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The Fire Triangle
Part Two:
Oxidizer
Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Continued…Part 16)
"I got nothing to say I ain't said before
I bled all I can, I won't bleed no more
I don't need no one to understand
Why the blood run hold
The hired hand
On heart
Hand of god
Flood land and driven apart
Run cold
Turn
Cold
Burn
Like a healing hand!"
The Sisters of Mercy – This Corrosion
Erin Hopps was flabbergasted.
"You mean…they flew you all the way to South Afurica for your operation? Why? Weren't there any plastic surgeons available in Zoo York?"
"And why Johornessburg?" Mr. Rodenberg was also a little confused. "I would have thought that Bangbok would be the better choice."
Conor answered the questions in the order they'd been asked.
"Number one, Erin…coz The Mister wanted the procedure done as far away from Zoo York as possible; the better to keep Pennanti and company from finding out I was still among the living. And secondly," he turned his attention to the grey rat, perched on the tray-table beside him. "Bangbok's the place for cosmetic surgery, yeah, but for reconstructive surgery, especially coz of a traumatic injury, Johornessburg's the way to go. It's got so many doctors, specializing in that field, some of them even have portfolios…with 'before' and 'after' pics."
"Why's that?" Erin and Mr. Rodenburg asked, almost simultaneously.
"Two reasons," the young silver fox answered, holding up a pair of fingers and ticking them off, one by one. "First up, coz most of the rest of Afurica's like one big war zone…and a heck of a lot of the soldiers fighting up north are mercs. They can't depend on their governments for help if they get wounded in battle, so they need to look for medical care in the private sector. That's where Johornessburg comes in. It's Afurica's number one evac point for mercenary soldiers. You know that big Russian outfit, The Hogner Group? They have their own, private R-and-R center, up the coast in Capetown."
"Ahhh, I see," Erin answered him with a small nod. She didn't quite get it, but she was starting to. "And…what's the other reason Johornessburg's the spot for reconstructive surgery?"
Conor made an unpleasant face.
"Coz South Afurica's crawling with guns. They're stinkin' everywhere…and with all that firepower around, gunshot wounds are pretty much a regular thing."
"Ahhh," Vern Rodenburg was raising a finger in that trademark gesture of his, "And The Mister, being an arms merchant, would naturally have some very good connections in that part of the world."
"Exactly," the young silver fox answered, cocking a finger of his own, "And not only that; according to what Markus told me, more than a few mammals in Joburg owed him favors." His face unzipped, revealing a grin of amusement. "Markus…now there was a character for you. He'd been a merc himself, until he stepped on an antifursonell mine. His voice took on a bad Afurikaans accent. "Bloody crocodile lunged at me. I jumped out of the wey, and thought I was safe, until…click, BOOM! Could hev been worse though, eh? Thet croc wanted a lot more then just me leg."
"I see what you mean," Erin answered, with a barely suppressed giggle.
"So…he wore a prosthetic, I take it?" It was Vern Rodenberg, serious as ever.
Conor's lips compressed and he nodded. "Yeah, when I met him, he was working as kind of a freelance fixer. Got problems with your passport? Go see Markus Klopper. Transportation issues? Talk to Markus. Someone hijacked one of your weapons shipments? That was how he came to work with The Company; never as an actual member though, strictly as an independent contractor. He dealt mostly with Danny Tipperin, and had a lot of respect for that swift-fox. 'Only bloke I eveh met, shoots as well as me,' he told me once."
He paused for a second, beginning to look uncomfortable at the mention of guns, and then went off in a different direction.
"I was seriously hungry after getting off that plane—I hadn't eaten since before my flight—and so I asked Markus if we could snag some grub on the way to wherever it was that he was taking me."
"Sure, no worries." He said, and directed the driver to pull up in front of a food truck, where he bought us each a bunny to eat."
"A WHAT?!" Erin was out of her seat so fast she almost fell over again.
"Aw nuts…sorry." Conor answered her, sounding wholly contrite—but looking like the sliest young silver fox in existence. "Not a bunny-bunny, a bunny-CHOW, a hollowed-out loaf of bread filled with curry. Really tasty, too." He licked his chops at the memory.
Erin Hopps was not pacified. "You creep; you said it like that on purpose, just to trigger me!" Her paws were on her hips, and her ears were plastered against the back of her neck.
"Darn right I did, Snowdrop!" Conor's ears were laying back as well, "And THAT's for bugging me about where the nurse gave me that tetanus shot."
She appeared not to hear him.
"Oh, har, har…really funny, Mr. Shiftyfox."
Conor gave her the talk-to-the-paw gesture.
"Yeah, yeah…whatever, Cutey-Pie."
Oops, there it was, the C-Word…and it blew the floodgates wide-open.
"Silver-weed Jerk!"
"Long-eared airhead!"
"Moron!"
"Pinhead!"
"Sicko."
"Weird, little…"
That was as far as things went before play was interrupted by a high, piercing whistle—even louder than the first time.
"Kinder, kinder…let's not fight," Vern Rodenberg was holding up his paws in the manner of a disapproving rabbi—but with an edge to his voice that said, Knock it off, and right NOW! With a nod towards Conor, he added, "This young silberfuchs still has so much more to tell us." And then, to drive home the point, he showed his incisors to both young mammals.
The response was a round of grumbling from the two young mammals, with Conor and Erin predictably accusing each other of having started it.
And then, at last, the young doe bunny returned to her chair, while the fox returned to his narrative.
Markus drove me to the Roodeport district and to the offices of Dr. Emile Lemolo, a specialist in something called Maxillofacial Surgery…according to the sign on his door. I had no idea what that meant, but it sounded promising.
The place could have passed for just about any medical office, anywhere in the world; semi-soft lighting, pastel walls, a woodgrain reception desk, and rows of cushion chairs, lining the walls
But the first thing I noticed when I walked into that place was this picture on the wall. It showed a honey-badger in camo fatigues and a dark red beret with a South Afurican flag in the background. As I looked closer, I noticed a row of medals and a red-cross armband. Was this Dr. Lemolo? I sure as heck hoped so; if this dude was a former army surgeon, then you'd better believe he'd know a thing or two about facial trauma. That was my reasoning anyway.
