Turtle's Ascent

“Terrence!” my father shouts, his voice bursting forth in a strained gasp.

“TERRENCE!”

“In a minute,” I murmur, not bothering to turn off my implant.

 I’m deep in the Adirondacks, halfway up Mt. Marcy, on the steep side.

It’s my team and me: Wright, our marksmen, and Michael our S.W.A.T mastermind. He the one who had a hunch that the killer we after had come up from the city, all the way here to the North Country.

I been invited along cuz I got soft eyes---if the perp’s left a trail, I’ll be able to follow it. And anyway, I just recovered from the operation a few weeks ago, and this role, tracking, is all I can manage without totally frying my neurons.

 “There’s lightnin’, guys,” I say, stopping in place.

My nappy hair is standing up from electric static, as though to confirm my observation. We’re way up here, near the top where the tree line is gone, and all there is bare rock.

“Pussy, ” Wright sneers from just behind me, his thermobaric rifle resting comfortably in the sling on his back. “You scared?”

 He turns to face me, his eyes glinting even in the fading light.

“Naw,” I lie, reluctantly moving ever higher toward the summit.

I wonder, though, if I’ll be able to handle being electrocuted. The hike up here has already taken a lot of the neurological potential energy I’ve stored up, and if I get to zero, I could fall into a coma or worse.

“I’m just sayin’, you know, it’s kinda dark, and we know if the killer is even up here.” I can feel the lactic acid building in my quads, and I’ve got a serious headache building.

“Wait wait wait,” Wright snarls.  “I thought you said we were going the right way?! It’s unconscionable to have sent us up this path if you were just guessing!”

He screws up his face like he’s taking a big ass shit.

I wish he had a little more patience with me, a little more faith,  but that just ain’t Wright’s way.  He’s had an implant nearly his whole life, and he don’t give a shit that this is only the seventh time I’ve been here in the Ether.

“Chill Wright,” Michael says, deftly passing me on the rocks and bouldering to the top of the mountain. “This is the right spot, I’m pretty sure.”
-------------------

Michael and me been cool since high school, when we played flag football at Lehman. Actually,  he the one who first called me Turtle. Coach Byron always had us sprinting around the damn track, and I use to just drag my fat ass.

I use to think,  The O-line suppose to be big right? The fuck we need to do all that running?

Michael played a bunch of positions, but he was real good as a strong safety. He wasn’t no star, but he had talent, you know? Apparently, the Ivy League thought so too.

When he left to go to The University, he promised we would always be tight.

He was true to his word. Matter of fact, me and him actually went into business together. I was just starting my EMT training back then, and I use to steal all kinda shit from whatever hospital we was at, usually Lincoln cuz that place is a mess. I’d ship everything down to Michael, and he’d sell to all them rich ass people.

Guess that's how Wright and him met, down at college. Michael say Wright always been a pill head.

Anyway, about six months back,  Michael and me was chillin at some dope spot downtown, drinking expensive shit  pinky’s out, when Wright just walks in. He come over to us, daps Michael up, and sit down like the three of us is old friends.

“Dude, what are you doing here?” Michael asks.  Whenever he talks to niggas from The University, he sound a little funny, like he forget that his family still live on Jerome avenue in the Bronx.

“This is your EMT buddy, huh?” replies Wright.

 I could tell right off he was a man use to getting his way. It’s kind of weird, to be honest---he’s a small ass dude, but somehow, you kinda just want to do what he say.

“Hey man,” he says, extending his hand, “I’m Wright.”

He say it all cool, like he wasn’t one of the biggest stars on the indie scene a couple years back.

“I love your music man,” I gush, like the little fangirl bitch I am.

Wright just smiles.

“Mike here manages my family’s trust,” he explains, like that’ll mean something to me.

 “He says that you’re thinking about getting an implant.”

I just shrug. That shit is so expensive, that saying you wanted one is like saying you hoped you could one day be a trillionaire. I bet you even Creedman never imagined he’d be as rich as he is now.

