Red Scare: 1964

I felt the weight of my rifle in my hands, my web gear tight around my waist and shoulders. For a brief moment, the heat of napalm crashing along our trench line in a wave of fire and the roaring engine of the Skyraider that dropped it pulled me away from the whizzing and cracking of bullets flying past my head, and the wave of Cuban guerillas in front of me, determined to push us back to Guantanamo Bay and out into the Caribbean Sea.

I had lived through that fight a thousand times since that day; in dreams, flashbacks, thoughts of where and how things went wrong. I could tell you every detail from the first sign of contact to our order to retreat. But just this once, things were different, I was different. I could barely see over the trench, my hands were too small, my breathing was too high pitched.

“Movement north to south, follow my tracers!” My subconscious mind was still struggling to drag me through the motions of battle when another voice shocked me into lucidity. I turned my head to where the best and only friend I had left should have been. He was gone and in his place was a woman who was his dead ringer. If I met her on the street, I’d think she was his long-lost twin sister but given my current state I knew better.

“Fletch—what—the fuck?” I tried to call to her but my new voice shocked me into hesitation. “Fuck!” Before I could try again, I felt a bullet go through my shoulder. The pain was blinding and shot white-hot down my arm, then dulled to pins and needles across my whole left side. I tried to keep fighting until I felt the two pieces of my collarbone click and grind against each other, and the piercing pain came back, like getting shot in the same spot again and again every time I breathed.

“Morgan!” She screamed, “What the fuck is happening? It’s not supposed to be like this!” The heavy, belt fed machine gun she was firing landed in the churned up mud of our trench as she sprinted over to me. Blood had soaked through my uniform and was steadily trickling down. It was then when I noticed the new shape of my chest. I watched awestruck as my blood separated from its expected path and split like water against a rock in a stream. It flowed to the left into my armpit, and to the right across my breast to the center of my chest, continuing down until it pooled in my belly button.

As I slumped down against the wall of the trench, the words I said that day rang in my head louder than the booming of gunfire, grenades and mortars around me. “I don’t want to die a man. I don’t want to die a man. I don’t want...”

“It’s ok Morgan, everything’s gonna be ok. Please just calm down, it’ll be over soon.” Fletcher’s female replacement knelt in front of me, fighting back tears. When I saw her everything melted away, her face was a shining light through the haze of smoke and violence.

“Fletcher, you’re so pretty.”

“Shit, you’re pretty too.” She kissed me as my vision faded, then everything went black.

I woke up in my bed, gasping for air. After convincing myself that I wasn’t dead, I realized things had changed. The tropical heat was gone, and my shattered collarbone was in one piece, but the rest of my body remained how it was in my dream.

As I came to my senses, a feeling hit me. It was a feeling I couldn’t possibly ignore; it was pulsing, pulling me to my feet against my will. It was dragging me out of bed, then across my bedroom to the door. It nagged at me while I picked through my clothes for something to wear. I didn’t have as much trouble as I thought I would; my hips were proportionately wider but probably measured about the same, and I managed to quickly crop a tee shirt with my pocket knife. Strangely enough, my boots fit perfectly fine.

I wasn’t that much smaller than I had been yesterday. According to the Marines and the state of California, my previous height was officially five feet, seven inches, and judging by how my feet missed the floor when I rolled out of bed, I had lost about two.

I opened my bedroom door, letting the newly acquired thing in my head guide me. It was more than a feeling; it was an urge. It must’ve been how geese feel when they fly south for winter or, maybe how salmon feel when they swim upriver to spawn. On my way out of our apartment, I locked eyes her, my best friend’s replacement. Except, she wasn’t his replacement, I knew that. I was still me, therefore she must still be her. She had to be the one and only.

Whatever happened to me that night, happened to her too. She wasn’t just the real thing, but she was even more beautiful in real life. She shined even brighter here in our ratty apartment at the edge of suburban Southern California, away from the smell of burning flesh and the war we didn’t choose to fight, in my best friend’s patchy jeans and scuffed leather jacket.