It didn't take long for me to get my answer. We were just about finished checking in at the reception desk, when the door to the inner sanctum opened and here came the Doc, sweeping into the front foyer with a big smile on his face.
At first, he completely ignored me, rushing straight over to the caracal who'd brought me here.
"Markus! Too long, brotha'!"
"Too long, Emile."
And they wrapped each other in a big embrace.
Oh-kay-y-y, if these two were old friends, I didn't mind being the invisible fox for a while—provided things didn't stay that way. Meanwhile, Dr. Lemolo was holding Markus at arm's length, and giving him the once-over.
"You're looking good, cat. How's the leg?"
"I'll put it this way, eh?" Markus answered, turning a180 on his prosthetic. It was the first time I realized he had one.
"Heh, I guess that answers my question," Dr. Lemolo clapped his paws and then, finally, turned his attention to me.
"And this," he said, getting down on one knee, "Must be the young fox you mentioned. Nice to meet you," he stuck out a paw, "I'm Dr. Emile Lemolo."
"S…Dylan Yeats," I answered, taking it. Oops, I almost gave him my old name.
"All right, Dylan," he said, standing up again, "Soon as we finish your paperwork, we'll get you backstage, and have a look at your injuries."
I was pleased that he said 'injuries' rather than 'face'.
What happened next was kind of an odd experience for me. I'd had mammals stare at my broken muzzle before, but this was the first time anyone went looking it over with a professional eye. Putting on a pair of magnifying spectacles. Dr. Lemolo gave my face a super-close inspection, pausing every now and then to either jot a note on a tablet or make a humming sound. Finishing up with the exterior of my face, he snagged a penlight and had me open my mouth, giving my jaw the twice-over from the inside. By the time he was done, my tongue felt like a slab of dried-out jerky.
But when he pulled off his glasses and gave me his verdict, it was all worth it.
"Piece of cake, this. I only wish it wasn't an old injury." His fangs came out, and his voice became a hiss. "Who the devil set it the first time? I'd like to bite them for it."
When he said that, I felt my tail trying to frizz. I did not want to tell this honey badger how it was that I'd gotten my face broken. If he knew, he just might decide to shine me as a patient.
Yeah, Erin…I know, I know-w-w. But if you'd been through all that I had back then, you'd be paranoid, too.
Anyway, it turned out to be a rhetorical question. From there, he went on to explain how the procedure to repair my face would work.
"First, we're going to need to re-break and then reset your muzzle and jawbones." I must have winced or something, because he quickly added, "Don't worry, you'll be under anesthesia."
That reassured me only a tiny bit.
"Then," he went on, "once the bones begin to knit, we'll start on the cosmetic end," Fine tuning, he later called it.
"And then, last, but not least, we'll see about some dental implants to replace the teeth you lost. How does that sound?" He threw back his shoulders and put his paws on his hips.
"Sounds great," I said…and it did.
I was feeling pretty confident at that point…and my conviction only strengthened, when our next stop turned out to be the Nelson Manedela Children's Hospital. Whoa, how could a place with a name like that be anything but top notch?
Yes, it was…as I quickly found out.
It was housed in a red-stone building that could almost have passed for a community college. After chaperoning me through the admissions process, Markus said good-bye for now, but promised to check in on me later.
From reception, I was taken by wheelchair to the third floor and my room in the 'First Class Ward.' That wasn't the official name; it was what the kids called it, although I didn't find that out until later.
As for my room, except for the plain white sheets and single-color blankets it could almost have passed for a luxury hotel suite, nothing at all like my cell in The Clinic—thank God. I'd been getting flashback vibes about that place ever since leaving Admissions. Now, they stopped, and with good reason. For one thing my new den had a big, beautiful picture window, overlooking a central garden.
After I got settled in, a duiker-orderly came by to give me a wheelchair tour of the hospital. What an awesome place; it was geared 100% towards younger patients. There were playrooms, mostly aimed at kids much younger than me, but also game-rooms, and a basketball court. There was even a soccer field—football pitch the orderly called it—though I didn't get to see that bad boy. Everything was done up in bright, cheerful colors, no unflavored-yogurt walls here.
But my most lasting impression of the Nelson Manedela Children's Hospital came when we paid a visit to Physical Therapy. That was where I learned something else. There were kids in that hospital with injuries far, FAR worse than mine. And they were only the first of many that I saw while I was there. A lot of them were missing limbs; souvenirs of an encounter with this or that militia group. Others had burn scars, while still others were confined to wheelchairs. A few had facial deformities that made mine look tame…or so I assumed, since they all wore masks, 24/7. Many of these kids were refugees from the wars up north, and some were former child soldiers. Those were the dudes that really spooked me. At first glance, they appeared to be totally uninjured—until you looked more closely at their faces.
Remember that line from Jaws, the one where Quint says "You know the thing about a shark, he's got lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll's eyes?" That was these kids; it was like there was nothing there. Wherever they went, they had to be escorted by two orderlies—I found out why later. But holy foxtrot…I had seen some pretty terrible things in my day, but these kids had not only seen worse, they'd DONE worse. All of them were either apex preds, or the kinds of herbivores you don't wanna mess with; elephants, hippos, and I assume that also included rhinos and cape buffalo.
Coz, I didn't see either of those species while I was there. But I'm here to tell you, guys… Even if Dr. Lemolo had decided to leave my face as is, I would have walked out of that hospital with a fully adjusted attitude.
But I WAS there to get my face fixed, and we started the very next day.
The first step—finally—was to get my injuries X-rayed, followed by an MRI scan. Heh, that was a trip. They'd done up the MRI machine to look like a transporter machine from Star Trak…and just before they slid me into the tunnel, the impala-tech in charge asked me what music I wanted to hear to drown out the noise.
