Ain't Talkin'

Alma, the old woman who lived by the remains of Lake Tahoe, lived out of a tent. It was an old world set of poles repurposed with a mish-mash of tarpaulin, sail-cloth and canvas. She carried everything she needed with her on her back while she moved place to place, and where she was staying nowadays was not where Roche had left her last.

She’d found a small hideaway between two hills where a bare rivulet of water still dripped out of a pair of stones. She had a small wooden table, a pair of chairs, eating utensils for two and a pair of cups in case she ever had a guest. Roche had never asked after any other she saw coming and going but he had a feeling he was one of the scant few that she entertained on occasion.

“Where’d you come by the horse, Roche?”

“The old merc who runs the emporium beyond Parmiskus, out in old government territory.”

“Would’ve pegged you for a man who’d choose a synthetic.”

“I would have. This was all that was available.” Roche stabbed a thumb at Lucky. The mare whinnied. “’Sides of which it’s nice to have a little company on the road now and again.”

“Which is why I so enjoy your visits, walker. Tell me, whose your target this time? Another highwayman being brought back to whatever walled city for trial?”

“No. Kidnapping victim. Client is the father. Some bum gone awry of the Corporation. They’re headed to New San Fran as near as I can figure.”

“Motorbikes?” Alma pulled a brown bottle from her woolens and tipped it into both glasses.

“I don’t think that’s a lucky guess, Alma.”

“It ain’t. The three of them went by here yesterday, right around first light they crossed my path.”

“So I’m not far behind them. Thank you, by the way.” Roche took his tin cup half-full of pale-smelling liquid and threw back a swig.

“Welcome. Ain’t many folks who wanna share my home still these days.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. How long you been between these hills, Alma?”

“Roche you know I been living in these hills most of my life. Or do you mean these distinct two?” The old bird threw back an entire cup of the vodka and poured herself another. “I been between these two particular hills a few weeks time. Come the next full moon I’ll pack it in and move a ways back up the lake. Or maybe I’ll winter along the lakebed. There’s a lee in a ring of old cars ain’t no one can tell you have a fire going for miles.”

Fire. The smell. “Alma, you been making fires these days?”

“Heaven’s no. Not here. Not yet. Still warm enough these days to sleep with just the woolens.”

“No fires, eh?”

“Nope.” Alma threw back another cup.

Roche put the thought out of his mind. He had been sure he’d smelled a fire though. Must be the Corporate boys had lit one and let it go until past when they’d left. Yeah, that’s what Roche had smelled. That was it.

“Roche?”

“Yes?” Roche threw back the rest of his vodka, the sting of the stuff hitting the rear of his throat and burning up through his sinus.

“Those men you’re after.”

“What about ’em?”

“I dunno. Something about them though. Roche, do you know what the fish are?” Alma slammed another bout of vodka.

“I know what fish are, yes. Swimmin’ in the sea and tasting great with a little bit of sauce, right?” Roche couldn’t make hide or tail of what the old bat was getting at.

“Not fishes, Roche. Fish.” Alma poured another drink.

The sun was setting brilliant behind her when Roche said what he said next. He’d almost wished he hadn’t said it at all. The hag slinging vodka looked like a beast out of some long forgotten hell for half a moment.

“You drunk already, Alma?”

“You jest, young man but I know you’re older than I can ever be. You know the fish I speak of.

Folks in the old world called them tachyons, but we know better now that we’ve been walking the white for so many years. You ain’t the first walker I known, Roche. I known many in my years. They come and they go. And they all see the fish one time or another.

Ordinary people feel them. They see the same white bird take off from a lamp post twice, one right after another and they wonder how they could’ve made the mistake. Used to be folks called it a déjà vu. Old French meant ‘already seen’, Roche. But, you knew that didn’t you?”

“What’re you getting at, Alma?”

“You seen the fish in the white. The etherfish. Seen ’em moving backwards and sideways through things that ought to only go forward. One gets too close to a person while it’s swimming all fucked up and they’ll swear to judge and glory all up and down that they seen that same black cat twice licking itself. Those fish swimming in the white can influence things. You know they can and so do I.”

“Alma-”

“What, Roche?”

“What’re you getting at?”

The old bat left the tin cup alone and took a swig straight out of the brown bottle, a long thick gulp that looked like it hurt as much as it looked like a relief. When she spoke her voice was like gravel. “I been to the white, Roche. I seen things. I known folks who seen worse things than me. You’re one of ’em, Roche. And I’m saying I see the fish swimming around those Corporate boys when they passed by. They’re swimming right along with them though, ain’t nothing random and natural about that.

You watch yourself with those boys, Roche. Something ain’t right.”