The day I made the remark about 'darkfic Wilderness', my muse kicked my ass
out of bed at 2 AM and demanded I write this.
Blame it on the flu, or whatever...
Redneck
***
WHITE LIGHTNING PRODUCTIONS
and
EYRIE PRODUCTIONS, UNLTD.
PRESENT
STOLEN TIME II
by Kris Overstreet
The clock-calendar hanging above the nurse's station read
18:30 hours, February 24, 1999.
In this particular intensive care ward, at this particular
moment, eight men were fighting for an extra year, day, or even a
minute, to tack on to their life. Most of the men were elderly for
their species- human, Earth derivation, to be precise. By some irony,
the youngest of the group- a man not yet fifty- had the most serious
complications, and quite frankly held out the least hope to his
doctors and nurses of recovering.
Arlin Bruce Overstreet, formerly Able-Bodied Seaman Overstreet
of the United States Navy, had charmed and befriended much of the
staff of the Houston Veterans Administration hospital during his
recent and frequent visits. Where all too many of the veterans seemed
lonely and frightened, 'Butch' always seemed confident and cheerful,
willing to make a joke or cheer up someone's day. He'd even done a
little volunteer help, when he was able, to lighten the work-load at
the chronically overburdened facility.
And now, thanks to a botched surgery and a second botched
exploratory, it looked very much as if he would bleed to death.
However, his -body- was, at this moment, the least of Butch
Overstreet's concerns...
"I'm not going."
Butch really didn't have a concrete notion of what he expected
death to be like. On the one hand, he expected his swift temper and
loud mouth to land him in Hell- on the other, he truly believed in
Christianity (but not in churches) and hoped to see Christ holding his
hands out in welcome, or St. Peter, or someone like that.
He had -not- counted on a short, black-haired woman with
parchment-white skin and odd facial makeup showing up instead, and
quite frankly if he was going to spend eternity in what looked like a
city park, he would wait for a better deal.
"Butch, it's your time," Teleute shook her head reproachfully.
"It's well past your time, actually. We've done this once before,
remember? That time with the bullet in Vietnam?"
"What?" Butch didn't remember any such. "That bullet hit me in
the -ass,- whoever-you-are. It wasn't exactly a deadly wound!"
"The bullet just missed an artery which, if unnoticed, would
have bled you to death before you could be carried to medical aid,"
Teleute sighed. "I had to fog your memories of the event- and of the
struggle you put up against me to change your fate. You've had your
one reprieve, Butch, and I don't give reprieves to just anyone. Now
you must come with me."
"No, MA'AM," Butch shook his head, his blue-green eyes
flashing with anger. "I don't know who you are, or where this is, but
I am NOT dead yet, and I ain't giving up now."
In the real world, after three minutes of effort, Butch
Overstreet's heart was started again.
The time was 0900 hours, February 25.
"I can outwait you this time, Butch," Teleute sighed. "Your
will won't hold out forever. Your body's worn out. It's time to go
home."
"Home is Polk County," Butch growled. "We'll see whose
willpower plays out first."
"Fine, fine," Teleute threw up her hands. "Since we'll be here
a while... let's talk."
"Talk?" Butch blinked, sat down for the first time in the
confrontation. "About what?"
"The usual," Teleute shrugged. "Regrets. Unfinished business.
Things of that nature."
Butch smiled. "Don't really have any unfinished business," he
chuckled. "I've had a full an' interestin' life. As for regrets,
well," he sighed and shrugged, "can't go back in time and change
things, but... I really only have two regrets."
"Would you like to tell me about them?"
"Think we've got time?"
"Soon enough," Teleute shrugged, "we'll have all of eternity
if we so choose."
In the real world, Butch's mother stood alone, tears dripping
down her cheeks, as she looked over her pale, worn son, tubes swarming
to and from his body like a crazy quilt of rubber and liquids. His
breathing came short and labored, his EKG readout beeping with the
rhythm of a cheap porn movie on fast-forward.
11:15 AM, February 25.
"My first real regret," Butch said, "is how I treated my
ex-wife, Cheryl.
"I fell in love with her hair. Probably sounds foolish, but at
the time it was beautiful, and I saw her all the time hanging around
her brothers, surf fishing and getting drunk in Corpus.
"So we got married, and I got her pregnant on her wedding
night. She wasn't even out of high school yet.
"And I didn't realize for about seven years that I terrified
the living shit out of her. There were one or two times there I'm sure
she would have hauled off and hit me if she hadn't been scared to
death I'd have killed her. By the time I realized it... well, one day
she stopped being scared of me, and started demanding her fair share
of the marriage.