We didn’t speak. I don’t know what I’d even say if we did. Everything I felt was beyond words. I wasn’t even confident I’d be able to, given my focus on the task at hand. I could see in her eyes that we were being led by the same force, on the same mission, whatever it was. With our unspoken understanding, we began our journey.

It was a hot summer morning as our cut down, piecemeal, old Harleys rumbled to life. Nowhere near as humid and miserable as the hills of Cuba, with or without the chance of being shot at, but still hot enough to keep you inside without a damn good reason to leave. Soon, we hit the freeway and headed east, out past the mountains and into the desert.

We rode through Victorville, then through Barstow. When we passed Zzyzx, I prayed our destination was in Las Vegas; the only point of civilization on Interstate 15 before we hit Utah, because I wouldn’t be forced to go to Utah. As we reached Baker, I saw the world’s largest thermometer read well into the hundreds and I felt our guide leading us off the interstate and towards Death Valley.

We went further into the desert, past the point where park rangers warned that you wouldn’t make it back out if you broke down and tried to seek help. In Death Valley itself, the pit in my stomach grew as our guidance changed from general direction, to a pinpoint. By noon, we had reached our destination; an empty parking lot with a faded visitor’s information sign. As I walked across the cracked asphalt, I felt myself finally regain control.

“Badwater Basin, Death Valley National Park: the lowest point in North America, 282 feet below sea level.” I read off the sunbaked sign as if I couldn’t tell where we were by the vast expanse of salt and rocks.

“Death Valley, Yellowstone, Four Corners, wherever. I’m just glad the sheep-being-led-to-slaughter feeling in the base of my skull is gone.”

“Yeah.” I took a second to gather enough confidence to finish my thought. “So, what do you think that was that led us here?

“Demons.” She said with disarming calmness.

“What the fuck?”

“Maybe just one, I don’t know. You’ve read The Bible. God wouldn’t do this. If he wanted you to go somewhere he’d just tell you or zap you there himself. He would do the cryptic shit, fucking with your head like that.”

“And you went anyway?”

“Was I supposed to not and have that thing trying to drag me here the rest of my life? Besides, you came too.”

“When I saw you at the door, I thought it’d be fine.”

“Well, it probably is fine. We’re obviously here for a reason, and at this point we’re probably obligated to hear them out. It might not even be a big deal.”

“Fletcher, we’re literally in the middle of Death Valley. There’s no way it’s not a big deal.” I caught myself whispering, so the coyotes, lizards and demons in our heads wouldn’t hear my protest.

“It could be symbolic. There are tons of places around here named after Hell stuff, it could be a theming thing. You know demons are real freaks about presentation, it really drives the point home.”

“Like fucking with our dreams and making us fight the Cubans all over again as girls?”

“Probably, I’m not an expert. I was there too, and you don’t see me complaining... much.”

“So, you saw me get hit, and you did what you did?”

“Well yeah, that’s what I meant.”

“And it was you that did it, not whatever satanic possession shit that has us like this?”

“It was a very emotional moment, how was I supposed to know it’d have lasting consequences?”

Her face went red and she turned to look out across the salt flats. After everything we’d been through that morning, I finally saw her crack.

“I’m not holding you to anything, I’m just asking questions.”

The Sun began to drift away from its high noon position, and the demonic confrontation we anticipated still hadn’t come. Since there was obviously something we were missing, we decided to search for clues. We started by circling the parking lot, mostly to keep our soles from melting into the pavement. When it was clear the parking lot really was as empty as it looked, we ventured out onto the flats.

Salt crunched under our feet and vultures circled overhead, expecting us to be their next target of opportunity. With the lull in action, I began to think back on our morning with a clear head.

“You know, I haven’t really been sweating.”

“Oh yeah, me neither. But I thought that was just a girl thing.”

