dropped the bloody cast-iron rooster. It dented the coffee table with a bang. His hands trembled. The strange joy vanished as suddenly as it had welled up. He still felt halfway outside his body, about to fly apart, but now he felt cold, sickened. He smelled urine and feces, DeCuster's corpse letting go. He had not planned to kill him. He had walked into this room planning to talk to him, threaten him, maybe turn him in to the Feds somehow as an anonymous tip, but in a split-second's rage he'd grabbed the rooster statue and bashed him in the head, and in the moments between the statue sinking into DeCuster's temple and his rational mind grasping what he'd just done, he had felt the most potent rush of triumph of his entire life. “You are their god,” Eli had said about these moments, and, God help Robbie, Eli was right.

From Eli, Robbie caught only the echoes of desperate relief.

Robbie stared down at the body as the twitching stopped. “I didn't mean to—” Oh, but he'd meant it. “I didn't plan to do that. I didn't plan to kill him.” He'd killed someone without planning to. Eli was right. He was getting a taste for it. He was not in control; he was a killer, and he would kill again. Eli was right.

Even if Mike DeCuster fit the criteria of Robbie's deal with Eli—DeCuster killed by proxy and indifference, tortured by the loosest definition of the word, and as for rape, there was no indication—Robbie had decided to abandon the deal after they'd killed the murderous trauma surgeon back in Los Angeles, leaving the victim's family with no way to get justice through a confession and no way to get closure. He'd resolved that Eli couldn't blackmail him into killing again. And here he was, killing again. On an impulse.

Heh-heh. That's what you get for bragging about how you own the police, Eli said. Nice shot. I'm proud of you, kid.

Robbie swallowed down bile.

Take the compliment. You got the reflexes! You got the instincts! Finally I can see the family resemblance! This is your nature. This is great! Whaddya say we forget our recent arguments, and join forces again. Like when we took down that Mr. Hyde clown, or Yegor Ivanov. You bring the fire, I'll take care of the strategy, we'll take turns cracking skulls—now you've finally pried that stick out—

“I don't want to kill again.”

Yes, you do! You're lying to my face, you little shit!

“I'm not in control. I need to be in control. I'm not going to kill again.” His mouth was dry. He couldn't stop staring at the deep dent in DeCuster's head, the torn skin and red, pink, white, of blood and brain and bone. He could almost feel the sweeping, terrible joy again, he wanted it back, and the wanting made him sick.

Well, I hate to break this to you, but you're nineteen years old. You're not gonna be in control of yourself for a good five more years at least. This guy was an asshole. Be realistic. Enjoy the ride. Use our power. First step: don't get caught.

Guilt and horror did not change the fact that Robbie could not afford to get caught. He followed Eli's advice and wrapped DeCuster's head in his own suit jacket to contain the blood, stuffed the rooster statue in alongside. Dragged him by the feet into the bathroom, shoved him into the glass-walled walk-in shower. Then Robbie reached down into the panic and anger and the rage that still smoldered from what DeCuster had done, hiring minors from Guatemala under the table to work in his filthy laying-hen sheds, trapping them in crowded and roach-infested trailers, letting his contractors push the kids for more work, more and more, until one of them dropped dead of pneumonia and heat stroke. His body burned away, a blaze of fury and gasoline, and the fire condensed into the Rider. Leather and kevlar racing jumpsuit, chrome skull venting flames, sparks and burning oil sputtering between clenched teeth.

The Rider knelt down, reached through the shadow cast by the vanity lights, passed his hand through into the trunk of the Charger parked blocks away. Came up with a length of hot steel chain that he whirled around the bathroom, smashing the shower glass out of his way.

He focused on the body. Make it go away. Send it down. Spun the chains over it, faster and faster, until flames danced over the surface of the tile, the shower floor warped and peeled outward, and a black, stinking void swallowed what was left of Mike DeCuster. The Rider let the chains slow, the flames die away. The shower tiles settled back into their grid. The Rider turned the shower on full blast to rinse the soot down the drain, then turned his attention to the car, homed in on the rush of flames through the blower and the rumble of its engine, and sank through his shadow into the driver's seat.

Snow-melt boiled away under the Charger's tires where he'd left it parked illegally in a pay lot. Ash fluttered from under the wiper blades where three parking tickets had been stuffed. Eli opened a fire-ringed portal under their wheels, a long one, out of New York and back home to Los Angeles. They dropped into the dark and emerged in an alley under a sparking transformer, and snuffed out.

I have to port back to Iowa tonight. I have to tell Pablo. In case someone—the kids need a heads-up. That I just murdered the owner of the company.

Ignorance is the best defense.

I'll let Pablo figure out what to tell them.

It was noon in California, gently warm, the sun beating down on the car. Robbie was supposed to be sleeping; he'd been up all last night carrying Uber pax; he had four more hours until it was time to pick Gabe up from school—the middle-school this time. He got his phone out, took it off airplane mode, double-checked his schedule: yes, noon, the middle school, Gabe wasn't riding the bus.

He didn't want to drive home so soon after killing a man, not again. He shut his engine down, climbed into the back bench seat, and curled up with his jacket over his head. The heat built and built inside the cabin, his muscles relaxed, the nausea of guilt and the rush of aggression both faded away.

He roused himself at two in the afternoon, woke up his phone. It was running a little slow, and there was a warning light about the battery overheating. He groaned and cracked a window. Called the demonologist for the second time that week. “Hi, this is Eliot Miller, 555-555-5555. I hate to keep bothering you, but...something came up and I need to reschedule my appointment again. Please let me know if you have anything this week. As soon as possible. Text me any time. Eliot Miller, 555-555-5555.”

 

As he pulled into the lot at his old middle school—now Gabe's for three days a week—his phone rang. He whipped it out, practiced from two months of answering Uber pings, hoping for the demonologist. It was Gabe. He answered, a jolt running up and down his back. “Hey, buddy, what's up?”

Gabe answered, guarded. “Robbie?”

Robbie shut his engine down, sighed, rubbed his forehead. “Yeah, it's me, Gabe.”

He heard Gabe breathing down the line, long seconds stretching. Gabe didn't do this all the time, but he did it often enough, and Robbie hated it, hated that Gabe had to ask. And really: there was no way to prove that Robbie was who he said he was. As far as he could tell, Gabe just...waited him out.

“It's me, Gabe,” he said again.

More silence. Then, “Robbie-Robbie?”