Nah, good choice Erin…but that was before Try Everything even existed. Anyway, I had the perfect tune in mind; Welcome to the Machine, by Pig Floyd.
Hee, Hee…Yeah, I thought you'd like that.
When I returned to my room afterwards, I found my laptop waiting for me on the bed. Whoa, I'd forgotten all about that bad boy. Good thing I had it now though—coz the next few two days were 'hurry up and wait,' for my MRI results to come back.
The first thing I did when I got my laptop booted up was try to contact Kieran McCrodon, except WHOOPS—forgot all about the time zone difference—it was 3AM in Bulize. I was delighted, though, when one of the nurses showed me how to hook up my comp to the room's big-screen
I didn't spend a lot of time hanging with the other kids—most of them didn't speak my language. There was this one dude, though, a striped polecat from south Zudan named Kabwe who spoke it at least halfway decent. We played foosball and he stinkin' smoked me…even though he had only one arm.
Yeah, yeah…laugh it up, bunny-girl! That was our first and last game—coz the next day this lion-kid, one of the former child soldiers, trashed out the game room and broke the foosball table; nearly killed one of the orderlies before they got a tranq-dart into him.
Coz he lost it when he found out they didn't have any shooting games. Even for an ex-kid soldier that was pretty extreme. Most of them didn't like games of any kind.
But anyway…the following day, Dr. Lemolo came by my room with the results of my MRI. Just as he'd predicted, repairing the damage to my face was going to be a 'cakewalk', as he described it.
That was the good news; the bad news was that my recovery was going to be a majorly ordeal. I was gonna have to go through a lot of pain—and that wasn't even the worst of it.
While my jaw healed, I wouldn't be able to eat regular food. For the first week or so, I'd have to be fed through an esophagus tube. And even after they took it out, I'd still be on a liquid diet for a while. And while I was healing, blowing my nose would be an absolute no-no.
"Are you ready for that?" he asked me, looking very serious.
"Do what you gotta do," I said.
Uh, yes and no. Yeah-h-h, I thought it would be worth it to get my face fixed, but there was also something else. After seeing what some of those other kids had been through, what kind of a silver-fox wimp would I be if I couldn't handle not eating right for a while?
"Very well," Dr. Lemolo nodded soberly, and then went on to describe the operation in more detail.
He called it a Zygomatic surgical procedure. In the first step, I would be fitted with something resembling a muzzle. I'm still not exactly sure how it was supposed to work, but this was to endure that when Dr. Lemolo rebroke my muzzle and jawbones, it would be a clean fracture, and in the correct location
After that would come the recovery period, which he'd more or less already described, and then several more minor surgeries, which he'd also talked about.
I was scheduled for the day after tomorrow.
I wasn't allowed to eat for the last 18 hours before surgery, and could only drink clear liquids. When I woke up on the morning of the big day, the first thing that happened was getting my face shaved…and I mean totally shaved. This bushpig came in and went over my face with cream and, get this, a straight razor. And then after she was done, these two gerbils went crawling all over my face, looking for any spots she'd missed. Only then was I put on a gurney and wheeled into the operating room, where Dr. Lemolo and his team were waiting.
Even through a gown and mask, it was easy to tell which one was him. Except for wolverines, honey badgers are the only mustelids I've ever encountered with a stronger musk than sea-mink.
I don't remember much about the actual procedure though; I pretty much slept through most of it.
Now, now…don't everybody groan at once.
When I woke up in the recovery room, it felt like I'd been under for only a few seconds. By now, though, I knew better…especially since my muzzle and the back of my neck were encased in a plaster cast. And I could barely breathe; the holes they'd made for my nostrils were too small. Actually, no…my entire nose was uncovered, but I was still too groggy to notice. What I did notice was that I couldn't lower my muzzle. At first, I had no idea why, but as my head continued to clear, I became aware that I was wearing a neck-brace fitted with a prop—to make sure my face stayed upright. If I could, I would have fox-screamed; nobody had told me about THIS thing. What they had told me about was the real reason I wasn't breathing too good, a feeding tube stuck up my right nostril. And now I could feel that blankety-blank thing, running all the way down my throat and into my stomach. I remember thinking, "All right, all right! I'll go back to Granite Point, just please…make it STOP!"
And the pain still hadn't clocked in yet.
I spent another three weeks in that hospital and thank God for my laptop. I would have gone stir-crazy without it, confined to my room for the duration, except for the odd visit to an exam room, more X-Rays and another MRI. Even if I'd had somebody to talk to, I couldn't have answered them back, except by either a notepad or typing out the response on my laptop.
Holy foxtrot, it was awful. I was constantly hungry; whatever they were giving me through that feeding tube, it did zippity to satisfy my appetite. And whenever my painkillers began to wear off, it didn't happen gradually. It was like being smacked in the face by Crazy Wez all over again.
I got several visits from Markus following my surgery. The first time he came to see me, he took one look at my cast and said, "Eh look, it's the Phentom of the Opera." From that day, until the last time I saw him, that was what he called me, Phantom.
Noooo, that isn't where I got the name, Mr. Rodenberg. In fact, it's the ZPD who came up with that handle, not me. And no, Erin, I didn't mind; how could I have known back then? The only thing I knew about Zootopia in those days was the name; I couldn't even have found it on a map.
The next day, when I saw Dr. Lemolo again, he began, as he always did, by assuring me that my surgery had gone almost perfectly. He then informed me that I was going to be transferred to a recovery center at the end of the week, with regular returns to the hospital for further examinations. And then, when I was healed up enough, I'd be brought back for the 'fine-tuning surgeries.' The last step, as he'd already informed me, would be replacing my missing teeth with implants.
Later, that afternoon, an aardvark nurse came to my room, cheerfully announcing she was there to remove my feeding tube…which had been left in for a lot longer than one week, thank you very much!