“I don’t even think that’s true; I think they just say that because girls usually don’t do stuff that makes you sweat that much. Even if it was, didn’t the big thermometer back in Baker say it was a hundred and ten degrees out today? And that was hours ago, out by the freeway. It has to be a few degrees hotter down here in the valley, just by the lack of airflow.”

“You’ve got a point; I didn’t even think about any of that”

“Did you drink any water before we left?”

“No, I just got dressed and walked out.”

“You’re not feeling dehydrated or anything?”

“No, I’m fine. You?”

“I’m alright... I just think it’s weird.”

“This whole deal is weird and that’s probably the least of it. I’m just trying to see it through, it’s not like we have a choice.”

When we walked out as far as we dared to go, we stopped and waited for something to happen. When nothing happened, I got an idea.

“There must be something we’re not doing. I’m gonna try something. If this goes wrong, I’m sorry.”

“Go ahead, whatever happens beats wasting away out here. More interesting, at least.”

I thought about my life so far, and what may become of the rest of it. Then, I took a deep breath.

“Hey, Satan or whoever the fuck! We’ve been here for a fucking hour, what the fuck do you want from us?”

For a moment, nothing continued to happen. Then, a void opened up below us, and we fell.

We didn’t fall for long. It was barely a blink, really. Just long enough to throw us to our knees. When I looked up, we were somewhere. It wasn’t fire and brimstone, but it couldn’t have been Death Valley, or anywhere else on Earth. Everything about it was wrong, from the texture of the ground, to the stillness of the air. The sky, if it even was the sky, looked like a matte painting.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m sorry!”

“Damn, I was right. It was demons. So, this is what Hell looks like.”

Then, I heard a new voice. Its sound was new but its words were unmistakable.

“Looks like the gang’s all here.” A woman stood there scanning the room, familiar and unknown at the same time. “Damn, the whole fireteam, huh? I knew about the little one,” She said, pointing at me with her index and pinky fingers, “And I had my suspicions about the Rootin’ Tootin’ Cowgirl and Elly May Clampett over there.” Directing her attention to the girls who could only be Olsen and Grant, respectively. “But I gotta admit, seein’ the Fifty Foot Woman in action last night was a surprise.” Ending with Fletcher. “I always had you pegged as the strong, silent type.”

“What are you trying to say?” Fletcher stood up to face her.

“I’m not sayin’ anything, I just saw how you dropped the ‘60 and left us hangin’ to lock lips with Morgan, before Doc even knew she was hit. Kinda strange how that was ya’ first thought.”

“The fucking bullet went through my collarbone and it hurt like a motherfucker, I couldn’t even move my arm. And I’m pretty sure it hit an artery, it felt like I was going into shock at the end.”

“Ah come on, can’t we bust each other’s balls, even if we ain’t got none no more? I’m just fuckin’ with ya.” She looked me up and down a few times, giving me what looked like her best attempt at an honest appraisal. “Ya’ look alright to me.”

“Yeah, sure Schmuckatelli. It is a little nostalgic having the gang back together. Those first couple weeks in the fleet shooting the shit together between getting my human rights and dignities violated in boot camp and getting put through the worst year of my life were pretty fun.”

“Still with the Shmuckatelli, it’s Schiavone. Just because that madigan Corporal Bennett, the Sarge, the Staff Sergeant or the LT couldn’t be fucked to get it right, doesn’t mean I gotta take it from the likes a’ you. And ya’ got a lotta nerve talkin’ to me about boot camp, San Diego’s gotta be paradise compared to that asshole of civilization they call Parris Island.”

“Hey, I thought we were busting balls.”

“Yeah, well there’s bustin’ balls and there’s insultin’ my heritage. That’s anti-Italian discrimination. Two completely different things.”

Olsen stepped in to defuse the situation. “Wait, stop! We can’t fight in Hell, think of how bad that would look. They must’ve brought us here for a reason, so we need to make a good impression.” She had a point, fighting before we even knew what was being asked of us wouldn’t reflect well on us.