“Yeah,” Robbie said, fast. “Yeah, buddy. What do you need?”

A sigh. “Robbie-Robbie.” Faintly, away from the microphone, “It's Robbie!” Then, “Robbie, Mateo's mom is really nice. Mateo says I can come to his house to play X-Box, and his mom says yes, too. Can I?”

“Um,” Robbie said. That morning, before unexpectedly murdering Mike DeCuster, he'd been looking forward to seeing Gabe. He'd planned to capture a taped confession, anonymously email it to the FBI, and come home with a clean conscience to help Gabe with his homework and take another crack at making arroz con pollo. Now, it was almost a relief to know that Gabe could spend the evening with someone else. Someone clean. “Let me talk to Mateo's mom, please, and we'll see.”

“Okay, Robbie. Mateo's mom, this is Robbie on the phone. Robbie is my big brother.”

He'd met Mateo, and his mom Gloria Flores, two weeks ago. Mrs. Flores was a smart lady with a fairly free-rein approach to parenting that let her son Mateo go to school in ripped jeans and a red Mohawk. She and her husband ran a bookkeeping business. “Hi, Mrs. Flores.”

“Hi, Robbie. I don't know if you had other plans; the boys came up with this on their own. Is it all right if Gabe stays for dinner this time? I was thinking of ordering Chinese...”

“Yeah,” Robbie said. Rice, small bites, you could eat it with a spoon. “Yeah, Chinese is good. I should bring his chair, though—he gets tired on the crutches, I can drop it off. And he needs his evening meds—I'll get those, too—and call me if he needs help—”

“Of course. Gabe's a great kid. I promise I'll call if anything comes up. Now you take some time for yourself, okay? Don't worry.”

“Okay,” Robbie said.

He heard, “Your brother says it's okay,” and then he heard Gabe, “Thanks, Robbie!” and Mateo, “Yes!”

 

The Flores house was landscaped in flowering bushes and cacti, and a few raised beds of vegetables. Robbie lugged the power chair over the gravel walkway to the front door, rang the doorbell. Mrs. Flores answered it, held the door while he carried the chair in. There was a table covered in papers and two open laptops. On the couch, Gabe and Mateo sat with video-game controllers. Cheery music and bright colors and the pshew-pshew of family-friendly gunshots.

“Hey, Gabe,” Robbie said.

“Hi, Robbie,” Gabe replied, eyes fixed the screen of the TV in front of him. He was sitting elbow-to-elbow with Mateo, whose hair was looking a bit floppy, the roots starting to show below the red. They mashed buttons with identical, focused intensity. Suddenly Gabe looked up at him, eyes narrowed. “Robbie?”

“I brought your chair, and your meds,” Robbie said. He pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket, stuck it in the caddy that hung from the right armrest. “I put your meds right here, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Call me if you need anything.”

“Okay, Robbie,” Gabe said. He turned back to the game, apparently satisfied that Eli would never bother bringing him his chair and pills, which, fair. It still stung a little.

Robbie went home again, took a Benadryl, tried to sleep. Sat up after an hour, bleary-eyed, got online, and checked the news for New York City. Nothing on any missing egg-farm owners. Of course not, it was the middle of the night in New York. DeCuster wouldn't be missed until tomorrow, and it might be days before anyone forced open his apartment to look for him.

He wondered if Mike DeCuster had kids, siblings, a wife, an ex—people who'd mourn him. But he knew Carlos Monterozzo had had a mother, a father, and a little sister. He'd been seventeen years old. DeCuster's family would get over it faster than Carlos's. Robbie had enough to worry about, he wouldn't feel sorry for some theoretical DeCuster grandchildren.

The demonologist called him back as he scrolled aimlessly through the news feeds. “Thank-you for getting back to me, Dr. Gregory,” Robbie said, and yawned.

“Of course.” Dr. Gregory talked like a private eye in a black and white movie: wry, grim, gravelly. “You wanted to reschedule your exorcism appointment...again.”

“I do. Do you have anything sooner?”

“This Thursday at three.”

Sounded final. Robbie would have to call Canelo, take off work early. “I'll be there.”

Dr. Gregory grunted. “I understand possession and the power it promises can be...seductive. But do not delay your appointment again.”

Robbie shuddered. “I'll be there,” Robbie insisted. “I just needed to...I'm finished. I want this thing out of me. I want my life back.”

 

Robbie picked up Gabe at eight. He was reluctant to leave, full up on Chinese take-out, and he had safety pins all over his clothes. His homework was done. Mrs. Flores assured Robbie that Gabe had had a great time, and Mateo asked if he could come back next week. Gabe fell asleep on the ride home, and Robbie carried him inside and helped him brush his teeth, a task Gabe normally managed unassisted. With Gabe in bed, he carried the chair back to the apartment, left Gabe's Jitterbug on the nightstand in easy reach, and headed out to one of his favorite teleport spots, an unmonitored alleyway beneath a sparking electrical transformer. It camouflaged the EMF residue the Rider left when they transformed or teleported.

He thought of the teenagers in the trailers at Trillian Farms, whose families back in Guatemala had been tricked into mortgaging their land to get their sons American jobs that turned out to be slave labor gussied up with a little wage theft. He thought about the photo of the Monterozzo family, Carlos a younger, ganglier duplicate of his father, sixteen years old at most. He’d killed Michael DeCuster over Carlos. Nearly killed Fernando Cobar. He’d punished the people most responsible for Carlos’ death. The fires still roared up eagerly when he thought about the kids, though: heat and vibration all through his limbs, fumes and fire rising out of his lungs, his engine revving, his blower shrieking, rage rising to a peak that finally blew the engine, consumed his body. I want to go to Iowa.

Eli opened a portal under their wheels, and they fell through and emerged in a snow-covered field, a starry darkness. Robbie focused himself within the Rider, pulling his anger back, we’re done, I avenged Carlos, there’s nothing more I can do for him, I can’t help these kids any more than I have, and snuffed the fires out. He felt weary and whiplashed whenever he changed back and forth so quickly, frustrated and nauseated whenever he snuffed out without beating on anyone while he was the Rider. He drank one of the waters he kept under the seat for Uber pax. Got out of the car, trudged shivering through the darkness to the copse of trees where the kids who worked the egg farm were housed. Passed new trailers—not brand-new, but they hadn’t been there the first time he’d come to the farm—and six porta-potties, another improvement.