"Great!" I thought. The next thing I thought was, "If I didn't have this thing on my muzzle, you wouldn't have any SKIN on yours!" Having my catheter pulled wasn't a whole lotta fun either, but at least it was quick. And at least now I could finally speak again, if just barely above a whisper.
Three days later, I was put in another medical transport and taken to a place called the Sunbird Recovery Lodge. Markus rode in with me.
I did not like that place, not at first; there was exactly one kid in residence there, and you're looking at him. It was something I could never figure out. I mean…I couldn't have been the only young mammal from the Manedela Children's Hospital who'd had maxillo-whatever surgery recently. I never did figure that out, but anyway…most of the patients housed at Sunbird were older mammals, and some were downright ancient. There were no diversions either, except for cable TV; at least nothing that would interest a kid my age. It was like I'd been transferred to another hospital, this time of the generic variety. For the first five days I was there, my only companions were the nurses, the orderlies, and my laptop.
How was…? Food…what food? I was on a liquid diet, remember?
But then…
One afternoon, I was heading back to my room from another exam, when I happened to hear someone playing guitar. It was an acoustic job, and in a tuning that I'd never heard before.
And whoever it was, they were killing it.
With my ears to guide me, I set off in search of the elusive player. At one point, the music stopped and I lost the trail. I was just about to bag it, when it started up again. And now I realized it was coming from one of the other wings. I had to ask permission to go there, but I got it right away.
Once I changed locations, finding the source of that music was a slam dunk. It was coming from a room about midway down the hall from one of the nurse's desks.
When I got there, the door was open, but I couldn't see who was playing. They were seated in a wheelchair with their back facing towards me. I could tell that it was some kind of small mammal, but that was about it.
Not knowing what else to do—or if they'd be able to hear me—I rapped on the doorframe. "Hello?"
The music stopped and the player turned to face me.
"Hello? Who's there, then? Time for my tablets, already?"
I was looking at a Cape Porcupine…and the oldest darn porcupine I've ever seen, before or since. No kidding, this guy was like a living mummy; there was no fur left on his face, and the skin underneath was like crepe-paper; his few remaining quills were nothing but stubs. He was thin to the point of being practically skeletal, and peered at the world in what seemed like a perpetual squint.
"Oh, hullo…what brings you here then?" His voice was dry and raspy, and his accent was pure native Afurican.
I stared for a second before my manners kicked in. In a voice no louder than his, I answered, "Oh, uh…Hi. I heard the guitar playing and…"
"Ah, you playa yourself, then?" he asked, patting the instrument laying across his lap, a six-string painted in tribal colors.
"Uhm…I'm trying to learn," I admitted. I could play, yeah, but no way was I even close to being as good as this dude.
"Well then, come in, come in," he beckoned, pointing to a chair beside his bed, "sit, sit, sit."
His name was Jasper Komeyaza, and like ten seconds after I took my seat, it felt as if we were old friends. "If you can find a guita', I'll teach you some t'ings," he promised.
As soon as I got back to my room, I messaged Kieran and asked if someone could get me a guitar. And the very next day, Markus came by to present me with a slightly used Marten acoustic.
I spent a lot of time with Jasper after that. You know that thing Richard Pryor once said? Uhhhh, never mind, but it goes like this. "You learn something when you listen to old mammals, they ain't all fools. You don't get to be old by bein' no fool."
That was Jasper; he taught me about a lot more than just playing guitar Afurican style. He also taught me how to play backgammon, and a little about life in general. And lemme tell you, that porcupine was a born survivor. He'd been shot twice, survived a cave-in, been jailed three times, and barely managed to talk his way out of being necklaced—all before he was thirty.
Uh, that's where they put a tire soaked in gasoline around your neck and set it on fire. Sorry, but you did ask. At the time, he was confined to a wheelchair because he'd lost his feet to a puff adder. How it managed to nail him in both ankles I have no idea. He never said, and I never asked.
But getting back to his guitar playing, Jasper was a stinkin' phenomenon. He could play with his guitar laying across the back of his neck. When I asked how he did it, he smiled and said, "Oh, that's easy, Dylan. Just play for sixty year'."
He also got me started on learning to play the concertina accordion, but we parted ways before I could really get into it. Yeah, I can play one now, but it took me a while to get dialed in.
Before I go any further, I don't want to give the impression that Jasper was some lonely old guy, wasting away all by himself. He had a large family and they visited frequently. Many times, when I went to see him, one of his kids and sometimes his grandkids would be there, and you could tell that they all loved him. Made me wish I had a family like his.
In the meantime, I had two more surgeries ahead of me—three, if you count getting my dental implants. All of them were minor compared to the first one, and when I woke up after each of them, I found myself back in the recovery center. The second time I came out of it, I found that my plaster cast had been replaced by this Kevlar-type mask thingy. Whoa, there was a serious improvement over that stinking face-cast. It was not only way lighter, but I could finally move my head again; the neck brace had been taken away. I could also talk in my normal voice, if not very loud. Soon as I woke up, I was warned, repeatedly, not to try and remove my new face-covering.
"No sweat," I said, and then, of course, as soon as the nurse was gone, my mask began to itch like you wouldn't believe.
When I went to show my new setup to Jasper, he was happy, but he also had some unhappy news…for me, that is. He'd be leaving Sunbird at the end of the following week. His eldest daughter had at last persuaded him to come home and live with her and her family. "You will come visit me, eh?" he asked, and I promised that I would.
It didn't happen. After he left, I never saw him again. I did keep tabs on him, though. He died last year in Joburg, after a bout of pneumonia, surrounded by his friends and family.
He was two months short of his 100th birthday.
When Dr. Lemolo finally removed my mask and let me see my new face, it was a major anti-climax. I didn't stare, I didn't tear up; there weren't any feelings of elation.
Coz…yeah, my muzzle was straight now, but my facial fur had only just started to grow back—in all these ragged clumps. And not only that; I'd lost so much weight from that liquid diet and whatever, I looked like a vulpine Grim Reaper. In other words, I was still gonna get stares and remarks—only now for a different reason. And I still had to get those dental implants.