“I don’t give a fuck what the Prince of Darkness thinks a’ me. I’m pretty sure I’m only here because one a’ you heretics got me roped in. But while we’re reacquaintin’, I gotta ask. Where did that satanic mind control bullshit take all you before ya’ got here?”

“Death Valley.” Fletcher and I replied in unison.

“Devil’s Tower” Olsen continued.

“River Styx, some underground creek in Mammoth Cave.” Grant finished.

“Oh, that’s nice, I hope ya’ were all havin’ a good time experiencin’ the natural beauty this country has to offer before bein’ dragged to Hell. I had to stand in the middle of Hell Gate Bridge with my now metaphorical stugots in my hand, looking’ out over the East River, dodgin’ trains and makin’ sure I wasn’t seen so nobody called the cops on account of a crazy bitch tryin’ to off herself. I stood there fah half an hour thinkin’ I had to jump in before I got dragged here.”

“The crazy bitch being you?” I couldn’t resist prodding at her.

“Well, that’s definitely what it’d look like. Not sayin’ that I’m crazy or a bitch, but I doubt the NYPD would bother hearin’ me out if I claimed othahwise.”

Grant crept her way over to me, keeping one eye on Schiavone. She leaned over and whispered in my ear. “I dunno if ya’ really care about who saw what, ya’ know, back in the dream last night. But I didn’t see any of what Schmuckatelli says y’all had going on. I was on the radio next to the LT, tryin’ to keep that Skyraider pilot on the line after the platoon RTO got one in the neck. I’m pretty sure I saw Olsen runnin’ belts and mortar rounds from the ammo bunker to the weapons platoon guys, so she probably didn’t see any of it either.”

“It’s fine Grant, I don’t care if you saw. It was just a dream; I’m not embarrassed about it or anything.”

That was mostly the truth. I didn’t care who saw, and I had a lot more to be embarrassed about than something that for all intents and purposes didn’t actually happen. But the more I thought about it, I couldn’t accept that it was just a dream.

I had dreams where I’d been turned into a girl before, whether by magic or some other means, lucid ones even. But they were disjointed and floaty. If I had control over my body, I had to fight to maintain it. They didn’t have fear and pain so vivid, or feel more real than reality itself had before today.

Most importantly, they were constructions of my own unconscious mind, located entirely within my own head. At least they had been, to the extent of my understanding. They weren’t shared with other people who were somehow having the same experience from their own independent perspective. It was a small thing compared to what had happened since, and what would likely happen in the future, but it still ate at me.

We spent more time waiting for nothing in particular, a skill we were trained in more frequently and to a higher degree than anything else the Marines had cared to teach us. Eventually, we gave up on standing and sat ourselves in a circle.

“So... why us? What the fuck makes us so special?” Schiavone spoke again, continuing to complain.

“Isn’t it obvious? Look at us. Did you ever meet an enlisted Marine below the rank of gunny that wasn’t picked up off the street or fresh out of the brig? 3/6 is a penal unit. Probably the whole Sixth Marines based on the shit they put us through.”

Grant was deflated by the realization of what our country had done to us. “Fuck, you’re right. They were always callin’ us worthless criminals, but I thought they were fuckin’ with us and gettin’ in our heads. I didn’t think they actually meant every last one of us.”

Olsen shrugged. “You know, I suspected it, but it felt wrong to say anything at the time. I guess it kind of went without saying, now that I think about it. I never met a volunteer, or anyone who convinced me they were a upstanding citizen back in the world.”

“But there’s over a thousand swingin’ dicks doing time in 3/6 at any given moment. What went so wrong with us five to deserve gettin’ drafted into Satan’s armed forces?”

“I imagine out of all of 3/6, the five of us are the only ones that are like this.” I gestured at myself, then broadly at the rest assembled.

“Speak for yaself, buddy. It’s one thing to think about bein’ a broad, that’s normal. Everyone does that. This? I don’t even know what this is. It’s like a falchion bargain ya’ didn’t even know you were making.”