He knocked on the door of an aqua-colored single-wide with white trim. “Soy yo, Robbie,” he called. “El espíritu avengador.” He took a careful breath, grimaced as his nose-hairs froze together. “Vine a hablar con Pablo o Marvin.”
(It's me, Robbie. The vengeance spirit. I came to talk with Pablo or Marvin.)

Pablo and Marvin were the only boys he’d seen in person since he’d attacked Fernando; the rest just watched out the windows of the trailer, fearful. Pablo likely blamed himself for cursing them all with Robbie and Eli, which, fair, and Marvin stood by as bodyguard while Pablo played spokesman to the ghost. Robbie had made an unfortunate first impression and later proven it correct. He didn’t think any of them had actually wanted Mr. Cobar in the ICU on a ventilator or the owner of the farm dead, three weeks ago when they’d prayed to Santa Muerte to send them a vengeance spirit.

He heard a rustling from inside, saw a light flick on. Electricity: also a recent development. Five minutes later, Robbie's socks were soaked and his toes were numb. Pablo and Marvin crept out, Pablo short and stocky, his precocious beard hidden in a blue fleece scarf, and Marvin beside him, tall, long-haired, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his puffy coat.

Pablo's Spanish had an accent that Robbie could only assume was how they talked in Guatemala. “What's going on?” he asked, standing six feet away. Behind him, Marvin shut the trailer door to keep the heat in.

“They treating you alright still?” Robbie asked. “No threats? Full salary?”

“Hard to sleep easy knowing they never even reported Carlos dead,” Pablo said. “But for now, yeah. It's livable. Sergio's got a line on a grower operation in Missouri and a guy who does papers; a lot of us want to go with him.”

“Any place in the States that doesn't check papers has got to be super shady,” said Robbie, lapsing into Spanglish. “I mean...exploitative.”

Pablo shrugged. Marvin said, “It's just three years until my brother finishes school. I mean.”

Carlos' death weighed on them. It weighed on Robbie, and he had only ever seen his picture.

Robbie clenched his jaw, shuddered. Everything was shriveling from the cold; his nose was numb and his ears felt like they were on fire. There was a limit to what he could do to help these kids, and what he'd just done today was probably the opposite of helpful. “I wanted to give you a heads-up. A, a warning. Today, I—” You acted on a simple, natural urge. “I went to New York and I killed the owner of Trillian Farms.”

Pablo and Marvin stared at him. “Thank-you for everything you've done for us,” Pablo said at last. “You can stop. I release you. I release you from your summons—”

Dammit I'm just a person, I'm a human like you! Robbie ground his teeth. “It was my decision—I was gonna film him for the Feds, I don't know. I killed him, it was stupid—” It was completely appropriate! “—and you guys deserve a warning before the police come, or anything else changes. He was the one I was threatening, to get you—” Robbie stared around at the trailers and porta-potties; they weren't what he would call decent housing, but they were a vast improvement. “Hygienic living conditions,” he finished lamely. “And in two days, if everything goes right, I won't have the power to come here anymore. I'm getting an...exorcism.”

Pablo stepped forward, hand outstretched as if to pat him on the shoulder. Robbie took a step back, and Pablo lowered his hand. “I didn't mean it that way,” he said. “Thank-you for helping us. We'll be alright. We've got power, we've got phones...things aren't like they were. I mean, it's still a shit job, but it's just a job now.”

“Good luck with your exorcism,” Marvin added.

“Thanks,” Robbie said, looking at the thin steel steps of the single-wide. “I don't know if you should tell the others or not. My, uh, demon says if you know too much the police will think you were involved in the murder, but his advice is terrible unless it's about how to kill people. So, do what you think is best.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Pablo said.

Robbie nodded, waved, and they separated: the kids to the warm trailer, Robbie through the woods and into the running Charger. He plastered his hands against the hot air that blasted through the vents, shivering. There you go. Get warm. Feels good to see those kids, right? You helped them. They need you. We're their heroes, Robbie. Now get yourself warmed up for real, and let's go on a little ride for old times' sake. Burn those damn chicken-sheds to the ground.

How about back to LA. Koreatown.

Suits me. Kick in doors until someone starts shooting!

Robbie wanted that. He wanted to hit people. He wanted to burn things. He wanted the ping and impact of bullets against the Rider's faceplates. He burned up and let Eli port them away to terrorize his city for the last time.

 

Thursday at three-twenty-three pm, Robbie arrived at a cheery brick ranch house in Yorba Linda. He'd had a rough trip: the Charger kept stalling at intersections, he’d almost swerved into an oncoming Fed-Ex truck on one of the smaller roads, his right calf was cramping so bad he could barely work the gas pedal, and his eyes were watering so he could hardly see. He'd barely made it across town alive. Eli was not going quietly.

The house was pink, the lawn was green. Big neatly-trimmed juniper bushes partly screened the front yard from the quiet street. A sign in the front yard read, “G. H. Gregory, Dr. of Demonology: Radical and Applied”. Dr. Gregory had put his sign right on top of an old For Sale/Sold sign. Probably saved him fifty bucks.

Robbie shut his motor down with a vicious twist of the ignition, slammed his door, and limped up the front step to ring the doorbell.

A tall, dour man in a baggy tweed jacket answered the door after the second ring. He peered down at Robbie through round, mirrored glasses, and Robbie squinted back at him. Only a low ring of sandy hair remained at the tops of his ears; high on his bald forehead was a round reddened scar that looked oddly like a disgusted emoji. Robbie decided not to ask. “Eliot Miller?” the man said. Sounded like cigarettes and bad news.

The voice fit the man. “Dr. Gregory,” Robbie rasped. “Sorry I’m—” His voice locked up. He gestured vaguely at this throat and at the car, pushed past into the house.

“Your possessing spirit is resisting your efforts,” Dr. Gregory finished for him, and Robbie nodded. The house was clean and hollow, the living room empty of furniture, the walls bare. “All the more reason to be timely. Follow me, I’ve prepared the garage.”

Dick. Robbie followed him. His leg went pins-and-needles and he fell and barely caught himself from bashing his head on a wall. Dr. Gregory grabbed him by the shoulder and Robbie allowed it, shaking out his foot.

They managed to get Robbie down the hallway and out into the attached garage, where a sturdy-looking wooden armchair sat in the center of a twelve-foot circle of painted symbols, dimly lit under a single fluorescent light. No cars, no yard tools. On a work bench sat three suit-cases of bottles and lenses and intimidating instruments.

