The Edge of Madness Cafe (The Sea and the Wasteland Book 2) (52 page)

Ellen drew herself up
straight, trying to be serious for him; it wasn’t easy. He could be very
intuitive sometimes. Other times, he could be as dumb as a stump. Too trusting
and too sensitive. It was like his writing. He wrote from the heart: what he
felt, what he knew, what he believed. From the heart. But with matters of the
heart, vulnerability was a necessity, dangerous though it was. And she was the
one who taught him to fly; she could cut him a little slack. “You would stay
here in the Wasteland rather than be without me?”

He nodded, staring out
over the edge of reality into the empty blue beyond, and her heart went out to
him. “Kreiger was right about that, at least,” he said. “Once you’ve dined on
honeydew and drunk the milk of paradise, nothing ever again taste as sweet.”

“I thought that was
Coleridge?”

“It is.” Jack smiled. “Funny
thing is, I always think of the song by Rush.”

Ellen sighed, mostly for
his benefit. “Then it looks like I’m going to have to save you again.”

He turned to her, and
found himself captured by her smile: beautiful and radiant and just a bit mischievous.
She left him speechless.

“I didn’t come back to
escape the other world,” Ellen said. “I came back because of you. From the
moment we met, even when I was convinced you were nothing more than a dream, I couldn’t
imagine not having you in my life. And I don’t want to.”

Jack leaned forward to kiss
her. “Then let’s go home.”

*     *     *

They stayed in the
Wasteland until the sun began to set, the day’s heat giving way to twilight,
their contentment marred only by the knowledge that it was short-lived and its
like would not be seen again.

They walked back to the
Café as the sun slipped below the horizon, the buildings casting long shadows
upon the sand. By the time they arrived, the boneyard was gone, dismantled by
the Guardian with brutal intensity and fervor, efficiency bordering upon
enthusiasm. Gouging up rails, tearing apart old machines, and dispersing the
wreckage to the void; it was a task to which the Guardian was uniquely
designed. That he meticulously brushed the sand in the wake of his destructive
path was simply an aspect of his machine nature. And when he was done, all
evidence of the boneyard was erased, existing nowhere now but in their
memories. All that remained was the red pickup, the needle-thin spire of the
focal lens, and the hunched form of Gusman Kreiger.

The Cast Out sat with his
back to Jack’s reality, still wrapped in the old carnival canvas, staring at a
fixed point in the air as though he could still see the fence that once stood
there, the chain links weaving from post to post, the sections of rusted tin,
the place where the shallow opening existed, a means from this place to
another. But if the Cast Out saw anything, it was only in his mind; nothing
remained but memories and a name now meaningless, vague furrows in the sand
like old scars suggesting something more. Exactly what remained a mystery fast
being erased by the Wasteland.

“There’s no going back
now,” Ellen said softly, the landscape’s emptiness echoed in her heart.

“No,” Jack agreed.

“Do you wish there was?”
she asked.

“No,” he said, realizing
that he was the one staring long and hard at the emptiness, the stark whiteness
that was once almost alive, his eyes faraway and haunted. She had mistaken his
look for concern over the boneyard, but that wasn’t it.

Jack turned and kissed
her. “There’s something I still have to do.”

*     *     *

Hammerlock stood amidst
the scoured dust of the Wasteland, staring over the edge, so close that the
ends of his feet hung just over the lip, edging beyond the last vestige of
reason into the beginnings of madness. Jack came up beside him and crouched
down, taking in the robot’s view of the broad, darkening horizon of endless
blue. No bottom. No across. Like time and space, it existed without borders or
limits. You could almost believe you were staring up at the sky instead of across
the void.

Jack heard the soft
chirring
sound as the robot turned to look at him.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said.

The robot was
characteristically silent.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.
Ellen is coming with me.”

The robot turned back to
the emptiness. He could not speak, and Jack could not imagine what he would say
if he could. Maybe it was for the best. “There’s no place for you where I’m
going. I’d take you with me if there was, but the world I’m going to doesn’t
believe in you. You understand?”

The robot simply stared
over the edge, no indication that he had heard or could even comprehend what
Jack was saying.