We all stared at the newly female, former Marine, most commonly known as Lance Corporal Schmuckatelli. Then, we took turns meeting each other’s gaze. There was nothing that needed to be said aloud.

I continued, ignoring her. “And as far as I was able to figure out, that business only started after Joe Kennedy got elected and cranked up the heat in Cuba. Which means we were some of the first poor bastards to suffer that particular fate.”

“It’s Faustian, you know.” A voice remarked, somehow both in my head and from the center of our little circle. Suddenly, the sky the began swirling with colors beyond and in between the range of shades normally allowed to be seen by human eyes, and the unnaturally quiet world we currently existed in suddenly sprang to life. “It’s called a Faustian Bargain, because the guy’s name was Faust. A falchion is one of those big sword things from Eastern Europe.” Then, she appeared. Our long wait was finally over.

I studied her features and was shocked to see how normal she looked. She wasn’t like the grotesque beasts from gothic cathedrals and the margins of medieval bibles, nor was she one of those firetruck red, pitchfork wielding, cartoonishly sexy imps from the Saturday morning cartoons. She looked like us, she dressed like us, she spoke like us. Yes, she did have reddish-purple skin, horns, wings, inhumanly sharp features, and probably a forked tongue. But that was weird, not scary, and my tolerance for weird had grown significantly in the last approximately eight hours.

“Kept you waiting, huh? Sorry for making you sweat like that, but you were all having such productive conversations that I didn’t want to intrude.” The demon in front of us said with a smile.

“Actually, we haven’t been sweating much. Morgan and I already talked about that. I guess that has something to do with you.” Fletcher corrected.

“Yeah, yeah. Figure of speech, don’t worry about it. That’s just part of the package.”

“And the dream? And the mind control shit?” Schiavone jumped in to interrogate.

“That’s separate. I had to get you all together somehow. If not for this you all would’ve been incredibly confused and you’d never have seen each other again.”

“You’re not wrong.” I agreed, recalling our conversation in the desert.

“And turnin’ us into skirts, then draggin’ us to Hell?” Schiavone continued questioning

“Because I took pity on you, and I thought that if I was gonna do it, then I should at least tell you how this all works.”

“Yeah, but why us? You’re a demon. Aren’t you supposed to steal our souls, or fuck us senseless, then turn us evil, only for us to snap out of it after it’s already too late in some bullshit morality tale?” I asked, ready to finally learn why we were there.

“I’m just doing a good deed. A public service, if you will. But, speaking of demons, that’s not really a thing the way you think it is. There’s not a fundamental difference between gods, devils, angels and demons, not really. Yeah, some are more powerful than others, some are total shitheads, but the strict hierarchy and hard lines are a recent invention. You know, we all used to be on an even standing until that one guy got the idea that He should be number one. Although, at least some people still believe in us as we are, for better or worse. I suppose that’s a better fate than the Old Gods, relegated to mere myth and legend. They’re still around too, barely. Also like, I assumed that if I got you all together and let you talk for long enough you’d get there on your own, but apparently you all really are so dysfunctional that I have to spell it out for you.” She looked left and right, then let out a sharp exhale. “You’re under no obligation to do it, but if you five were so inclined, it’d pretty cool if you killed the president, and anyone else you think deserves a bullet in the head: LeMay, McNamara, Kissinger, any of those corporate assholes—I don’t need to tell you, you watch the news, you’re the teenage delinquents who got pressed into the Marines and shipped down to Cuba.”

“What? Why?”

“Because fuck ’em, that’s why. Do you actually need a reason other than personal grievance and knowledge of how fucked up things are gonna continue to be if you don’t?

“Okay, fair; not really.” I paused as the other four murmured to similar effect. “But I don’t see how being girls would make us better at killing the most protected men in the country.”