Robbie lashed out at him suddenly, multi-tool in his hand, blade out. Dr. Gregory dodged back, caught his arm on the return swing. Coolly squeezed on a painful pressure point until Robbie's hand let it drop to the concrete with a clunk. “Thanks,” Robbie croaked.

Dr. Gregory grunted. There was a nick on his throat, fresh blood oozing just below his Adam’s apple. “Sit down. Hold on to the arms so I can secure you.”

Robbie. Don’t do this! Don’t let him do this to us! You’re dead, you died, we’re one and the same, you can’t live without me! You’ll fuckin’ melt like the Wicked Witch without me holding you together! Dammit boy!

Robbie sat in the chair, dug his fingernails into the arms while Dr. Gregory secured his waist with a belt and his limbs with heavy-duty zip ties. Robbie shut his eyes so Eli couldn't see Dr. Gregory moving, focused on his body, focused on the car: don't move, don't move. He could feel Eli in him: prodding and testing, clawing at his nerves limb by limb. Yeah, you're scared, Robbie thought viciously. I didn't ask for you to bring me back. You always want something, you always have an angle, and everything you say is bullshit. I'm getting you out of my life.

Do the words “eternal spiritual bond” mean NOTHING to you?! Eli demanded, making Robbie kick against the wire ties. Robbie released his hold on the body as Dr. Gregory strapped his last arm down, concentrated on keeping Eli from starting the car.

“I suppose it's foolish of me to ask you to take this orally,” Dr. Gregory said, somewhere behind them. “Hold still.” He forced their head backward with a huge, callused hand under their chin. Eli felt a prick low in the side of his throat, and then his heart skipped a few beats. The demonologist pounded on his chest with the flat of his palm. Eli coughed. Suddenly his mouth tasted bitter. His head lolled back, all his muscles going slack, and his heart picked up again, lazy, slow. “Better?”

Eli pried the kid's eyes open, and he stared at the wall of the garage behind him, upside down. There was a garden hose rack screwed to the wall, but no garden hose. He rolled his eyes to get a look at the painted patterns on the floor around him. There was a scorpion—seal of Mars or something, to keep demons at bay. Big Latin inscription around the outside, invoking the protection of...somebody, he couldn't see that part. A few other sigils he vaguely recognized, for commanding demons. He needed his books for the specifics, but he got the gist. “I’m in trouble,” he giggled, sing-song.

The demonologist circled around to his head and peered into his face. Lifted his head back upright. “I’ll do some tests, and then we’ll see how much trouble you’re in.”

“Fuck yooooou. I want a…a law…hmmm.” He curled his toes in his shoes, twisted his forearms slowly back and forth in the zip ties. His body moved at half speed. Dr. Gregory seemed to teleport back and forth across the room, mixing things, prepping equipment. When he felt out for the car, the kid was blocking him and he couldn't concentrate enough to force his way in. “Not fair.”

“No, fairness is an illusion to comfort the weak,” Dr. Gregory agreed, picking up a padded steel headband that bristled with lenses.

“That’s smart,” he replied.

Dr. Gregory grabbed his chin again, evading a weak bite, and peered into his eyes with the lenses. “Did you know your irises have changed color.”

He shut one eye, then the other. He couldn’t remember which side was supposed to be the orange one. “Noooo…”

Something hot and stinking waved under his nose. A wad of burning herbs as thick as two Cuban cigars. He held his breath—it reeked and stung his nostrils. At last he couldn’t hold back any longer, sucked smoke into his lungs, and coughed explosively. “I gh—I guess...ugh...”

“Yes?”

He raised his head, with effort, and looked the taller man in the eyes, past his elaborate magnifiers. “Guess 'issa where I tell ya yer mother sucks cocks in hell?”

“Tell me what you like.”

He leaned forward and tried to bite him again, and the demonologist shoved him back by the forehead with no obvious effort. Splashed liquids on his skin, pulled on his eyelids, looked in his ears, cut the back of his left hand with a scalpel. Eli tried to burn up, break his way out of the chair; he couldn't feel any of his power at all. He struggled to force his way out of the kid's drugged, stupid body and into the car, waiting outside the garage, but the kid blocked him out, sprawled through the steel. “You getting anything there, Doc?”

“Some,” the demonologist replied from behind him. “Look up for me. Look at the light.” There was a little red dot shining against the garage’s unfinished drywall. A laser pointer. “Keep watching. You will hear a sound.”

From behind him, a high-pitched hum started, rising and falling, like blowing over the lip of a bottle, like the Santa Ana wind catching in the air conditioners on top of the kid's apartment in the middle of the night. At first it was just a pleasant singing, restful and comforting, but then his scalp and spine began to tingle. He watched the laser, drifting and jiggling in his dazed vision. The laser pointer seemed to swell, covering his field of view, sparkling and swirling, as the chime behind his head rang louder and louder. He stretched up his spine, stretched out his hands and feet as far as they could. “Wow,” he breathed.

He felt as though the floor was unfurling beneath his feet, flowing like a fountain that buoyed him higher and higher. He was rising to a high peak, into a scintillating red-and-purple haze. His gaze was fixed, his senses suddenly keen, flooded with the high sweet sound and the astringent scent of the smoke and the sparkling lights, his thoughts focused, intent, observing. The sound rang on and on, sending chill waves of sensation cascading down his back. All he heard was the sweet sustained chime, all he saw were the brilliant lights. And all at once, he perceived:

The chime was a harmony, the lights a swarm. A million billion voices and lives, interdependent, all capable of perceiving the same beauty that he now saw. The collective consciousness of the universe. The fears and dreams of the multitudes, their striving for survival, their ideals, their selfishness and generosity, their joy, their aspirations, he saw. Their glorious potential, a consciousness as one, all-loving, all-compassionate, hopeful, powerful, he saw. The intricate reverberations that each made upon each-other, joined in infinite webs of love and causality and destiny stretching a million billion years to the past and future, he saw.

All those conscious, wheeling sparks of light tugged at each-other. Each movement by one sent ripples affecting the movements of others, spreading like waves of thought through this collective cosmic mind; some of these thoughts had first occurred before the dawn of humanity, some before the dawn of species older than humankind. Waves of joy, waves of pain, that nudged the radiant brain of the universe nearer or further from its potential.