"And I, dumbass that I was at the time, wasn't ready to give
it.
"I know for a Gospel fact if I'd just made -some- kind of
effort to show her how I felt about her, we would still be together.
Hell, if tomorrow she showed up on my doorstep with a suitcase in her
hand, I'd hug her and take her in, no questions asked. I still love
her more than almost anybody else..." Butch paused a moment, then
added, "But that's over with now. I love her and I could kill her at
the same time, and she doesn't feel comfortable enough around me to
know herself, I think. If it weren't for Kris we'd never have seen
each other again since the divorce."
"I think I see the other regret coming."
"Kris," Butch nodded. "I've tried, God I have tried, but I
never seemed to be there for him when he was growing up. I never had
the money to buy him what he wanted or needed- hell, I -still- owe
Cheryl over four thousand dollars in child support I couldn't pay- and
I was away from home for so long after the divorce that he knew my
momma better than he knew me.
"I've never been anything other than proud of the boy.
Sometimes he drives me up the fucking wall- and I know I do the same
to him- but... you know..." Butch's voice broke into a whisper. "I
wish to God I'd grown up just a little bit faster."
"Who the hell are you?"
"National Security. Bureau 9, M.I.B."
The quiet of the intensive care ward was disrupted by the
nurses, two doctors still in surgical scrubs, two men dressed head to
toe in impeccably tailored stark black suits, and a space alien.
The space alien, to give her credit, was dressed in surgical
scrubs too, but the fur-covered face, the pointy ears sticking through
her hairnet, and the large, bushy, skunk-striped tail running behind
her trousers and curling up behind her back put paid to any thought of
her blending in with humanity.
"My time and supplies are limited, monkeys," the Salusian
said. "Where's your worst-case patient? Take me to him now!"
"Have you heard from Kris lately?" Teleute asked.
"Not a peep in three years," Butch grumbled. "Last I knew, he
was off in that cobbled-together Star Wars reject ship, chasin' Space
Robots from Planet Ten or somethin'."
"Er... no," Telute smiled. "Actually, he has sort of...
sidestepped... my schedule, thanks to another agency. I think he will
do you proud- and justify my first extension of your life."
"He's all right?" Butch grinned, jumped to his feet. "I GOTTA
live now! I have ta see how he's done! See if he's livin' out his
dreams! Now lemme outta this freak-show park whatever-the-fuck this
is!!"
"Butch, Butch, Butch," Teleute sighed. "Your time for that is
over. You need to rest."
"I'll fucking well rest when I'm dead!"
"Which will be in fifteen hours, forty-two minutes, by my
schedule."
"You did WHAT to this man? Barbarians!!"
"He had a history of cancer!!" the fresh-faced doctor shrugged
from beside the Salusian medic. "When we saw the pancreas swollen up
like that, we had to assume it was cancerous and-"
"And you didn't even check his records for previous instances
of pancreitis?" the Salusian jabbed a gloved finger at the medical
profile.
"Pancreitis is common with cancer of the pancreas!"
"Maker save me from fools and interns!! Right!" The Salusian
rounded on the chief nurse and barked, "Prep this patient for surgery.
NOW!"
"B-but this man's not stable!!" the surgeon whimpered. "He'll
die if you put him on the table!"
"What's he doing NOW, monkeyman?" the Salusian glared at the
surgeon, contempt dripping from each syllable. "The Antarean Crawl? I
want a surgical team NOW! Forget anaesthetic, he's feeling nothing now
anyway- Jay!" She waved at one of the M.I.B. agents. "I want some
equipment from my ship. In particular, the artificial pancreas. It
should be adjustable to human use."
"ARTIFICIAL?" The surgeon balked. "There's no such thing as
artificial pancreases!!"
The Salusian smirked, her short fuzzy muzzle curling up into a
smile. "They're about to make an appearance on your planet. On mine
they've been around four hundred years. Now MOVE!!!"
At that moment, Butch's EKG flatlined.
"Oh, DAMN!" The surgeon leapt into action, reaching for the
defibrillator pads and rubbing them together. "Prepare for
resuscitation! 50 CCs adrenalin, now!"
The time was 6:15 PM, February 25.
Butch felt weak. Very weak.
But he still stood.
"They revived you again," Teleute shrugged. "This time it was
easy. Next time you won't make it."
"Fuck you, vulture bitch!" Butch was beyond polite at this
point, and if he hadn't felt so weak he might just have taken a swing
at this little Death in black lace.