Yeah-h-h, Erin, I know…and you're right. I don't think I would have been such a sour-patch fox about it if my latest round of painkillers hadn't started to wear off right about then.
But hey, now I could eat solid food again…and did I ever, pounding it down like the End Times were coming. Every time Markus would come to visit, he'd bring me a take-away bag and, like the movie title says, it'd be gone 60 seconds. In South Afurica, they make their bugburgers mostly out of termites, and seafood is a huge thing, including lobster and abalone, something I'd never had before.
After I got my dental implants, it was back to that liquid diet again—but only for a few days.
But then, one morning, when Markus came by, he told me Danny T. would be arriving the following Saturday to take me home to Zoo York.
I took the news like a punch to the gut. Home? Zoo York wasn't home, or at least it didn't feel like it. In fact, when I thought about it, since the day my mom had passed, I'd never been anywhere that felt like home—and that went double for Granite Point.
Still, somehow, I managed a smile.
I missed Danny's reunion with Markus Klopper—and so did he. At the time of his arrival, Markus was 'away, up country,' the life of a bush troubleshooter.
As for me, I didn't have time to say goodbye to anyone, not even Dr. Lemolo. I was sad about that and begged Danny to at least let me call him. No dice, he wasn't having any of it. "You got five minutes kid…and then we're out of here." Aw nuts, just when I was finally beginning to feel better about the results of my surgery. As you can see for yourself, that honey badger did a great job.
Yeah, yeah…nyuck, nyuck, nyuck. You're a real funny-bunny, Snowdrop!
I managed to get all my stuff packed in time. Except for my laptop, I didn't really have anything to bring with me. I had to leave my new guitar behind though, and there wasn't even time for a wheelchair. Danny practically dragged me outside and literally threw onto this Land-Rover he had waiting out front. Not once did he mention my new face. Heck, he didn't even seem to notice it.
I got another surprise when, instead of turning southwest for the airport, he headed straight north and out of town. After maybe an hour we came to this big airplane graveyard, with row upon row of planes without wings, broken fuselages, and some that were nothing more than skeletons. I had no idea what we were doing there, or even where we were. I would have asked Danny, but given the mood he was in right then, I knew I'd better keep my fox-trap shut.
When we got to the end of the second row, though…hang on, that plane wasn't a derelict; it was almost brand-new.
It was a four-engine prop-job, with a high tail and a deployed cargo ramp. And whoa…instead of stopping the Land Rover, and getting out, Danny drove us straight up the access ramp and into the cargo bay. As soon as he set the brake, a pair of hartebeests began securing our ride to the floor with tie-downs.
At the same time, Danny was scoping out his wristwatch. For the first time since his arrival, he smiled and then slapped his paw against the dashboard. "Ha! Told him we could make it!" Somehow, I knew that he was talking about The Mister. Hm, so picking me had only been kind of a side-op. Danny, meanwhile, was speaking into a two-way mike. "I got the kid and merchandise…let's go."
At once, I heard the engines starting to rev.
As we exited the Land Rover, I noticed, for the first time, a quartet of metal boxes stowed in the back, about the size of ice chests. Without thinking, I asked, "What's in those?" and immediately wanted to kick myself. At best, I'd get silence; at worst, a stern suggestion to mind my own business.
Instead, I got neither. Danny answered me for once. He could afford to, since what he said made no sense to me—not at the time, anyway.
"Palladium," he told me, and then directed me to follow him forward.
Yeah, I thought you'd wanna know. It's the stuff used to make catalytic converters. Super valuable, it's worth more than platinum and it's easy-peasy to obtain under the table in Joburg—and at a bargain price. South Afurica's the world's second largest producer of the stuff. Not only that. the demand for Palladium on the black market is stinkin' awesome. By the time we got to Zoo York, it'd be worth twice as much as when Danny drove it onto the plane.
There was plenty of other freight on that bird, either strapped to the floor, or secured in cargo netting. And THAT was something I didn't want to know about; guns…I was sure it was guns.
When we got to the front of the plane, which turned out to be a Chinese-made Shaanxi Y-9, I was surprised to find a nicely fitted out passenger lounge, just behind the pilot's compartment—complete with a big screen and a mini fridge. If it hadn't been for the engine noises, you could almost have mistaken this bad boy for a luxury-class airliner.
It was only after we were airborne that Danny finally took the time to scope out my surgery.
"Nice work," he finally said, "That doc did a first-class job, kid." I was more than a little pleased by his assessment. Being a former military guy, that swift fox knew a thing or two about facial trauma. That was also why he wasn't surprised at how thin I'd gotten. "When we get back to Zoo York, I'll treat you to a pizza at Giulianos," he promised.
I was gonna have a serious wait for that pizza. Our flight home was the longest, most boring, most tedious, I've ever been on.
No Erin, I've actually flown more than that. But you see, because that plane was a turboprop, it was way slower than a jet. And thanks to those noisy engines, I didn't get a wink of sleep the whole time we were in the air. Danny, of course, had no trouble dropping off—the stinkin' dirtbag!
When we finally landed, it wasn't back at Idlewild, or even in Zoo York. It was at this dinky, little airfield in the middle of nowhere—usually reserved for fire-fighting air-tankers, or that was what Danny told me on the drive back to Barklyn.
Isolated location or not, someone was expecting us. When we got off the plane, we found a (fake) Amazoon van waiting for us, along with two forklifts and a pair of semi tractor-trailers.
After transferring the palladium from the Land Rover to the van, Danny climbed into the driver's seat, with me next to him, and we were off. Unloading the rest of the cargo was apparently someone else's job, and that was totally cool with me. I wanted to get this trip over with and then go snag some sleep.
What wasn't so cool was when we came to a sign welcoming us to Barnecat Township, Zoo Jersey. Zoo…JERSEY? Agggh, grrrr…if there was one state where I didn't wanna visit… It was only after we crossed back into Zoo York that I began to breathe easy again.