And he saw his place in this web. Instead of protecting and uplifting the whole, he had chosen to become a cancer. He killed out of obligation and for pleasure, snuffing out potential, orphaning children, widowing spouses, forcibly tearing bright conscious nodes from their network, leaving a booming, ringing, sighing, howling cry of pain behind him, again and again, pain that would reverberate for decades, inspiring fear, inspiring imitation, inspiring revenge; pain that cried out through the collective mind for justice, twisting the whole further from love, nearer to hatred. The momentary joy he received from his actions against his fellow creatures was eclipsed a thousand times over by the cascades of grief and rage that echoed through the universal soul, a collective thirst for retribution that would persist, in some way, until the last mind touched by humanity faded into the void.

Eli knew he was a badass motherfucker. But he'd never imagined he was this good.

The sound stopped. The light was just a laser pointer on the wall again. He shook his head, feeling small and cold and hollow. “Why'd you,” he started, blinking. “Do it again.”

The demonologist stepped into view, a round brass bowl and a polished stick in his hands. “What you experienced just now was a side effect,” he said. “A simple diagnostic test, to heighten your aura. It gave me the last information I needed to determine a proper treatment.”

Shit. “And what's that?” he slurred, lurching back and forth in the chair.

The demonologist turned around. He'd set down the bowl, and now, in his hands, was an engraved, three foot long machete. “Beheading.”

“Oh, boy.” He leaned back in the chair. “You know I’m not the kid, right? Kid’s nice. You talked on the phone. I let him drive almost alla time.” He reached his muzzy thoughts out to the car. Robbie, stop hogging the car and get over here. “Kid’s a…he’s got responsibilities. His little brother’s slow. Takes care o’him.”

Silence from Robbie. The demonologist said, “That’s unfortunate,” and swung the machete.

Eli jerked backward in the chair, managed to pitch back, knock the whole thing to the floor, and tuck his chin to keep from cracking his head open. Now he was on his back, tied to a chair. I’m not playing, kid, he’s gonna kill us. This isn’t an exorcism! He’s trying to chop our head off! He strained in the chair, making the wood creak. Reached for the fires even though he could never get himself to burn with the kid blocking him, but there was nothing. Nothing. Gabbie’s gonna be all on his own. “Are you sure this’ your only option?” Eli demanded. “I could chop some teenager's head off. Not that I would, I’m a nice guy, I’m a good ghost…”

Robbie! You don’t want to die!

The demonologist hauled the chair back upright. Probably didn’t want to damage the machete swinging it against concrete. From the car, Eli felt Robbie stir, felt him take a look through their eyes. There. Giant fuck-off magical machete. Stop blocking our power!

From the kid, shock and betrayal. He's really trying to kill me.

That's what I said!

He can't fix me.

No! Now stop blocking our power and help me burn us up!

I'm not doing it.

What?

I'm not blocking our power. I'm holding the car.

So gimme the car! Crush him like a grape!

But Robbie did not allow Eli to access the car. He retreated, further into the car, leaving Eli drugged, powerless, and strapped to the chair. The demonologist took another swing, this time bracing the chair down with one foot on the seat between the kid's legs. Eli twisted in his seat, jerking his head down and his shoulder up as far as it could go with his wrist tied to the chair arm. Felt like his whole left arm got hit with an electric baseball bat. A painful jerk and a metallic ping, and the demonologist yanked the machete free. A half-moon chunk of the edge was missing. “Of course,” he muttered, inspecting the blade.

Robbie, get the fuck back here! This is on you!

Blood poured down the kid's arm, soaking the sleeve on the inside of his bicep where Eli could still feel. Where was the metal chunk? Spelled metal could be nasty, especially to something like him. He unrolled, inspected the chair behind him. Nothing. Nothing on the floor. It had to still be in the bone. He imagined he could feel it, cold-burning, but that was probably the air on the exposed edges of his shoulder muscles.

The demonologist turned his back and set the blade on the table, wiped Robbie's blood off on a paper towel. Got out a Dremel and a burr cone, and set to work re-engraving whatever sigils were currently lodged high on the side of Robbie's humerus.

Looks like we got a reprieve, Eli said, struggling to slow his breathing and compress the wound against the chair back. It hurt. He hated being hurt. It should be the kid out here, bleeding out, feeling this. Talk to me. Let's work through this. Problem-solve. What the fuck is your problem?

You. I told you. You're my problem, Eli.

WHAT? No. No! I've been civil! We work together! You told me you weren't gonna get suicidal unless we were hurting Gabbie, that's what you said!

I'm not in control. I'm just getting more and more like you, all the time. I'm a killer now. And if this is the only way to get rid of you—

Is this about the chicken guy. Really? Some twice-divorced millionaire running a human trafficking ring in Iowa? That's who you suicide over? That was justice, Robbie! You are a righteous instrument of cosmic vengeance! I saw it, there's a—a mind-web! A reason for everything!

The demonologist opened another suitcase that sat on the workbench and lifted out an ornate, leatherbound tome stuck full of post-it notes. A sixteenth-century Clavicula Salomonis, looked like. He flipped to a marked page full of hand-drawn diagrams, started copying one onto the machete. The grinder screeched and a fine spray of sparks shot from the steel.

You're pissed at me, I don't know why. Fine. But Gabbie needs you. He'll need you for the rest of his life. You can't abandon him. You have to take care of him, that's your purpose. You gonna walk away? Abandon him like my brother abandoned the two of you? 'Cause that's how he'll see it. He won't understand. Who's gonna tell the kid, “Sorry, Robbie-Robbie's not coming home 'cause Robbie-Robbie's head and torso were recovered from the Sonora Desert in separate oil-drums.” No. Nobody's gonna tell him. It'll break him. Remember how he was, when I took you for a ride and you came back home and found him lying on the kitchen floor curled around a half-eaten raw cabbage? He hated you! That's how I got into him!

I'll do it again, kid. If I survive this, if this “Doctor of Demonology” doesn't really know his shit, I'll hop back into your brother. And let me tell you, he handles a lot smoother than you.

Another spark of hatred from the kid. Eli could feel him thinking—come on, fight!—but he stayed rooted in the car, locking Eli out. Blood soaked his sleeve. Eli felt it plastered to his arm, pooling in the leather jacket beneath his elbow. The demonologist set the dremel down, tilted the blade back and forth, nodded to himself. Then he switched heads on the dremel and started grinding a new edge inside the missing chunk.