"Butch, I'm here to ease the crossing," Teleute smiled,
resting her head on her hands. "I'm not your enemy. I'm here to make
it easier for you. Won't you just let it go and go with me?"
"Look," Butch grunted, calming down, "I'm sorry about calling
you a bitch. But this," and he waved at the dreamlike park
surroundings, at Teleute, at the whole scene, "this is WRONG. This is
NOT where I should be if I'm dying. I am NOT giving up when giving up
means -this.-"
"I wonder if this would go faster if I had long hair."
Butch stared at Teleute.
Angry words formed on his lips, died.
Then, for the first time since he'd gone under the gas mask
two days before, Butch Overstreet laughed.
"Life signs stable."
"Blood loss ended. No major new bleeding. Artificial...
pancreas... working at full capacity."
"Excellent," the Salusian stepped back from the surgical table
and undid her mask. "Nurse, please close up for me. I may have time
for five or six other high-risk patients..." She glared long and hard
at the surgeon as she added, "... provided they were not as
incompetently handled as -this- one was."
In reality, she'd only come specificially for this one- and
just in time, too. A Royal Request was not something one declined,
even if it meant risking exposure on an officially neutral Pre-Contact
planet. She just wondered if all of this would be worth the expense.
Of course, she smirked, the person the favor was -really- for
would never know a thing about it... not unless the Princess decided
to tell him.
As she stepped out of the surgery, one of the M.I.B. agents
had put on his sunglassed and muttered, "If you don't mind, I'd like a
photo of this happy occasion. If I could just have all the nurses
gather together over here... yes, that's right... look into the little
camera and smile for the birdie..."
The parkland seemed vaguer, less distinct.
"You've won," Teleute said quietly.
"What?"
"Someone changed your fate," she replied. "You aren't going to
die. In fact, you will live until at least October 18, 2028." She
smiled as she added, "Since you won't remember any of this, I can
tell you that."
"That joke again," Butch smiled. "This is all a ether dream,
now I'm wakin' up. Well," he grinned, "don't know what fuck book you
crawled out of, but it's been real. Don't show up in my dreams again."
"October 2028," Teleute smiled, and then all Butch could see
was her face. "Be seeing you."
At 5:00 AM, February 26, 1999, Butch Overstreet woke up from
anasthesia.
He hurt one hell of a lot.
He couldn't move for all the tubes and staples in him.
But he was alive, and likely to stay that way.
Yip fucking whee, he sighed, and drifted back to sleep.
Two months later, back at home in Polk County, he finally
recieved a short handwritten letter, postmarked from January, from
somewhere called Planitia, wherever that was. The stamps seemed to
feature a tall, skinny red-bearded wildman in a loud military outfit,
a swishy cape, and a too-long cavalry saber.
He opened the letter and began to read.
Dad
I know you said you'd disown me if I ever did it, but I'm in
the military now.
It's not what you think, though. The guys here are all really
cool, everyone's just about my age (including the CO and
exec), and I'm an officer- junior-grade lieutenant, about to
ship out on the flagship of the fleet as a fighter pilot.
I'm not allowed to tell you too many specifics- rules about
Earth Not Knowing about certain stuff- but let's just say that
in a very short time you'll be hearing a -lot- about us.
Dad, I've seen things and met people I could never have
imagined. I've seen things and met people I -have- imagined,
too, and they're even better in real life. I'm having the time
of my life, and I hope I'll get to come home soon on leave and
tell you all about it.
Say hi to Mom, Pop, Mammaw, Diane and her bunch, and anyone
else you can get hold of, send my love.
See you soon!
Kris
Butch smiled and, very carefully, folded up the letter and
returned it to its envelope.
A single teardrop stained the travel-worn paper as the old
sailor set it reverently on the bookshelf.
NOT QUITE THIRTY YEARS LATER
"Butch."
Butch's eyes blinked open- or were they open already? It
seemed like he'd just gone to sleep.
Strangely, he didn't feel as restless or painful as he usually
did the past few nights. The new cancer had attacked his spine and
joints all at once, leaving him stiff, crippled and nearly immobile.
He'd known the end would come soon, but he refused the cure this time.
It hadn't lasted twice before- this time he'd take it on himself.
But this time, here was the little woman with the short black
hair.
This time he remembered.
"You again."
Teleute nodded.
"I can't put it off anymore, can I?"
"You got lucky once," Teleute smiled, "and someone intervened
for you the second time. You've put off your rest long enough, Butch."
"He'll put it off a while longer," a voice called from above.
