We Are All Crew (15 page)

“A traveling preacher?” I ask. The patch didn’t look religious. In fact, it looked much more badass than that—something a biker might have on his jacket.

Charlie Lee nods. “Yep. He was a good man. The Reverend Harlan H. Spikes. Head of Higher Purpose Ministries, which is one of them government-funded, faith-based organizations. The good Reverend is the one who’s responsible for saving the Birmingham Kid, Winthorpe.”

“How?”

“Well, he saved me from the hellfire of eternal damnation.” He reddens and lowers his head. “Fact is, down in Crawdad, I used to work on a . . . a shrimp boat. That’s right. Used to make my bones catching them abominations. The Reverend come into town one day and pulled us aside and told us how what we was doing flew in the face of the Divine Plan, and that we could be saved. So a bunch of us boys in Crawdad went to his prayer meeting, which he had in a big old tent in the fairgrounds. Told us how he’d given spiritual council to that there Eric Rudolph fella years ago, and how simple human beings can become vessels for God’s wrath. Simple human beings like me and my friends. And how you can get your reward in the sweet by-and-by. Big plots of real estate in heaven. Reverend Spikes told me I could get myself a nice little corner lot on several acres and just sit, drink my weight in Pabst, and strum a harp all day long in the kingdom of heaven. Never had nothing but a double-wide and a bug zapper here on the old blue marble.

“A few of us went back to his prayer meeting and met with him private. And that’s when I seen he had a patch like that sewed onto an old army jacket. I asked him what it was, and he told me it was a special club he belonged to a long time ago, and that they were good God-fearing people who could do what needed to be done. And he said if I was to ever run into somebody with a patch like that, I was to show them respect because they were wonderful men of God who certainly would be watching my good deeds.

“Well now, Reverend Spikes didn’t really organize or nothing. Just got us to studying on what was wrong in the world today and how a body can be God’s instrument and stop it all. Some of my other buddies went out to states that’s been lettin’ queers get married and blowing up the court Some of them ar

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

heroism

For all anybody knows, life really might be a video game.

Once somebody’s life meter completely depletes, who can say for sure that’s the end? After all, few people, if any, have gone into the light and made the U-turn back to reality to explain what’s there. Maybe everything goes black for a second, and when the lights come back on, there you are—back on level three with a few less points and weapons but very much alive, at full energy, and with a chance to go for that same obstacle that killed you once before. And maybe this time you’re equipped with the know-how to get beyond that obstacle—be it the Kevlar mutant in
Heckenluber
or that zombie with the fireballs in Attack Zombies—and move on to level four, and then higher and higher in the same way until you master the game.

And maybe, using one of those future lives, I would dash for the gob of plastic explosive smeared across the side of the hemp cooker, pluck it off, and throw it into the middle of the lagoon before it explodes, turning the
Tamzene
and all of us into a pile of cinders.

Instead Kang does it.

A second after the Birmingham Kid barks his warnings from the forest, the Indian appears out of nowhere and in one quick motion peals the explosive off the metal casing, thrusts it over his shoulder like a javelin, and hurls it in a steep arc into the center of the lagoon.

“Dern it!” Charlie Lee shouts from somewhere in the woods. “Mr. Injun, you’re a lucky son of a gun! I would’ve blown you to smithereens if this dern detonator worked the way it was supposed to.”

Esmerelda and Arthur are up. She has her arms wrapped around Arthur and is pressing herself—boobs and all—hard against Arthur’s PA system.

“All right, don’t anybody move, now.” The Birmingham Kid jumps up from behind a line of bushes on the bank next to the side of the boat. In his left hand he has an old revolver—what they call in the movies a Colt .45—which he holds at his waist.

“I’m coming back over there, and we’re going to try this again, y’all.” His voice is tired and worn. He must have been up all night, formulating his plan to atone for his sin in blowing up the Steak Shack, when he’d noticed the bag of shrimp shells.

Carrying his knapsack over his shoulder, Charlie Lee wades into the waste-deep water and climbs aboard the
Tamzene
, pointing the gun at where we’ve gathered on the deck.