“Listen,” whispers Wright, like we about to rob a fucking bank,  “I got a buddy who would do the operation for you next week, if you want. Totally paid for.”

I must have looked at Michael with one of them “what the fuck?” expressions cuz he just laugh. I can tell, though, he’s uncomfortable.

“I’m serious,” Wright says, after putting in an order for a cocktail that ain’t even on the menu.

“You wouldn’t have to pay a single credit for it.”

If I was someone else, you know, like with balls, I might of asked him what the fuck scam he was running, and why he think I’m dumb enough to entertain it.

 Instead, I hear myself say , “Well...What do your friend want in return?”

“In return?” Wright asks, batting his eyes.

“Yea, man” I say, uneasily. “I mean, if your friend give me the surgery...what he want for it?”

“Oh,” Wright says too loudly, “don’t worry about him.”

His drink arrives with a quickness, and he takes a huge gulp.

 “He lives for helping poor folks, pro bono. It’s just a matter of putting you at the top of the list.”

He’s so smooth, so straight to the point, that I can’t even feel pissed.  I guess Michael feels the same way, cuz he just stare at his drink, not saying anything.

“Ok,” I say, understanding.  “So...what do YOU want?”

At this, Wright smiles wide, eyes twinkling. Michael begins to very slowly shake his head.

“Well…” he says, “Mike says you have access to pills, man.”

I look at Michael, who's concentrating real hard on his drink.

That all I am, to you huh? What them old heads call it? A pusher man. Just a plug. 

 I try to feel sad, or mad, or a little disappointed. My whole life I’ve known the emotions that I’m supposed to feel, the ones that most people do feel in certain situations.  Right now though, like always, I just feel tired.

I turn my attention back to Wright, chug my Negroni, and take a breath.

“So, where do I go to get that operation?”
-------------------
“Guys, “ Michael hisses.

 He’s about 20 feet ahead of us, crouched between two rocks looking through binoculars.

Wright’s been cursing at me out for a minute, saying that I led them up the mountain for no reason.

Now he turns to the strategic mastermind in surprise.

“I see him,” says Michael, gesturing for us to hurry to get to his position.

Wright gets to the boulders first, and grabs the binoculars Michael.

“I’ll be damned,” he mumbles, “Guess you did know where you were leading us Turtle.”

He hand me the binoculars as he takes out his rifle, assembling the target lens into place.

I stare into the valley below us, a streak of lightning temporarily giving me a clear view in this waning light.

“Oh SHIT,” I scream, throwing the binoculars from me, and scrambling to my feet.

“Get DOWN,” says Wright.

 I’m trembling all over, my heart exploding in my chest.

“Guys, guys, you can’t shoot,” I babble, grabbing at the rifle in Wright’s hands.

“What the hell man, we have a SHOT at him, we have to-----”

“You can’t, you can’t, you----”

Wright pushes me to the ground, and my brain explodes in pain as I hit a jutting rock. Taking a breath, he clicks off the safety, and stares through the viewfinder, his finger on the trigger.

“Wait,” Michael whispers to Wright, staring through the binoculars. The wind howls around us, and sheets of freezing rain begin to fall.

“Turtle,” Michael says, turning his attention to me. The light is almost gone, and all I can make out is his peanut shaped head, topped by a huge immaculate afro.  “Tell me. Who is that down there? Who did you see?”

I’m almost at zero, and I’ll need to pull out of the Ether soon or be out of commission in the real world for days. I’ve already overdone it.

I grit my teeth against my exploding brain, still sprawled on rocks just below our hiding spot.

“Who do you see, Turtle. Tell me.”  I can only make out the outline of Michael’s face in the failing light, but I don’t need to see him to know what he’s thinking.

I close my eyes in pain, the world becoming squiggly floaters.

“Shoot him Wright,” I hear Michael shout after awhile, his voice carrying above the rain now hitting us from all sides. “NOW!”