“Because now you have the tools to do so. More so than any normal meathead of a man.” She snapped her fingers, and instantly we were transformed. I looked down at my hands, then across to Olsen, then to Grant and Fletcher, and last to Schiavone, who was visibly shaking despite being ten feet away.

“Oh shit,” She gasped, clutching her golden cross necklace. “you turned us into Hellspawn like you!”

“Calm down, calm down. You still have your mortal souls, it’s just a boost above what a normal human could do. You know; jump a little higher, run a little faster, see a little farther, heal slightly worse wounds without medical attention, or heal faster with it, maybe a little ultraviolet and infrared vision if you concentrate hard enough. If you do a good job, I could put in a word for more power, or you could take a little initiative and learn something yourself. Eternity-wise, we can cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“Hey, what about our IDs, birth certificates, Social Security and everything?” Olsen asked.

“Get it out and check.”

“Huh. So, are we still legally us or are we entirely new people that popped into existence today?”

“All I did was change your name, gender and height if that’s different. As far as anyone’s concerned, you were born female. Trust me, it’s less of a hassle this way. You don’t wanna go around explaining why you’re squatting in the old you’s apartment.”

“What about our parents?”

“Parents? Parents... fuck I forgot, give me a second.” Her gaze went blank and her eyes glowed white. “What are we thinking? Do you wanna be your own sister and deal with having an estranged and/or dead brother, or do you want the full memory swap?”

“Uh, let’s go with the full swap.” I answered first, then looked to the rest for consensus.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Grant nodded her head in agreement.

Schiavone remained silent.

“Got it. I gave you all a few new memories too, so you don’t look too lost when your moms get all nostalgic for something that never happened.”

Talk of new identities and political violence made Schiavone’s expression grow increasingly sour. When the demon in front of us mentioned implanted memories, she lost it.

“This is too much, I want out. I never signed up to be a Marine and I ain’t signin’ up to be a...” She searched for the right words. “motherfuckin’, cocksuckin’, demon, broad terrorist either. Goddamnit, I feel like I’m goin’ insane.”

“As you wish, like I said, none of you are under any obligation to go through with my proposal.”

“And change me back.”

“Okay.” She snapped her fingers, and Schiavone was human again.

“I mean all the way back, how God intended.”

“But—the whole thing—about that being an artificial distinction? Or how capital G God isn’t all he’s cracked up to be? Just not gonna take that to heart or reevaluate your preconceived notions about yourself or what you’ve been taught?”

“So I’m just supposed to believe that, Lord of Confusion?

“Who, me? You think I’m?—I’m a nobody, just like you losers.” The demon stepped back, looking genuinely hurt. “The guys in the Bible and those demonology texts are like a thousand levels above me. My name’s Phoebe, by the way.” She curtsied, surely in some amount of jest. “I’m just trying to do a good thing for some people who need it, because no one else would.” She sighed. “Oh well, if you insist. I guess you want me to send you back too.”

“Yeah, I do.” Schiavone pouted.

“Well, take this pamphlet, and if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“Okay, sure. But I highly doubt that.”

“Then it looks like we’re done here. Farewell.” Phoebe snapped her fingers, and like that; Schiavone was gone.

I looked to Phoebe for an explanation. “So, Schiavone’s just gone back to Hoboken or wherever they’re from? Does this mean they’re really not...the same as us?”

“Oh no, she definitely is. Don’t even worry about it. She’ll be back first thing tomorrow morning. I can see the truth in her soul, even if she can’t. Some people just need to be reminded what going back feels like before they can realize what’s right for them.”

“Okay then, that tracks.”

“I have to say you’re all taking this a lot better than she did.”

Grant chimed in. “Schmuckatelli was always a chronic complainer, even back in boot camp. We weren’t even in the same platoon, I just always either heard her bitchin’ or saw her gettin’ smoked by her DIs ’cross the way.”