“So, like, where in the Bible does it say anything about waving pistols around at people, Charlie Lee?” Esmerelda growls at him.

Charlie Lee scratches his head with the gun barrel. “The Lord helps those who . . . you’ve got to help yourself for the Lord . . . Shoot, don’t it say something like
Be Prepared
?”

“That’s the Boy Scouts,” I say.

Charlie Lee shrugs and points the gun at us. “Well, I ain’t never had to shoot nobody yet. But don’t you think I won’t, missy, if y’all try and prevent me from doing the Lord’s work. Come here, Winthorpe.”

Somebody has pushed an ice cube up my spine. “
Me
?”

“Right,” Charlie Lee says. He lifts the backpack from his shoulder and places it on the deck. “I need you to set the explosive for me. I can’t do that and hold the gun at the same time. The rest of y’all stand right there.”

Hold on to hope, baby
. . . no . . .
When the lightning
. . . the songs are whirling faster than the mental iPhone can catch them. I switch to movies—Jason Bourne dodging bullets, Clint Eastwood’s Man with No Name fashioning a bulletproof vest out of a piece of scrap metal in
A Fistful of Dollars.

I kneel and unzip the bag.

“That’s it,” Charlie Lee says. “Grab a big ol’ handful of the gray stuff.”

I reach into the bag and wrap my hands around what feels like dry clay. In
Sniper Dude X
, the hero takes a bullet to the forehead and he’s still cool enough to make out with the Lizard Girl in the end
.
I imagine myself heaving the explosive stuff overboard and knocking the pistol out of Charlie Lee’s hand.

“Now slather it on the side of that engine there,” Charlie Lee says.

Esmerelda looks scared. It would have turned her on big time if I’d had the scrotum to make a move. Next to her, Arthur frowns and shakes his head. Kang never takes his eyes off the Birmingham Kid.

“Come on, son,” Charlie Lee says. I look at him over my shoulder and see the gun barrel, and it’s like the Wi-Fi hiccupped and everything’s frozen, and there’s a
Buffering
status report that keeps showing up.

I press the lump against the side of the hemp cooker.

“Attaboy,” Charlie Lee says. “Now go on over there with the others.”

Still holding his gun on us, Charlie Lee reopens the bag and pulls out long metal pipe cleaners, which he jams into the gray lump. Then he reaches into his pocket and produces a TV remote control.

“All right, y’all,” Charlie Lee says, smiling at us. “Here we go again. Now, y’all are going to stay put right there. I’m going back over to the bank where I was. When I holler
God is great
, y’all better hustle off this here boat, or . . . like I say . . . God’s will.”

He backs toward the gunwales.

“I don’t believe this,” Esmerelda says. “Charlie Lee, come on, don’t you think this is a little crazy? I mean, we’re not a restaurant—”

“Crazy?” his eyes flash. “Y’all are the crazy ones! Read your Bible! Y’all ate of the forbidden shellfish, and this here is your judgment day!”

As he moves toward the side, Charlie Lee doesn’t notice that Doctor Seabrook has climbed up the retractable stairway from the hold and is now tiptoeing toward him.

Seabrook is still the color of chalk. His mad funny hair juts in wild directions, but his eyes are sharp and clear and trained on the Birmingham Kid. He’s holding a fire extinguisher.

“And by my atonement, y’all are gonna atone too. Sorry about that Doctor fella, but someday you’ll come to understand that was all a part of God’s—
unh!”

Seabrook punches the back of Charlie Lee’s head with the fire extinguisher. The Birmingham Kid grunts and falls into the pile of shrimp shells. When the fire extinguisher makes contact, the shellfish bomber flinches, squeezing the trigger on his Colt .45.

What happens then is in slow motion, like one of the fight scenes in
The Matrix
. The gun snaps, and I hear a whizzing noise, feel the breath of something like a fat dragonfly zipping past, traveling at breakneck speed directly at the person standing next to me—Esmerelda.