Eli gave up on trying to compress the wound and started rocking back and forth in the chair. His muscles were slack, uncoordinated, but the drug was starting to wear off. He got the chair scooting backward, a loud honking noise of oak scraping concrete. An inch. He kept at it: scrape, honk. More inches. Closer to the edge of that ring of sigils on the floor; either he could cross that barrier, or he couldn't. Nothing to be gained by sitting here.

Suddenly the kid shoved his way into the body, grabbed hold of his throat. “How sure are you?” Robbie demanded, half his concentration still immobilizing the Charger's ignition coil. “Can you really keep him from coming back?”

Dr. Gregory turned around. The fresh-ground edge of the blade in his hand seemed to glow in the fluorescent light. “In all honesty, I've never seen two spirits bound quite like this,” he said. “Your possessing spirit, while human and ordinarily subject to standard dispersion methods, shows extensive ritual self-modification. And as for you, Eliot...you show signs of—”

“Can you really kill him?” Robbie demanded. And then, the drugs making him weak, “Can't you save me?”

“I save humans,” Dr. Gregory said dismissively. “Living humans. I'm not sure what you are, but, mystically-speaking, you don't qualify.”

Robbie leaned forward in the chair. Outside the garage, he heard Eli start the car. “You don't know what we are,” he repeated. His shoulder ached, burned; his heart was racing and his lips felt numb. Maybe he was a zombie or a ghost, but he was a ghost with two jobs and a lease, he was a ghost who'd scored in the 90^th percentile on his GED, who ate and slept and shaved and cut his hair; he was a ghost who could diagnose a rough idle on a turboed, engine-swapped '62 Skylark. He was a ghost who got to have Gabe in his life. He hadn't deserved to be gunned down in an alley last year, and he didn't deserve to die now because this asshole couldn't do a thorough workup. “You wrote me off and you don't even know what the problem is.”

“I've been in this business for twenty-three years,” Dr. Gregory began, but Robbie snarled:

“I paid five hundred bucks for this shit.”

The engine growled as he said it. The blower sang. Dr. Gregory spun around, faced the garage door, and Robbie felt the tires spin, felt the car leap at him. It punched through the door, dragging warped steel door panels over the floor and plowing Robbie away. The chair tipped, he fell on his side, landed painfully. He could barely see around his knees; the car could barely see, sheets of painted steel filling the garage and obstructing their vision. He heard clattering and slamming in front of their hood, the demonologist struggling upright, and they lurched blindly forward, dragging sheet metal over Robbie's body. They hit the wall. Either they'd hit Dr. Gregory, or he'd escaped into the house or the yard.

They had to get the body out of the chair. They backed up, caught the chair legs under their back bumper. The chair started to skid backward. Too tentative, they didn't have time. They edged forward again, revved the engine, and then reversed sharply: the car's weight shifted onto the front wheels and the back end rose up. Robbie watched it coming, stared grimly up at his undercarriage until it crashed down on the side of the seat.

The seat shattered. Hardwood exploded against the backs of his thighs, the chair legs came unglued. He kicked out, got his shins free. Straightened his legs with a wrench, broke the chair-back off the seat, loosened the arms. Pushed himself to his hands and knees, bits of wood still zip-tied to his limbs. He grabbed his bumper and tried to melt into it, but he was trapped outside, he wasn't burning up, he couldn't merge with the car. He popped the trunk, hauled himself to his feet, and rolled inside, let the steel hatch shut his body in. He curled around himself in the darkness, sobbed in pain and confusion and disappointment.

Did you learn something, Eli demanded sarcastically.

They backed up, trying to get out of the garage, but stopped short at the painted ring on the floor: their body was inside. They couldn't leave. It was some kind of rule—they couldn't make themselves reverse over it, just like jumping off a bridge, they kept pulling back, shying away from it—

Robbie pushed himself to one side of the trunk. Get the left rear tire over the edge, do a burn-out.

They edged out at an angle, hit the brake and gunned the throttle. The rear tires spun in place against the concrete, the screech echoing in the trunk, rubber burning and melting over the painted floor. Robbie reached his foot toward the left side of the trunk, and he couldn't extend his leg, he just couldn't bring himself to cross the ring, and his tires burned and smoked until suddenly he could move. The spell was broken.

Go.

They stopped, hit reverse. Their hot tires melted to the concrete and jerked them out into the driveway, into the warm sun of a December afternoon.

They checked front and back through mirrors and lights. No other cars, no sign of Dr. Gregory. He must've cut his losses, didn't want to deal with a disappointed client who was also a two-ton muscle car. Yorba Linda was a trackless warren of cheery well-kept suburbs, and Robbie couldn't get a cell signal from inside his trunk. They roared up and down quiet un-lined residential streets until they hit an arterial, took a fast left, headed toward the lowering sun. They wove through traffic, engine howling, while their body bled quietly into their upholstery, breathing fast and shallow.

Get one of those wire-ties off your leg, put it around your shoulder.

Robbie slowly disentangled himself from some of the chair fragments. Slid the bindings off his forearms, each movement tearing at the severed muscles in his left shoulder. Pulled up his shin, worked his shoe off, tried to shove the plastic band over his heel. It's not wide enough.

Take your shoe-lace out. Tie it around, high up. Under the leather. Lotta knots. Then get your pen. Shove it through the shoe-lace, spin it around 'til it feels like your arm's gonna fall off.

Robbie used the screen of his phone as a light, and slowly, laboriously, pulled the lacing out of the loops of his Converse. One end had a knot in it that he couldn't undo. His fingers felt numb.

A patrol car flashed its lights and squealed its siren behind them. Eli poured on the gas. As the car lunged forward, Robbie rolled against the back of the trunk, lay on his phone, lost his shoelace.

Shit. Strap in, I don't feel like getting towed. Eli skidded around a corner into a residential street, took the first right, backtracked two blocks at ninety miles an hour, slammed the brakes, right again, and pulled out onto the same arterial. Same direction, this time dawdling at the speed limit. The sirens wailed somewhere beside them, within the warren of houses. How you comin' on that tourniquet?

Found it. Robbie eased himself onto his back, unzipped his jacket. He reached around his left shoulder with the shoe lace, shoved it between jacket and hoodie, and then reached under his armpit, feeling for the end. Too much cloth in his way. He wasn't sure what he had between his fingers. He was so tired.