“Kreiger will look after you
if you wish. If I ask him to, he will. But I understand if you don’t want to
stay.” Jack found it hard to talk past the ache in his throat, hard to see the
distant clouds. He stood up and walked back to the Café, saying, “Let me know,
okay?”

Behind him, the robot
remained where he was, staring out over the edge of madness and dreams into the
vast unfathomable beyond.

*     *     *

In the morning, the
boneyard was empty. Jack never saw Hammerlock again.

With the gray light of
new day behind him, the deep indigo of night not yet gone in the west, Gusman
Kreiger discarded the worn carnival canvas that had served him these many days,
shielding him in Jack’s world, protecting him from the Caretaker’s influence.
He dropped it to the barren dust like a lizard shedding a skin, worn out and
torn, and walked around the side of the building along the narrow strip of sand
between the tangibly mad and the untouchably insane. The Café was still dark,
no light but the glow of lonesome machines: the chrome reflected reds and blues
of the jukebox, the dull yellow popcorn maker, the brilliant orange neon that
burned the twilight with its promise,
HOT COFFEE ALWAYS
. The rest was darkness. The
Caretaker was asleep, his whole world sleeping right along with him. The
guardian was gone as well; Kreiger did not see him leave.

He alone was awake.

He
stopped on the curb outside of the diner, looking up at the dulled metal, the
neon that offered an occasional, listless sputter, and wondered. Had it been
long enough? Had the Caretaker forgiven him? Had the Nexus forgotten him? Or
was this Jack’s final revenge upon the aged leader of the Tribe of Dust? Bait
him in with vague promises, allusions to apathy and yearnings and wants
unanswered, only to drop the jaws on him one final time. Kreiger had wriggled
free the last time like some snared vermin; gnawing off his arm to be free then
congratulating himself with his good hand, patting his own back while he bled
freely from the stump.

And Jack was so much stronger
now.

In the window of the
diner was a single placard of white cardboard leaning against the glass, large
blocky letters announcing,
HELP WANTED
.

How many signs had led
him back here, following along like a man lost in the desert, a way erased by
dust and time as he searched the stars for vague answers and intimations? There
was one step left to take, no other way this could end.

Gusman Kreiger was only
dimly aware as he reached for the door that he was holding his breath, hands
shaking, eyes shut tight. He pulled open the door, and his feet carried him
forward mechanically, a nerve-dead meat puppet, blissfully unaware.

And then he was inside.

Inside the diner.

Inside the Edge of
Madness Café.

Inside another
Caretaker’s reality!

And he was not dead. Not run through on a thousand barbs of
steel, not set ablaze, not vomiting black blood thick with the strings of his
own viral-blistered gut. The only thing pressing against him was the hard floor
beneath his feet. The only thing touching him was the cold air against his
face. The only thing that reached out to him was the aroma of freshly brewed
coffee.

Kreiger released the air
from his lungs, and forced his limbs to relax, to recover from the numb, empty
sensation that made them feel like water, like air, like dust in the wind. He
was alive. And he was close to the Nexus. Jack had been true to his word. The
Caretaker was leaving.

The Caretaker was
leaving.

Kreiger reached over to
the window and took down the
HELP WANTED
sign.
He carried it with him behind the counter and into the dark kitchen where he
placed it in the garbage can before turning on the light.

A long, saurian tail
protruded from the walk-in cooler, taking up much of the kitchen floor. It
shrugged a little as Kreiger looked down at it, not imposing itself, but not
yielding to the Cast Out either. This was not his place yet. Something inside
the stove vent scuttled and clicked noisily along the ductwork like some
monster crab on a tin plate. But that was all.

That was all.

You’ve got work to do.

Kreiger spied an apron
hanging on the wall by the door. He put it on, careful to skirt the enormous
tail that lay motionless on the floor. Then he went to the large sink, turned
on the water and started washing his hands, paying careful attention to getting
the dirt out from under his nails; Wasteland dust had a way of saturating every
inch of you. He turned to the stove, preheating the oven and warming up the
grill. On the butcher’s block table was an assortment of utensils. He grabbed a
spatula and a whisk, found a mixing bowl under the table by the pots and pans.

The breakfast crowd would be along soon, people with long
journeys ahead. They would want something to eat before they left.

