“Evie, I can’t explain. It’s impossible to explain.”
He started to climb up the stairs, wincing. Thoughts of the Storeroom and the confrontation at the door left Evie’s mind entirely, and she wanted to rush to his side to help him, but she didn’t dare. He’d push her away, and they’d fight.
“What’s wrong?”
“Just a sore back. I’ll lie down, rest a bit. It’ll pass.”
A factoid from her Internet research presented itself: If the cancer has metastasized to the spine, spinal cord compression along with back pain can ensue.
“How long has this been happening?”
“A while now.” He moved slowly, taking each step like he was afraid of jostling himself.
Mab, wagging her tail madly, pushed past Evie and trotted to him, nudging him, ducking her head, whining. “Oh, hey there, I’m fine, girl. I’m fine.” His voice brightened as he scratched the dog’s ears. He seemed to stand a little straighter and wince a little less with Mab at his side. He could lean on her without looking like he needed help.
Thanks, Mab.
“I’ll make you some tea,” Evie said, turning away before he could argue.
Bruce had faced deadlines worse than this. He’d drawn a twenty-page book in two days, once. It had
n’t been his best work by any stretch, and he’d slept for twelve straight hours when he finished. But it could be done.
He didn’t want to have to work like that on Eagle Eyes. Drawing a good explosion took time. But at the start, he and Evie had decided to acknowledge current events in the storylines, to make the book as relevant as possible, raising it above the level of a military fetishist’s dream.
Maybe that was why he was procrastinating. It wasn’t like Evie hadn’t done her part and not sent him enough script to work with. But he wanted more time. He wasn’t going to get it. So he didn’t work at all.
It certainly wasn’t that he lacked for inspiration. All he had to do was look out his window.
In the years since its creation, Homeland Security had authorized local militias in every major city, then promptly lost control of many of them to local politics, gangs, and organized crime. Gang warfare and underworld conflicts now had a veneer of government approval. When the tribalistic skirmishes got out of hand, the National Guard had to come in to sort out the situation. It had happened two or three times in L.A., but never this close to home.
The Pasadena Militia had taken offense at some territorial insult offered by the Glendale Militia. The Guard instituted a security lockdown. Bruce hadn’t been able to leave Glendale in two days. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but his girlfriend Callie had gotten stuck outside, at her job at a Los Feliz hair salon. She was staying with her cousin, so at least she was safe. Bruce would have felt better if they’d been together, safe.
Evie, who lived a quarter mile closer to Pasadena, was lucky she got out of the city when she did. He couldn’t imagine having a sick father three states away and not being able to leave the house.
His apartment was just a couple of blocks off Colorado Boulevard. He could see a sliver of the intersection and an armored troop carrier zipping by on the empty road. He wondered if he could get them to pose for a drawing. He wondered if any of them even read Eagle Eye Commandos, and if they’d be impressed with him.
The TV offered a counterpoint. He’d left it on all day, switching back and forth between a local news station for better coverage of the Glendale and Pasadena lockdown, and a national news network for updates on the situation in Russia. Evie was going to be pissed off. The situation there was deteriorating so rapidly, the revised script was already in danger of becoming obsolete. They kept setting storylines in Russia because it was exciting, rife with plot potential. A little too rife, unfortunately.
The news anchors’ voices faded to an insect chatter in his consciousness. He sat by his apartment window and stared out. The sun was setting, turning the polluted sky a shade of neon orange he’d only ever seen in L.A.
He ought to get back to work on the book, but he kept waiting to see if the Guard turned up his street, soldiers marching with their rifles in hand.
Finally, he called Evie’s mobile phone. It rang half a dozen times; then her voice mail picked up. He didn’t leave a message. She probably just hadn’t found the phone in time.
A minute later, his own mobile rang. He answered, “Yeah?”
“Sorry, I had to dig in my bag for the phone.”
He smiled. Ah, predictability.
“What’s up?” Evie said.
“What do you want, local or global?”
“Geez, global I guess, to start with.”
She sounded exhausted. He resisted the urge to ask how she was doing, how her father was doing, how bad was it really. Not that she’d tell him, one way or the other.