“Could never roll with the punches. And I don’t know why anyone would be so attached to being a guy. Personally, I would’ve done something sooner if I knew it was an option.” My remaining three squadmates agreed, questioning why Schiavone would be so resistant to the alternative when the default was obviously so much worse.

“Anything else you need to say to each other before I send you back?”

“If we’re really gonna be doing this, then you two are coming to San Dimas, right?” Fletcher confirmed with the other two.

“San Dimas?” Grant turned to me, confused. “I thought y’all lived in Los Angeles.”

“Suburbs. Way out there,” I dragged out my words to emphasize the point, “only 30 minutes from the desert. Technically still LA County by like 10 miles. It’s easier to just say LA than it is to explain how everything that people think is LA is really like thirty cities held together with freeways and water use rights.”

“Oh, okay. Schmuckatelli had me thinkin’ y’all were up there in the Hollywood hills with John Wayne and Rita Hayworth.”

“It’s not like you three were ever coming to the Olsen Ranch, where the only other sign of human life is the SAC bombers in and out of Ellsworth.”

“Or Hydro, Kentucky. Really not lookin’ forward to drivin’ all the way ‘cross the country though, might take about week if I bother sleepin’ like I should.”

“I should be able to get down there in a couple days. But I need to get my rainy-day fund together, so it’ll probably take me an extra day to get going.”

“I guess that’s it then. We’re in a dumpy little duplex on South San Dimas Avenue. The worst looking one on the street, you can’t miss it.”

“Everyone ready to go home?”

“Wait!” I panicked. “You forgot to put us back to normal. New normal, not guy normal.” I shuddered at the thought of having our good fortune reversed so soon.

“Sorry, I’m not used to humans. To me, you looked more normal like that. Take these pamphlets, you know where to find me. I hope I see everyone again soon. Goodbye!”

The void reopened below us. When I opened my eyes, we were back in Death Valley

“Fuck, it’s still light out. I thought we were down there for longer.”

Fletcher looked to see how far the sun had travelled across the sky. “Looks like it’s only been about two hours.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“She was very to the point. Pretty cool, too.”

“Yeah, I’d definitely hang out with her. Guess we should get back home before something else happens to us.”

“I have to eat something first. We haven’t eaten all day and I don’t have it in me to ride back on an empty stomach.”

“There was that shady burger shack back in Baker, between the big thermometer and the gas station. I don’t know what you had in mind, but I could go for a milkshake and a chili dog right now.”

“I wouldn’t mind a Coke and a suspicious meat burger. Maybe we’ll even get lucky and the frycook won’t be covered in blood and grease.”

“Surely the town of Baker, California has higher standards than that. Either way, we need to get out of here, you’ve got my stomach rumbling.”

“Lead the way, milady.”

We crunched back across the salt to our bikes waiting in the still empty parking lot. Despite the desolation and near unsurvivable heat, I had always known Death Valley to be a tourist trap. A National Park Service truck slowed to a crawl as it passed by, but the ranger inside seemed satisfied after I gave them a friendly wave. That park ranger was the only other person we had seen besides each other our entire time in Death Valley. When we left the valley the sense of relief I expected never came.

The Baker burger shack was exactly as expected: no line, one scary fry cook doing double duty as cashier up to his neck in grease stains, slightly gross ketchup and mustard pumps. The food was good, but that was also to be expected. In my experience, restaurant atmosphere and flavor have a directly inverse relationship, and our lunch was further proof of the rule.

“So, what do we do now?” I asked between sips of my slightly too thick milkshake.

“Now?” She turned herself side saddle to face me.

“That we’ve got this mission, or whatever you wanna call it.”

“We wait for the others to get here and make a plan.”

“Yes, but not what I’m getting at.”

“We go home, crack open a couple beers, and call it a day before Jesus gives us a counter-offer?”

“Course not, fuck Jesus. What did he ever do for us?” I noticed Fletcher give me a subconscious nod of agreement.

“You got me. Can you rephrase the question?”

“What do we do to make a lot of money in a little bit of time?”