Kreiger turned to the
dark, walk-in cooler and the dragon’s tail, its size suggesting that whatever
was attached to the other end was not only too big to fit in the freezer, but
too big to fit in the entire Café; even if it hollowed the buildings out and
wore them on its back like a shell. Jack knew a thing or two about the limitless
imagination.

Gusman Kreiger, leader of
the Tribe of Dust, the last of the Cast Outs, survivor of the Wasteland that
lies at the edge of all reason and sanity for nearly two-thousand years, walked
into the darkness of Jack’s cooler, past the great dragon’s tail. He was
looking for sausage and eggs and baking powder, milk and flour and cream of
tartar and all the other ingredients he would need.

The travelers will be here soon; they will want breakfast
before they leave.

When Ellen woke up, the
sun had already risen, light streaming through the room below like a hazy river
of gold. It washed over the cement and cinderblocks and metalwork, transforming
the garage into a palace of gold, fixtures of polished brass and copper, stately
pleasure domes, a heaven through which she could pass but not stay. Beside her,
Jack lay with one arm carelessly wrapped around her waist, fingers lightly
brushing her stomach, his absent caress distracting her. She turned her face
towards him, smiling sleepily, and said, “I guess we should be getting up.”

He smiled back, kissing
her softly on the lips. “I guess we should. We’ve got a long road ahead of us.”

She wanted to ask,
is
it too late to reconsider?
But she didn’t think he would understand why, and
said instead, “There are things about this place I’ll miss.”

Jack nodded into her
head, nuzzling her hair while she nestled glumly in his arms. “Me, too,” he
said. He wanted to ask her if she was reconsidering, but he didn’t; he didn’t
think she would understand.

They got out of bed like
any other couple on any other morning, reluctant but resigned. They showered
together because unfamiliar days lay ahead and comfort was taken wherever
found.

While Ellen dried her
hair, Jack went out back. So little remained of the boneyard now; even the
ruined rails had been torn up and cast over the edge, the ground razed until
one would have doubted a train track could ever have existed there. All that
remained were the memories and the few witnesses who still cared. Anyway, the
highway replaced it; as with history, so to it was here. The age of the rail
had given way to the asphalt ribbon. All that remained of the yard behind the
café was the antenna, a scrap of old carnival canvas already dissolving into
dust, and the red truck.

Jack walked over to the
pickup, wondering to himself if it was even possible to stay now. Could they
really change their minds, now or ever? Could they stay longer? Could they ever
find their way back here if they wanted to? He wanted to say yes, that once you
knew where the door was, it could never truly be hidden from you again. But the
truth was, he didn’t really know.

And there were things
about this place he would miss.

He reached down and
scooped up a handful of the Wasteland sand, as fine as dust, as white as bone.
He took a small tin that once held mints, but was now empty, and poured the
pale earth in, closing it back up and pushing it down into his pocket. It was
important not to forget where you came from.

Then he climbed into the
truck, finding the keys already in the ignition;
why not, there was no one
here to steal it
. A quick turn and the engine purred to life. No backfire
sputter or chug of blue smoke one might have expected from a junkyard derelict,
a vehicle ill-suited for a desert crossing, the nearest roadside assistance at
least a million miles and a dozen realities in any direction. After the initial
thrust of gas, the engine settled into a gentle rumble like the banked fires of
some red dragon newly wakened.

Or was that just a
dream?

He eased the truck
forward, thick tires effortlessly holding the hardpan, rolling like a serpent
over sand. Carefully, he nudged the truck through the narrow confines of the
garage—a garage that had never been intended for fixing cars, something the
Caretaker truly knew nothing about. He angled it to the right, careful as he
passed the jackal-headed statue not to tip the scales, and rolled over the
small length of curb so that he could get the hose from the old gasoline pump
into the pickup’s tank. It was a long stretch, but it would make it. And the
truck would need as much of the strange, green fuel as it could carry.

There was a long road
ahead of them.