From the grey indistinct sky overhead plunged a figure on a
flying horse, armored in steel and ceramic blast armor, painted in
winter camouflage. The armor shaped a definitely female figure, and
the helmet came off as the rider landed to reveal a severely beautiful
face, framed by a long, luxurious hunk of blonde hair.
"Arlin Bruce Overstreet," the figure intoned, "for your
battles, in war and peace, against man and fate, you have been invited
to Valhalla."
"Valhalla??" Butch blinked. "But I don't believe in
Valhalla!!"
The Valkyrie grinned and held down an arm to the old man, as
the years fell away from his soul. "Valhalla believes in -you,-
Butch. Want to go give the other hardasses a rough time?"
Butch looked at Little Miss Goth, with the short, ugly cropped
hair and makeup, then at the warrior maiden who somehow got all that
hair into such a little helmet.
What the hell.
Butch mounted the flying horse, then looked down at Teleute.
"Looks like I win again, hm?"
"You don't know what you're missing, Butch," Teleute sighed.
"Peace and rest as long as you desire it..."
"I've never desired peace or rest for long, girl," Butch
smiled. "I always need work to do."
He turned and wrapped his arms around the Valkyrie. "Let's go,
sweet thing."
"Arms a bit lower, Butch," the Valkyrie giggled.
"Sorry," Butch smiled, "I feel just like a kid again."
"Just like the rest of them," the Valkyrie laughed, a bright
golden laugh, as the horse and riders rose through the greyness into a
clear blue sky towards a giant hall with a golden roof, where the
songs are always cheerful and companionship is a mug's toss away...
... and on the Earth, life went on for all but one man.
******
That, of course, is Undocumented Features, and not real life.
In 1996, partly as a joke but mostly because I could not
imagine doing anything major without consulting him, I wrote my father
into my self-insertion story (roleplay, more like it) 'The Quagmire
Project.' He grew in short time to be a major supporting character for
the story, and grew so popular among the other Eyrie authors that,
without my knowledge, he was included two years later in the plans for
a major UF story, 'Twilight,' where he became an important general
among the 'honored dead' in the battle of Ragnarok.
My mother (who, in this story, is finding out for the first
time that she had a walk-on in QP) is at best a background character
in the UF universe, and so when I started to write 'Wilderness' in
mid-1996 I didn't cover her.
However, when I did begin to write what would be a tale of
loss and rebirth, I wanted to begin with a pain that my
author-character, or avatar, would have in his back history. I
therefore predicted that, despite First Contact with a vast alien
civilization, my father would die of cancer in 2028, leaving me
heartbroken.
Not long after I finished the first draft of Wilderness (three
years after I began it), I returned to my father's home so I could
spend time with him and, if need be, take care of him, since he'd been
in and out of the hospital twice in the previous year already. A month
later he was diagnosed with cancer of the kidney; six months later, on
February 26, he died of causes similar to those named in this story.
The main difference between the story and reality- besides the
space aliens and my being in outer space with a bunch of heavily armed
college students- is Dad's attitude. Dad had worried constantly about
me since I moved to San Antonio, and everyone I talked to told me
after he died that he had really treasured those last six months with
me. He didn't necessarily agree with what I did, but he was proud of
me for picking something and putting the energy into it to make
something of it. He got to see me following my dreams, and even trying
to do a little extra for his, even when he knew his dreams wouldn't
last much longer anyway. In the story, he worried about me and wanted
to live to see me prosper; in real life, he died a calm, settled man
at peace with God and the universe.
The statements attributed to him about his relationships with
my mother and myself are taken directly from the man himself, either
from conversations we had during those last six months or from his
last will and testament.
He's gone now; may his soul be at peace, preferably with
something to do.
We carry on, feeling a little selfish sadness that, in the
least, my prediction in Wilderness had been more accurate on the
time part.
The world is a sadder and less cheerful place without Arlin
Bruce 'Butch' Overstreet. I shall have to spend the rest of my life
working to make up for this irreplacable loss.
G'bye, Dad.
Kris Overstreet
Segno, Texas
June 9/10, 1999
written when I should have been asleep- the flu does funny
things to a person
Kris Overstreet's email has changed...
http://www.detnet.com/redneck/ - Redneck Gaijin Online
http://www.wren-spot.com/wlp/ - White Lightning Productions
http://www.jurai.net/~redneck/dvpbem/ - In Nomine: Dark Victory PBEM
http://www.wren-spot.com/wlp/milkmaid.html - The Magnificent Milkmaid
... but his sig hasn't -- redneck@detnet.com