I was gonna have to take a rain check on that pizza, though. When we got back to Barklyn, our first stop was this freight warehouse Gerry McCrodon owned. After getting rid of the palladium, we were informed that The Mister wanted to see us right away. Grumbling under our breath, we transferred to Danny's car, and drove to The Wicked Mink pub. Once there, I was conducted through the rear entrance for my first encounter with The Mister since leaving Zoo York…Gah, how long ago had that been?
It was in a meeting room in the back where I met him, one of those closed-door things, nobody here but us Company Guys…Ehhh, except for that platinum fox with the unicycle, that is. He didn't have it with him then, but I recognized him by his scent. Sometime during the next few minutes, he took a hike; I didn't see him leave, but I'm not surprised that he did.
And then, there was The Mister, at his usual spot in the center of the table. Soon as he saw me, he motioned for Danny to bring me over. He spent a few seconds scrutinizing me over the top of the table, and then said, "Bring him around, over this side; I wanna take a closer look."
When I got there, he took my head in his paws, turning it this way and that while he looked it over. It was like he was inspecting a melon, or something—don't say it, bunny-girl! Finally, he sat back again. "Whoa, look at this, wouldja? If I didn't know better, I'd swear I'd never seen this fox-kid in my life." He looked at Danny with a frown on his face. "What's the name my nephew gave him again?"
"Yeats, Dylan Yeats,"
"Right," he nodded, and turned to speak to his younger brother, "Denis? Put that doc in Joburg down for an extra grand—nah, make it two. He did a bang-up job on the kid."
Not the best choice of words, but I wasn't gonna correct this sea-mink. Then his older brother, Gerry spoke up.
"I-I-I dunno," he said, giving me a dubious look, "Gotta say, he don't look too good to me."
"Well whaddaya expect?" The Mister shrugged. "He hasn't been able to eat all this time; had his mouth wired shut while his muzzle healed up." Not exactly true, but close enough.
But that wasn't the only reason I was in a raggedy state right then. I had taken the last of my Purrcocets back on the plane…and that had been more than six hours ago. So, you better believe I was feeling the need right then—along with a big slice of sheer terror. By that time, I knew all about The Mister's less-than-zero-tolerance policy towards drugs. If he found out I was hooked on painkillers…
"He's also kinda strung out on Purrcocet." Danny Tipperin told him, matter-of-factly.
What the…? I could have fox-screamed my head off. "Danny, what are you doing?" I braced for an explosion, but The Mister only shrugged and nodded.
"Yeahhh, well that happens sometimes, when you get that kind of operation." His expression turned gravely serious. "But now we need to get his fox kid offa that stuff. After that we can get him back in shape, and start his training."
"I got an idea about that, Mr. McCrodon," Denis was raising his paw like a kit in school. "What say we send him down to the Beach House? Kieran's still down there, and nobody knows more about physical conditioning than that guy. Put him in charge of getting the kid back in shape. He can even start training him on the computer."
"Yeah, good thought," Gerry concurred with an eager nod. "And that'll also put more than a thousand miles between him and the Pennanti crew. From what I hear, that fisher still ain't 100% convinced that the kid's sleeping with the oysters."
"Okay, yeah…I like that." The Mister clapped his paws, looking pleased. "That's what we'll do, guys. Denis, you make the arrangements. Tipperin, you take the kid back to his room in the club, and make sure he stays there." A look of disgust crossed his face for about a second, "But first, go score him some more Purrcocet. Kieran can work on getting him unhooked when he gets to Bulize."
It was only after we left The Wicked Mink that I realized something. The whole time I'd been in there, no one had anyone spoken to me directly.
Even with his connections, it took Danny a little while to get hold of some more painkillers. By the time he did, I had the shakes so bad, he had to hold my head steady so I could swallow them. Afterwards, he left me alone in my room…and with my thoughts.
I was surprised at how clean it was. Even though no one had been in here since my fight with those wolf-kids, there wasn't a speck of dust to be seen anywhere. I didn't have time to be amazed, though. I had other things on my mind.
From the beginning, I had always suspected that the Mister's decision to have my face fixed hadn't been motivated solely by gratitude—or maybe not at all. There was always an ulterior motive with that guy. His little blurb about 'my training' all but confirmed it in my head. And with that realization came another, bigger one. Right then and there, I knew what he had in mind for me—he was gonna groom me for the role he'd originally planned for Crazy Wez.
And I wasn't sure I wanted to play that part.
Well, I reasoned, as I rolled over and began to drift off, there was nothing I could do about it right then.
But if I ever saw my chance…
I didn't take off for Bulize till the following Friday, and all during that time, I wasn't allowed to leave Finagles. Heck, I wasn't even allowed out of the basement, not even to eat in the lunchroom. The Mister wasn't taking any chances that Detective Lieutenant Pennanti might learn I was still alive.
My second day downstairs, I was on my way to take a shower, when I bumped into Junior in one of the hallways.
"Hey Sean…I mean Dylan," he said, sounding genuinely glad to see me again, "How's the face—still hurting?"
I fanned a paw. "Nahhh, it's fine now."
"Really?" he said, and gave me a big, stupid grin, "Well, it's killing me!" And then he bent over laughing his tail off.
Holy!
Foxtrot!
Was he kidding? The last time I'd heard that joke had been back in the second grade. And it confirmed something Danny had told me on the drive back from Zoo Jersey—that Junior hadn't mended his ways since our last encounter. Too bad for him, but now I couldn't wait to get to Bulize and as far away from this punk as possible. Later, as a prank, he tried to switch my Purrcocets for Tums tablets. It didn't work; those things smelled totally different than the real deal, and I'd stashed a few extra under my mattress, 'just in case.'