While
Jack worked the gas pump, Ellen arrived with their stuff. She had taken the
duffel bag out from under the bed they shared, pushed in a few sets of clothes
and some things from the medicine chest along with the much-abused copy of
Jack’s first book,
The Sanity’s Edge Saloon
. Under her other arm she
carried the satchel with Jack’s laptop computer and thumb drives and hardcopy
notes, careful not to bump it as she went down the narrow stairs. When she
reached the truck, she placed both behind the seat in that narrow space common
to old trucks, a space of no use except for storing small or crushable things.
She stowed them wordlessly then turned to Jack. They traded a look that told
the other what each had done, what was packed, what was ready; it was a look
only couples understood; a kind of quiet telepathy. Out of politeness, Ellen
asked what she already knew. “Is there anything else we need?”

Jack looked up at the
sign over the garage, worn black paint fading on dull white: The Last Stop.
Regretfully, he answered, “I don’t imagine so. Except maybe some breakfast.”

*     *     *

They walked into the Edge
of Madness Café for the last time, Jack holding the door for her, looking for
all the world like any other couple on any other morning in any other roadside
diner on any other road along any of the lines of reality that existed
throughout the universes.

Except that this one was
theirs.

Gusman Kreiger stood
behind the counter, wiping it clean with a damp towel, a Cast Out no longer.
“Good morning, Jack. Ellen. Can I get you something?”

Ellen tossed the once
Cast Out a sour expression. Jack said, “Breakfast.”

“The booth in the corner
is clear. Have a seat. Coffee?”

The Caretaker nodded, and
Kreiger turned away to the coffeepot while Ellen and Jack had a seat in the
corner booth, she looking down the road they were headed, he looking out over a
world of vast, open blue. Neither said anything.

Kreiger returned a minute
later with two steaming cups of coffee. He produced a small pile of creamers
from the pocket of his apron, spilling the cheap little cups on the edge of
their table. From another pocket he produced a pair of utensil sets, each
tightly wrapped in a napkin. The coffee smelled richly of hazelnut. Kreiger
smelled faintly of sandalwood and muslin.

“I expect Jack would like
biscuits with sausage gravy and a couple of eggs, sunny-side up. You’re a
harder read Ellen. What can I get you?”

“What do you have?”

“That wasn’t the
question.”

Ellen fidgeted with a
couple of the creamers, working them open and actively trying to avoid the Cast
Outs strange, two-colored eyes, eyes that she knew could read her if she gave
him the opportunity. “What kind of fruit do you have back there?”

“I have honeydew.” If
there were any other choices, Kreiger did not see fit to mention them.

“That’s fine.”

“Anything else? The
biscuits are fresh. And there’s strawberry jam. Or can I get you something from
the grill.”

“No,” Ellen said curtly,
swirling a line of sugar into her cup then stirring it determinedly with her
spoon, wishing the Cast Out would simply leave. She still remembered everything
that Kreiger had ever done, to Jack and to her. They would both be dead now if
Kreiger had had his way. Forgiveness came from God, forgetting from feebs; she
was neither.

Kreiger nodded politely
and stepped away.

Jack’s hand reached
across the table, covering hers. “Are you okay?”

She nodded stiffly, still
stirring the cup of coffee with her other hand, her stare captured by the
swirling liquid. “It will be different, won’t it?”

Jack looked at her, not
understanding.

“The world. It won’t be
the same world as the one you and I left behind? Because if it is, I’ve changed
my mind. I don’t want to go back to that.”

He gently squeezed her
hand. “I promise you it will be different. Don’t ask me how; I honestly don’t
know. But it won’t be the same. Take what pieces from your old life you like, and
forget the rest. The world already has.”

Ellen breathed out
slowly, unaware until she did so that she was barely breathing as Jack spoke.
It shook a little as it escaped her, and she felt her eyes sting. She blinked
the sadness back quickly, and reached for her coffee, taking a long, slow
swallow, savoring the aroma, the dark taste, the sweetness of the sugar, the
substance of the cream.
It was all good. It was all real. Why should it end?
Why?

“I thought you both might like some juice,” Kreiger interrupted,
producing two tall glasses of orange juice. Then he turned, leaving as suddenly
as he arrived.

But it was long enough
for Ellen to answer her own question. What place was there for them in
Kreiger’s world? And somehow she knew that it was Kreiger’s world now, or would
be very shortly. It was already done. Roll the credits so we can get the next
film on the reel. Moving day had come, and all that remained was to lock the
door behind them and leave the keys in an envelope in the mailbox.

