The Last Stoic Read Online Free Page B

plans; he saw a
nefarious blueprint.  A bomb.  Some sort of nuclear device.  “Mark” was printed
neatly inside the cover of each of the notebooks along with a phone number. 
Under the passenger seat he found the nine millimetre Glock Andy had stashed
there. 
    Patrick didn’t have long to
consider all of the terrible and exciting ramifications of what he’d found.  He
became aware of a distant siren wailing from the north along the freeway.  His
discoveries were stuffed back into their hiding places.  The debris in the back
seat was arranged so that it didn’t suggest quite so much anarchy.  He didn’t
bother to close the hood.  Instead, he sat back in the driver’s seat and
fingered the keys lightly.  Within seconds, a motorcycle patrolman was at the
door.  Patrick swallowed and lowered the window.
    “Morning son,” the cop said,
eyeing Patrick cautiously through his mirrored, aviator sunglasses. 
    “Good morning officer.”
    “What’s the trouble?”
    “The radiator.  She overheated. 
I think I must have a leak.”
    “Do you need a tow?”
    “I was hoping not.  It’s a small
leak I think.  I was going to let her cool, try again, and then see if I can
make it to a shop.”
    “Will she start?”
    “I haven’t tried for a little
while.”
    “Well, it can’t stay here. 
You’ll have to start her up and get off the freeway, or I’ll have to call in a
tow truck.”
    “Right.  Can I try it?”
    “Ok, best hurry up.”
    Patrick gestured to the hood. 
The patrolman nodded and closed it.
    He switched the key and the
engine sputtered to life.  Patrick turned and smiled.
    “Thanks officer!  It looks like
she’s ready to go again.”
    “Follow me to the next exit. 
There is a garage two miles west of here.  Have a good stay in New York.”
    The patrolman returned to his
motorcycle and proceeded to give Patrick a short escort off of the freeway. 
The runaway from New Ravenna felt like his luck was changing.
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Mark was roused from his uneven
slumber by the jabbing of a finger in his ribs.  He’d hoped to snatch a few
extra hours of sleep while in the Newark station waiting for the next bus into
Manhattan.  Instead, he now stared into a man’s pallid face.  Long shiny
strands of coal-coloured hair fell from the top of the man’s head and spilled
down past his shoulders.  A two-inch iron rod pierced the septum of his nose,
three heavy iron rings punctured his lower lip, and each of his two ears were
similarly perforated with silver hoops, loops and bars.  Thick kohl was daubed
around the man’s eyes and eyelids sweeping back toward his ears. 
    “Hey dude, gotta smoke?” the man
asked.
    The question was as unexpected as
the questioner.
    “Sorry dude, did I wake you?”
    Mark had been busy dreaming. 
He’d been dreaming of being on the run, of a vast tapioca pudding of a man
popping tiny dark-skinned people into his mouth like they were chocolates. 
    He told the man that he didn’t
have any cigarettes.  Mark propped himself up on his elbow to watch him depart
and saw him join a group of men and women standing close by in a loose circle. 
They all looked the same, in their way; black hair, black clothes, and very
white skin.  Each one of them displayed a wide variety of metallic ornament,
punctured through all manner of their facial features:  lobes, lips, noses,
chins, brows, cheeks, and tongues. 
    Goths.  

FOUR
     
     
    “Marcus Aurelius Antoninus…, Germanicus…, Alamannicus…,
Alexander of Rome!  
At long last, thanks to your bold vision and inestimable courage, we behold a
monument worthy of your greatness, worthy of the glory of Rome under your
unwavering guidance and generous patronage.  Our eternal city has never seen
such magnificence, nor will it again.  It is a fitting tribute to your majesty,
our father…, our Hercules…, our chief…, our commander.  Witness… the Thermae
Antoninianae!”
    A score of trumpeters