The really interesting part was that when The Mister found out, he ripped his kid a new one. Wow, now there was something completely different. Before my fight with that wolfpack, he would have let it pass, or even taken Junior's side. "Wish you coulda been there," Danny told me, after giving me the news—and so did I.
They sent me down to Bulize with a shipment of provisions for the Beach House. At least this time I was on a straight-up passenger plane instead of a reconditioned military transport and a jet instead of a turbo-prop. Much quieter, I was able to sleep most of the way. The Mister could afford to do that coz this time there wasn't any contraband on board—everything was all nice and legal.
Except for me, that is; when we landed, I had to be smuggled off the plane in a packing crate. Afterwards came a jouncing ride in the back on an unairconditioned truck, during which I stopped counting at twelve the number of times I hit my head against the top of that blankety-blank container.
When it finally opened though, there was Kieran, wearing the biggest grin ever on his face.
"Hullo, boyo…welcome to The Beach House," he said, and then picked me up and gave me a crushing hug. It made the rough ride to get here totally worth it.
It became even more worth it when he set me down again. THIS was what they called a 'Beach House'? If I hadn't known better, I would have thought it was a zillion-star luxury hotel—which, I later learned, it would have been if the developer hadn't gone bust.
It was located near the tip of the San Pedro peninsula, just across the bay from Bulize City, a sprawling compound of whitewashed stucco and terra-cotta roofs, with glazed tile everywhere.
After presenting me with a new pair of Meowi-Jim sunglasses, Kieran sat me down in a wheelchair—I said I could walk, but he insisted on it—and gave me the grand tour. Whoa what a palace. It had two swimming pools, both indoor and outdoor. The outdoor one was built in concentric circles and had a mosaic floor, showing a pirate ship. There were three different spas, each one set a different temperature, warm, hot, and OMG! There was a billiard room, tennis courts, a game-room and a theater with a 90-foot screen. There was also a marina and boathouse, but no boats—which didn't surprise me in the least. Before becoming arms merchants, The McCrodon's had been commercial fishermammals. For this family of sea-mink, the ocean would always be their workspace, not their playground.
But now I understood even more why the Mister had sent me here to get myself back in shape. The Beach House also had a gym, a weight room equipped with both machines and free weights, two climbing walls, and a running track that encircled the entire compound. The piece-de-resistance was this obstacle course Danny had designed fursonally. As I would find out soon enough, it took brains and guts as well as strength to get through that bad boy. I'll talk more about that later.
As for where I'd be staying, they were putting me up in the Guest Cottage—which was a 'cottage' the way that the Amazoon is a river. It had its own big-screen, its own private spa; every room was air conditioned and all the furniture was hardwood and plush cushions. Everything was in small-mammal size, but the place had space enough to accommodate a family of lions. It even came with a barbecue grill. And if I needed something—anything at all—I had to do was punch the intercom, and boom…there it was. The Mister's Beach House had a serving staff of…honestly I don't know how many, a doormammal two cooks, a janitor, three maids, a whole crew of groundskeepers, and that was just for starters. Whoa, no wonder Kieran had said he felt like he could stay here forever
Yeah, riiiiiight; it didn't take long for me to realize that the place wasn't quite the paradise it appeared to be. For example, the exterior fence was topped with a triple row of razor ribbon—same as Granite Point—and the bell-tower over the main house had a sniper instead of a bell. There were armed guards everywhere, though I barely caught a glimpse of any of them; these guys were total professionals. I also became aware of something like a gajillion security cameras, all over the compound. Oh, I'd known they were there, ever since the day of my arrival—but now I began to notice that every time I walked past one of them, it'd turn to follow me. In its way, The Mister's Beach House was every bit the prison that The Point had been; a candy-coated prison, but still a prison.
At the end of the day, the place could have been a total theme park and my first two weeks there would have been a holiday in Hell. Before anything else, Kieran needed to get me off that Purrcocet. To be fair, he didn't make me go cold turkey, and thank God for that. Instead, he gradually reduced the dosages, while at the same time, increasing the length of time between them.
And he refused, point blank, to alter that routine, no matter how much I begged and pleaded. If you want to know what that's like trying to kick a painkiller habit, it's like having the flu and being totally keyed up, all at the same time. You look at your watch and it's 3:30. You look again, four hours later, and it's 3:35. That's an inadequate description; you can't really put it into words what it's like, trying to get off Purrcocet—but that should give you some idea of what I was going through.
After I finally kicked the stuff, it was time to get fit again. Kieran started me off easy, no more than 30 minutes of exercise per day, to begin with. However, there was nothing that said he had to ease me into my training as a hacker; I hit that course head on.
I was never a natural with a computer, then or now; no one would ever call me a cyberpunk. Even so, I was a smart kid, a hard worker and willing to listen and learn. That was good enough for Kieran and my progress was sure, but steady.
As time passed, and my exercise fitness routine became more and more strenuous, my appetite also began to increase—even more than when after my face-mask came off. Before long, I was eating everything in sight. In time, I not only began to put on muscle; I could of sworn I was getting taller too. One thing I learned, and really quick, was not to get cocky with it—not unless I wanted Kieran to put the hammer down and with both paws. I found that out, the hard way, the first time I copped a 'tude with him. The next morning, he made me join him on HIS workout, running the compound perimeter three times—I could manage exactly one circuit—performing five times the number of weight reps I was capable of, and finishing with an ascent up the advanced climbing wall.
Dumb fox-kid that I was—and too proud let him see me quit—I actually tried to keep up with him. You can guess how that worked out. By the time we were halfway done, I was a silver-fox pretzel; muscle-cramps everywhere, even in my tail. I had to be carried back to my bungalow with Kieran razzing me every step of the way.
And then every stinkin' step of the penguin walk I was stuck doing for the next couple of days. After that, I learned to keep it low key.