Eli spotted a high school, pulled in to the parking lot, and parked behind a scuffed-up Acura. The lot had two exits, three if you counted the garden, which he did, and a decent view of the street. Hurry up! he demanded. If we can die, now's the time it'd happen. You die, you're letting that quack win.

I got it, Robbie thought. He had the shoelace in his hand. Now what was he—he had to tie it, use his right hand and his teeth, tie it tight right at the shoulder. Tie four or five knots. Then get his pen, the grease marker. He felt his pockets, found it in his right jacket pocket, stuck it through the shoelace and started twisting until the lace started to coil over around itself, tightening painfully—keep going—until his fingers went numb—closer—until his shoulder hurt like it was caught in a bench clamp, the nerves in his armpit screaming. “How long,” he grunted, gripping his bad shoulder, rolling onto his dead arm.

Until you either burn up, or pussy out on me and go to a hospital, Eli replied. Feel your pulse, inside your arm just past the tourniquet. Anything?

Robbie pushed his fingers into his sleeve, into the mess of blood. No.

Perfect. It's all uphill from here.

They waited in the lot as the sun crept lower in the west. Robbie's shoulder never stopped hurting, but he couldn't feel his left arm at all, and the inside of the trunk smelled like blood and meat. His heart slowed slightly, his lips stopped tingling, his head cleared, but he was thirsty, desperate with it, and he'd have popped the trunk and staggered into the driver's seat to get himself a water, the whole case of water bottles, except he didn't want to leave. He didn't want anyone to see a bloody, pale teenager in a school parking lot, and more importantly, he wanted his steel around himself. He hadn't realized how safe being the Rider made him feel, until he couldn't change anymore.

He thought about what he'd almost let happen. He'd almost let Dr. Gregory kill him. Gabe would go back in the system, he'd be devastated, but...Gabe wasn't the shy, spacey kid he'd been two years ago. It would take time, but Gabe would recover. He would. He had friends. Robbie wasn't his whole world anymore. If Robbie really had to die, Gabe would still have people who loved him.

Robbie didn't want to die.

He didn't want to turn into Eli, but he didn't want to die. He wanted to be himself. Maybe that was selfish of him, but as he lay in the dark of his own trunk in a pool of his own blood, he ground his teeth in rage, because he didn't deserve any of this. He hadn't deserved to die last year, he hadn't asked Eli to bring him back, he didn't want powers, and he didn't deserve some hack from the yellow pages putting him down because he couldn't tell what he was made out of.

There's a chunk of magical machete still in you, Eli said after a while. Dig it out.

Robbie rolled onto his back and gritted his teeth, stuck his fingers through the slit in his jacket, deep into the wet meaty hole. The skin was numb. The muscle felt dead. He ran into something hard and thin, wished he still had his multitool; it was slippery and he needed the pliers. When he wiggled it back and forth, it ached, deep in the bone where the tourniquet couldn't reach.

It popped loose and he held it between two fingers. About the size of a snap-in box-cutter blade, and just as sharp.

He wondered how many innocent people Dr. Gregory had written off. How much blood this steel had spilled. His heart raced, stronger. He took a deep breath, engine fumes hot and sweet in the back of his throat as he exhaled. “Fuck him.”

Eli started the car and revved the engine, then let it idle, the blower hissing, the motor warming slowly. Robbie pressed his bloody hand flat against the trunk lid, where the black paint soaked up the sun's heat. He was so thirsty, his mouth was so dry. He worked his tongue to get saliva flowing, and came up with oil. His heavy engine's idle vibrated his trunk. Fumes filled the small space, covering the smell of drying blood and dying muscle. He let the pen untwist out of the tourniquet. Blood pumped out of the wound again. Dr. Gregory had tried to kill him; he probably killed a lot of people. And he'd bilked Robbie out of five hundred dollars.

The engine roared, started knocking, hard painful pings from within one of the cylinders. Gasket blew. Robbie cried out, his voice shrill, metallic. Fuel pump kept running, pumping gas into the sparking engine compartment, where it caught with a gasp of flame. Fire chased along the undercarriage, ran through the exhaust pipes. The tank grew hotter, hit the flashpoint. Blew a hole out of the tank, jetting fire into the cabin. Gasoline dripped, burning, onto the concrete under the trunk, and Robbie was dying, he was suffocating and burning himself, his curse was consuming his body, and all he could think was, come on, hurry the fuck up, I'm ready.

The vapors in his lungs, the oil on his tongue caught fire. It poured out of him, charred his throat, cooked his heart. He was dead, but still aware, still in his body, urging it, burn, burn, stop holding me back, and then his blood was no longer blood but fuel, the rest of his flesh caught, and what had been Robbie Reyes dissolved into ash and steam, flowed into the steel of the trunk, hauled itself out into the driver's seat.

The Rider slammed into reverse and jerked out of the parking lot. Roared onto the road heading east, back the way they'd come. Phased right through a cop car in front of them on the road, opened a portal, crashed through darkness and landed in front of that cheery brick house in Yorba Linda, with the sign out front and the garage door lying in crumpled sheets all down the driveway.

He snarled, gunned the motor, and rammed the front wall. His front bumper deformed briefly, a scream of metal, but the bricks yielded. He reversed, picked a new spot, rammed the house again. Got a good head of speed, charged right through the living room and out the other side, onto the manicured back lawn. Grass steamed and burned under his tires. He reversed again, scattering bricks, knocking down interior walls, shattering glass. The flames that streamed up from his tires and blower snaked into the attic as the ceiling began to crumble, and the house caught fire; he turned his attention to the garage, just wood-frame here, the fire caught faster. He hauled himself out through his roof, swinging his chains, but Dr. Gregory was gone, all his boxes and cases were gone, and there were just the painted symbols on the floor to destroy. And destroy he did; he whirled the chains straight up-and-down like a circular saw, gouged into the concrete until he could see the sand under the foundation. “I want my money back,” he roared, but there was no one to hear him.

When the house was a pile of smoking rubble, he ported back to East LA and snuffed out. Robbie clung to the steering wheel for a long moment, pressing the hard v-shaped mark on his forehead against the hub. He gripped his healed shoulder through unmarred leather an cotton. No bloodstains. The only reason he could tell anything had happened was that his shoe was still in the trunk. The sun was going down. It was eight in the evening. He hadn't picked Gabe up from school.

He gasped, patted himself down. Popped the trunk and ran out to retrieve his phone. Missed messages popped up on the screen, texts and voicemails from Gabe's teaching aide at the middle school, from the school nurse, from Mrs. Valenzuela. Gabe had called him. Gabe had called him repeatedly.