“Everyone needs money, why do we need it any more urgently than we did yesterday, besides paying for what we have to do?”

“We need to pay rent somehow, I’m not hunting down the president and his inner circle while also trying to hold down a nine-to-five.”

I saw the wheels turn in her head as her chewing slowed to a stop. “You know and I both know there are only a few ways to make I don’t have to work anymore money and all of them end with you living in a box on Skid Row or dead on the sidewalk if you fuck it up.”

“Yeah, but we kinda have to. I doubt the studio is expecting me to show up Monday morning, not as a grip anyway. And Armalite certainly doesn’t employ any lady machinists.”

“Point taken. Girl or not, I’d rather get shot at for a living than be some asshole’s secretary.”

“That’s not saying much, you got shot at for free for a year.”

“So did you.”

“Yeah I did, which is why I know for a fact that robbing banks would be an upgrade from a muddy hole in the Cuban hill country, and all the C-Rats you can stomach.”

“Robbing a bank.” She glared. “We’re not gonna get greedy and have the feds on our case just for trying to keep the lights on.”

“We’ll start small; some nowhere town out in the sticks, see what the take is like. If it’s enough to see us through, we stop. If not, we can think about something more substantial.”

“As long as the take is worth more than a bullet to the chest.”

“C’mon, you never thought it’d be exciting to pull off an old-fashioned bank job? You know, kick open the door, spray a few over everyone’s head, then peel out with a big sack of cash over your shoulder before the cops even know what hit ’em?” I jumped from the seat of my bike, pretending to go through the motions of a depression era bank robbery.

“Dammit, I already got talked into conspiracy to commit treason today, please don’t make me tell you that you made armed robbery sound kinda fun.”

“I didn’t say fun, you said fun. I said exciting, just because something gets your blood pumping, doesn’t mean you’re having fun doing it.”

“I’ll get your blood pumping if you don’t finish that milkshake.”

“I was waiting for it to melt a bit; I like my milkshakes a little runny. Nothing wrong with some conversation to pass the time.”

“Well, time’s wasting, and I’d like to get back to the city before dark.”

“Don’t wanna get abducted by aliens making the run from Roswell to LA?”

That’s not what I had in mind, but considering we spent a good part of our afternoon in Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Don’t count on it, either aliens exist or God does. You can’t have both.”

“Says who?”

“The rules. Logically, it just makes sense.”

After refilling our tanks, we hit the interstate and returned to the city. We came back through Barstow, then Victorville, and finally through Cajon Pass; back the LA side of the mountains.

The sun was low as we came to a stop outside our home in the Pomona Valley. Not quite night, but our day was still over. We barely made it to our couch before crashing, one on top of the other.

“Sleepy already? It’s barely dark out.” Fletcher groaned beneath me.

“We had a hell of a day today.”

“Pun intended?”

“I guess so.”

“Yeah, it was, and I think we’re gonna have a lot more days like this. We’re on the edge of something big.”

“Good thing I wasn’t busy.”

“Yeah, we might as well overthrow the government. It’s not like we had anything better to do.”

I stretched out wide across her chest and let out a big yawn. “I don’t think I can make it to bed. Do you mind if I sleep here?”

“You say that like we didn’t spend months sleeping back-to-back to keep ourselves out of the mud.”

“I remember, but this is different.”

“Yeah, you didn’t whine about it back then.”

I slapped her shoulder. “We were big, bad Marines back then. Now, it’s just us.”

“You were never big, and you’re still bad. I’ve got a few more hours left in me, so I’m gonna watch a little TV, if you can handle that.”

“I’m a heavy sleeper.” Fletcher turned on the TV, and as I drifted to sleep, I heard The Beverly Hillbillies’ theme song. “Hey, it’s Grant and her family.”

“You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

“You put up with it.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“I thought you were going to sleep.”

“I am, you know it takes me a while.”

“Goodnight, then.”

I gave her a cheesy grin. “Goodnight.”