Then…one day…
It was a moment I'll always remember. I had just finished drying off after taking a shower and was on the way back to the guest cottage; the showers in the gym always had better pressure. I was just about to make my exit, when a rain-squall swept over the compound. Nope…no thanks, I had only just finished getting dried, and those bad boys never lasted for very long anyway. On my way back inside, I turned the corner and bang…! There was this other fox-kid, another silver-fox kid, standing at the end of the hallway. Whoa, where the heck had HE come from? This dude had some serious tough-good looks. I…
Wait…hold it. Why was he wearing the same outfit as me? Holy foxtrot…he WAS me; I was looking into a mirror!
What happened next was the closest I came to crying since the day Crazy Wez trashed my muzzle. Again and again, I kept reaching out to touch that mirror…wanting to make sure it really was a mirror.
Yes…yes, it was.
I had my face back!
My happiness was good for about five minutes. I'd been around the horn enough times by then to know I wasn't getting off that easy. Sooner or later, the other hoof was going to drop, and maybe take the bottom out from under me in the process. All I could do was brace myself and try to be ready.
A good effort, but nothing could have prepared me…
Three days later, Kieran had me meet him in the gym for my morning workout session. That wasn't our normal routine; we usually kicked things off with a run around the perimeter track. I didn't see anything unusual about it though; it was raining like 60 on that particular morning. Ordinarily that didn't stop him—since when is a sea mink bothered by a little water—but again, I wasn't asking any questions. All I cared about was that I wasn't gonna come back looking like a water-logged plush-toy.
When I walked into the gymnasium though, I saw no sign of my guy. A quick sniff of the air told me, yeah, he was there, all right…standing in back of me. What the…?
Before I could turn around, or even try to say anything, he beat me to it.
"I'm sorry, Dylan," I heard him say…right before he grabbed me from behind.
When I came out of it, I was lying on an exam table a lot like this one…except for the straps, that is. I also had a muzzle on my face, and it was a good thing, too—coz there, sitting on my chest, was a very familiar looking dormouse…one that I'd been told I wouldn't be seeing any more.
…and whose head I would have bitten off, if I could have got to her. It was none other than Doctor…
"Winters!" I snarled, as best I could, though my facial restraint, "Get off me or I'll…" Uh, let's just say I didn't threaten her with anything nice. I then began to struggle furiously against the straps…to no avail of course, but that wasn't gonna stop me. The only thing that kept me from going into a full-blown panic was that I knew I was still in The Beach House, not back at The Clinic. The room where they were holding me had a window and I could see palm trees and one of the tennis courts outside. That was not, however, enough to make me calm down completely.
"Get off me, rodent!" I somehow managed to fox-scream, "GET YOUR STINKIN' TAIL AWAY FROM ME, YOU…!"
"Easy, boy…easy," a soft, Irish voice spoke from somewhere I couldn't see.
It turned my voice into a whimper. How…how could he have done this to me?
"Kieran…what's going on; why are you doing this?"
"I'm sorry, Dylan," he repeated again, and then moved into my line of sight. That cooled my jets a lot—not coz of what he said, but because I knew now that I hadn't hurt him after he'd grabbed me. As a matter of fact, he didn't have so much as a strand of fur out of place.
But still… "Dude, what the heck is this stinkin' dormouse doing here? Do you know who she is?"
"I'm just trying to…" Doc Winters started to say, but was stifled by Kieran's raised paw.
"Mister's orders," was all he said—and all he needed to say; spoken in the voice of a mink who genuinely hates himself. But then he added, "She's just trying to check yer vitals, boy…and best ye don't fight. She'll be done a lot quicker that way, won't she?"
There was no escaping his logic and I stayed motionless for the remainder of my exam…though it went a LOT further than just checking out my vitals. Doc Winters took four stinkin' blood samples, and when she got to number five, I just couldn't keep quiet any longer.
"What are you, a dormouse…or a vampire bat?"
She never gave me an answer.
Kieran wisely chose to wait until she was gone before removing my muzzle and other restraints. We then retired to the indoor patio for some key lime pie and a talk. I kept insisting I didn't want any and then devoured my piece in like two bites.
And then I was barely able to keep it down—because the next thing Kieran told me was that my session with Dr. Winters was only the first of several I was going to need.
"I don't need ANYTHING from that stinkin' rodent!" I wanted to scream. I didn't, but it took a supreme effort—something that the sea-mink on the other side of the table couldn't possibly fail to notice.
"I know, I know," he sighed, pushing his plate aside, "If it were up t' me, she wouldn't be allowed within hundred miles of ye." He let out another, bigger sigh, "But it's not up to me, is it? It's up to The Mister, and ye know what he's like; his way or th' highway. So…" he straightened up in his chair, looking me right in the eye, "For both our sakes, will ye promise to behave yerself 'round Dr, Winters and do what she says? Like, I told ye before, she'll be finished with yer that much quicker…"
"Okay," I interrupted, cutting him off, "I'll be a good little silver fox about it—on one condition!"
No way was I getting out of this; it was going to happen. But maybe, just maybe, I could make it happen on MY terms.
"An' what might that be?" Kieran asked me, speaking with a lot more patience than he obviously felt.
I leaned forward with my elbows on the table. I knew I might get smacked for what I was about to say, but I didn't care.
"I wanna know what Dr. Winters is doing here, and what she wants with me." I started to sit back again, but changed my mind. "No, I take that back…tell me everything!"
"I don't know everything!" Kieran replied, half resigned and half exasperated.
"Fine," I said, not about to be put off, "Then I want to know everything you know. ALL of it—or the only way you'll get me to hold still for that blankety- blank dormouse is if you tranq me."
Oh my GOD…had I really just said that? I had never talked back to Kieran like that before. I steeled myself for the rocket I was sure was coming, but he only folded his arms and raised an eyebrow.
"All right boy…have it yer own way, but always remember," he raised a finger and wagged it in my face, "You asked for it."
Okay Mr. Rodenberg…if you got a voice recorder with you, now's the time to bring it out. Coz here comes the part you've been waiting for.
Author's Note:
Much thanks is due to O.H. Shoot, for clueing me in about South African 'Bunny Chow'.