Robbie called Gabe's Jitterbug. It rang and rang and went to voicemail. He dialed again. The phone started beeping as it rang; he checked; it was an incoming call. Gabe. How to cancel a call? Green button said “Accept” but it winked out as he reached for it. Now both calls went to voicemail. Robbie called again, and this time Gabe picked up.

“Robbie?” He sounded so scared.

“Gabe! Where are you? I'm coming. I'm back. I need to know where you are, I'll come get you.”

“Robbie! I'm—” Gabe stopped suddenly. Robbie heard him breathing over the line, wet. Rustling of cloth against the microphone, more breathing.

“Gabe, it's me, I'm here,” Robbie said, squeezing his phone case.

The phone rustled again. He heard Gabe's voice, fainter, too far from the phone, howling, “No! Noooo!”

“Gabe!” His lungs burned. He set the phone down on the passenger seat, afraid it might blow up if he kept it in his hand. “Gabe! Where are you? What's happening?”

“Mine!” he heard Gabe screaming. “Give it back!” Robbie suddenly remembered that, when push came to shove, Gabe was not above threatening to bite people.

“Give him—give it back,” Robbie yelled. “This is Roberto Reyes! Give my brother his phone back!”

More rustling. Robbie poked at the phone, carefully, turned the volume up. He heard Gabe sniffling again.

“I'm here. It's me. I came back. I'm so sorry, I got stuck, I couldn't make it back to pick you up.” He waited, heart pounding.

“Got stuck?” Gabe asked, unsteady.

“I almost—I couldn't—” He'd almost died. Then he'd been the Rider. You were having too much fun. “I got lost,” he said at last. “But I know where I am now. I want to come take you home. I love you. Where are you?”

“I'm at Mrs. Valenzuela's,” Gabe said, and Robbie started the car.

“Hang on, buddy. I'll see you soon.”

“Robbie's coming,” Gabe said, and then he hung up.

As they screeched out of the alley, Eli set to work sketching a convoluted story about a job interview, a wrong turn, a dead battery, and an encounter with the police. Got to keep up that trustworthy reputation, kid.

Gabe hugged him when he got in the door, and Robbie squeezed back, burying his face in his hair, pressing him to his chest, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

 

He got a text two days later, unknown number, sent at seven in the evening while he was eating chicken soup with Gabe.

-¿Cómo fue el exorcismo? It read. And then:

-Los jefes estan preocupados que los federales descubrirá lo nuestro

-Han apagado la electricidad

-Trataran robar nuestros teléfonos

-Debemos robar una camioneta, ir al estación de autobuses

-Todos estos americanos son criminales, por eso tambien debemos ser criminales

-Feliz navidad


(How did the exorcism go? The bosses are worried the Feds are going to find out about us. They've shut off the electricity. Tried to take our phones. We have to steal a van, go to the bus station. All these Americans are criminals, so now we have to be criminals. Merry Christmas.)

Well, Eli said, smug. Looks like you tried to get rid of me a little too soon.

Robbie groaned. Gabe looked up from his magazine. It was hand-stapled, printed on powder-blue copy paper: a street zine the local punk bands put out. Robbie hadn't had thirty dollars for a nice set of marker pens, but he could spare fifty cents for a magazine from a kid in a studded jacket standing on the street corner. Gabe still had safety pins on his jeans from when he'd been hanging out with Mateo. Robbie wasn't sure how he was going to run them through the washer. “What's wrong?” Gabe asked.

Robbie stared down at his phone, grinding his teeth. Gabe watched him, concerned.

“There's some people stuck in a bad place and they need me to drive them somewhere safer,” he said at last.

“Go do it, Robbie!” Gabe exclaimed. “You're so nice, you're my hero!” He bounced in his chair, stared at Robbie expectantly.

“We're not done with dinner,” Robbie said.

“I'll eat it all, Robbie, I promise! I'm a teenager, I can brush my teeth and do my homework—”

“Okay,” Robbie said, composing a new text. “I might be gone a few hours. Don't open the door for anyone.”

“I know, Robbie!” Gabe took a big spoonful of chicken soup. “So tasty, I'm eating my soup. Bye, Robbie!”

Robbie stood, got his jacket, sent a text.

-No robes ningun coche! Voy a ayudar usteds
(Don't steal a car! I'll help you (misspelling))

He squinted at it. Su español fuera una mierda.
(Your Spanish is shit.)

Whatever.

-Puedo llavartes al aeropuerto o a guatemala o qualcier lugar en google maps
(I can take you to the airport or to Guatemala or anywhere on Google maps (more misspellings))

The fuck is that word supposed to be?

Cualquier?

Wow.

-Estare ayi en un momento
(I'll be there in a minute)

-*cualquier

Robbie locked the door, headed out into the breezy December night to the car parked at the curb. They headed out a few blocks, burned up on the fly, dropped through a portal and landed in the frozen cornfield near the trailers. Snuffed out and marched through the cold and dark to the trailers. Texted the unknown number. Pablo and Marvin met him outside.

“Put a hat on,” Pablo said, handing him a stretchy orange knit cap.

Robbie jammed it over his ears, shivering. “I can fit five passengers in my car, if you share the middle seat,” he said. “If you really need to, I can help you break into a van and start it, but I don't think you want that much attention on you.”

“You'll have to make a lot of trips,” Pablo said. He looked over his shoulder at Marvin. “Can you really go to Guatemala?”

Robbie held up his phone. “Anywhere I have a picture,” he said. “It'll be an interesting ride. First, bus station. How far away is it?”

“Fifty miles,” Pablo said. He held up his own phone, showed Robbie the map.

Ugh.

That's a lot of gas.

Small-town cops, got nothing better to do than pull you over for going ten miles over the speed limit. Hey! We're out of our stomping grounds, we can kill cops with impunity here!

“Change of plan,” Robbie said. “Get everyone who's leaving out to the corn field. We'll do the bus station first, ferry you all over five at a time, get this done in half an hour. Any groups going real far? Ten people headed to Kansas or anything like that?”

“I'll ask Sergio,” Pablo said, texting.

Marvin stepped around him toward Robbie. His eyes were wide, concerned. “How are you moving us?” he asked.

“Ghost car,” Robbie said. “I'm a ghost rider, remember. I can help you. As long as you're not afraid of fire.”

 

.