But as soon as the gun pops, Arthur dives in front of Esmerelda. The bullet thuds against him, and he crumples in midair and lands on the deck, draped over his PA system.

“Oh, God,” Esmerelda breathes.

Arthur lies there, not moving.

“Oh, God,” Esmerelda whispers. “Arthur?”

Arthur’s pointy shoulder blades make an X through his pit-stained T-shirt.

This one time I saw this video where a woman’s husband lost his head in a car accident, and she was left holding the head. She carried it a full city block because she was catatonic. The person making the video asked her what she was thinking, and she said all shaky, “It wasn’t real.”

This is.

Awful real.

Mad real.

No movie soundtrack violins or cool CGI or somebody screaming
No!
dramatically—the cackling birds, the
flop flop
of water hitting the hull, and the body of the kid I killed because I brought him here.

Burton Trotsky, the other Paste Eaters, and I always talk about going down to South Philly to watch a real-time gunfight. Trotsky, of course, claims he’s already seen his share and has even been in a few himself, and that when you’re in one it’s like major John Woo, with pirouettes and slow-mo.

Trotsky is full of shit, of course. I know it.

Real-time gunfights aren’t like that.

Just when I’m sprouting real tears, Arthur stirs. No blood on his shirt. Instead there are pieces of broken metal and plastic all over him and a big crack where the bullet connected with the bullhorn on his PA system.

“Are you all right?” Seabrook asks. He drops the fire extinguisher and kneels beside Arthur.

Arthur winces and rubs his chest. He gives the Doctor a thumbs-up sign.

I must be crying or something, because Seabrook asks me, “Mr. Brubaker, are you all right?”

So I nod, because I am.

“Kick-
ass
, dude,” Esmerelda says. She throws her arms around Arthur’s shoulders and leans into him, squashing her boobs against his PA system. She presses her face against his.

“You . . . like . . . saved my life, man,” she says. “I will . . .
never
. . . forget you as long as I live.” She cocks her head and plants her lips squarely on Arthur’s. They sit like that for a long time, long enough for Arthur to change three shades of red.

When the kiss is finished, Kang picks Arthur up by the shoulders and gives him a bear hug.

I feel smaller than I ever have. I try to apologize, but I’m too embarrassed.

Esmerelda peels her face off of Arthur’s and looks at me. “Hey, stubby,” she says, smiling. “What could you do, man? The guy, like, had a gun.
I’m
the one who should feel bad. I told Kang to pick the guy up in the first place.”

Seabrook stoops and picks up Charlie Lee’s remote control and pistol. Then he goes to the hemp cooker and removes the plastic explosive. He stares at the gray lump in his hands.

“Kang, this would have destroyed my ship,” he mutters. Frowning, Kang puts Arthur down.

“No hitchhikers, Kang.” Seabrook glares at the Indian. His voice is hoarse, but he’s speaking more clearly than he has in days. “We had no choice with the children, but no more hitchhikers.” He leans over the hemp cooker, inspecting the blobs of melted and re-cooled metal where the Indian welded the broken machine shut after it crashed into the rock wall during the storm. His frown deepens to a scowl.

“Kang was only trying to help the man out,” Esmerelda says. “Somebody was shooting at him.”

“We are not in the business of charity,” Seabrook says. “There are Green Police agents all over these woods. Side adventures will only sink us. Kang knows this.” The wound on his shoulder must have hurt him just then, because he winces and places his hand on it.

“Damn,” Seabrook mumbles. “Kang, I told you we needed to buy reinforced steel and patch this fissure. These welds will never hold. Why is it that you refuse to regard my orders?”

Kang bristles.

Just then, Charlie Lee groans. He rubs the back of his scalp, rolls to his side, and forces himself up onto his elbow. He makes a face like he’s tasting something sour. Then he sputters and spits something into the palm of his hand.

It’s a shrimp shell. When he fell, he must have sucked it into his mouth.

His eyes widen and he howls, then stops when Seabrook stands over him with the pistol.