“I know what you’re
thinking,” Jack said softly. “But we’ll be okay, you and I. It’s taken me all
of my life to finally realize that about myself, but I know we’ll be okay. We
never would have made it here in the first place if the truth was anything
other than that.” Then Jack looked over at the empty counter, Kreiger busy in
the kitchen. “I left a thermos in the back of the pickup. I think I’ll fill up
on some coffee before we leave. Maybe a cooler of pop, too.” Jack looked at
her, the intensity of his gaze softening. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

She nodded. It was
something of a lie, and she might have betrayed herself, but Jack would not
pursue it; she knew him that well, at least. He would believe her because she
wanted him to; that was enough for him.

No more had the door
closed behind him, when Gusman Kreiger returned. He put Ellen’s plate down in
front of her, thin sections of honeydew melon arrayed in a decorative caterer’s
spiral about a center point on the plate where a single fresh strawberry
rested. He also set a smaller plate beside it with two fresh biscuits, still
warm from the oven. “In case you change your mind.”

She deliberately looked
down at the plates of food, not letting her eyes acknowledge any part of the
Cast Out. “You said there was strawberry jelly,” she said, not an attack or a
complaint, simply a point of fact.

“Actually, I said there
was strawberry
jam
,” Kreiger said, reaching out to the middle of the
tabletop and placing his hand flat upon the surface, then slowly raising it,
drawing up a small jar of strawberry jam; an old magician’s trick, like pulling
a quarter out of your ear … or producing manna from heaven, water into wine.
The jam was homemade, a paper label pasted to the jar, the words strawberry jam
scrawled in felt-tip marker.

Ellen didn’t smile—it was
too soon for that. “Thank you.”

The Cast Out leaned back,
knowing that Ellen Monroe liked her space, knowing she felt more comfortable
when he was beyond arm’s reach,

(
knowing she knew
nothing about how close he had been to her on the other side of reality
)

and said, “That reminds
me. I have something for you.”

Kreiger went behind the counter and took something from
underneath, bringing it back over to her. It was a small, flat parcel wrapped
in simple brown paper. She looked at it, then at him, suspicious of anything
Kreiger saw fit to give her in Jack’s absence.

“In case you change your mind,” he said with remarkable
solemnity. “You can’t always find your way home, but at least you can find your
way back. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to tend to some eggs. Enjoy the
melon.”

And Gusman Kreiger left.

Jack came back in with
the Styrofoam ice chest and the old thermos, heading immediately to the kitchen
to look for ice. Neither he nor Kreiger spoke. When he came back out, he heaved
the newly filled cooler up on the counter with a slushy rattle and started
filling his thermos with coffee. He added a generous amount of sugar and some
cream from a half-pint carton stored in the refrigerator. Satisfied, he
resealed the thermos, shaking it up as he walked back to the booth. Ellen had
already started eating. The parcel Gusman Kreiger had given her was beside her
on the seat, out of sight.

Kreiger arrived almost as
soon as Jack sat down, carrying a plate of sunny-side-up eggs and biscuits with
sausage gravy. He set it down before the Caretaker. “Is there anything else you
need?”

“No, I don’t think so,”
Jack replied. “We’ll be leaving after breakfast.”

“I imagined you would,”
the Cast Out said, and left them to eat.

When they finished, Jack
carried the thermos and the small cooler out to the truck while Ellen lingered
at the booth, pushing the last of the melon about her plate. As soon as she
heard the door close behind him, and knew she was alone in the diner, she
opened the small parcel. Inside she found a compass crafted from tapped brass
with copper inlays, the needle spinning around and around lazily in a greenish
oily liquid beneath a polished quartz crystal. The compass rested atop a hardback
book:
Rivers Under the Sahara
. She had never heard of it, but there was
something about it, something familiar. She cautiously riffled the pages,
seeing a myriad of pictures and hand-drawn maps pasted into the text, stories
and dialogue and random etchings of symbols and images, copious notes jotted
into the margins, the handwritten segments inked in bright blue.
A
liquid-crystal compass and a picture book of the rivers under the Sahara.
She wasn’t sure what to make of either.