call Mom, not until
she figured out what was going on.
“I’m sorry,” the wrist-phone or comm or
whatever said in a pleasant female voice. “Your call cannot be completed as
dialed. Please make sure to enumerate the area code and the eight digit number
you are trying to reach.”
Eight digit number? Christine typed the
number again – and got the same message. She tried to punch a 1 before the area
code to make it to eleven digits, and she got a slightly different message that
pretty much said the same thing. “I don’t think the phone is working,” she
said.
“Are you sure? It seems to be in working
order.”
“Phone numbers are seven digits long,”
Christine said. “With the area code, that makes ten.”
Father Aleksander looked confused.
“That’s quite wrong, I’m sorry to say. Phone numbers are eight digits long,
eleven with the area code.”
Christine gently put the wrist-phone
thingy down and had some more some soup while she tried to think things
through.
Explanation Number One: The good Father
was out of his freaking gourd, kind eyes or not, and he’d probably put that
useless talking wrist thingy together with a pieces of discarded I-Phones and baling
wire. She wasn’t in New York, she was probably in some abandoned church in
Michigan, and any second now Aleksander and the Faceless Vigilante, who
probably was a leather-clad gimp living in a steamer trunk in the next room,
would grab her and do unspeakable things while they sang a jaunty song from Oklahoma .
Explanation Number Two: Christine’s brain
had been scrambled by some roofie combo last night, and she’d apparently
forgotten a few facts of life, such as phone numbers having one more digit than
she remembered and that the latest mobile devices had wrist straps. The damage
was probably permanent and she’d spend the rest of her life painting pleasant
watercolors in some innocuously-named institution with beautiful lawns and tall
walls where they played soothing Enya tunes in the background.
Explanation Number Three: This was all a
dream, and she was in a hospital, or lying unconscious on the frat house lawn,
dreaming of Ukrainian Orthodox priests and wrist-comms and cabbage and kings.
She would either wake up eventually, or check Explanation Two, except add more
Enya, eliminate watercolor painting or any activity and, for an added bonus,
orderlies rolling over her comatose body checking for bedsores every other
week. With her luck one of the orderlies would be called Buck and he’d be there
to… you know.
There was an Explanation Number Four, but
she didn’t want to go there. Might as well enjoy the borsch and watch the boob
tube, which was playing Live! With Regis and Betsy , which was weird
because Regis had retired a while back and weirder still because there was no
sign of Kelly Ripa or even Kathy Lee anywhere and she had no clue who Betsy
was. Whatever she did, she would not explore Explanation Number Four, because
that way lay madness.
The arrival of the Faceless Vigilante had
stopped her brain from shooting up into the stratosphere for a whole three
seconds or so. One look at him and she’d known several facts with total
conviction: she could trust him with her life, he wasn’t nearly as old as he
looked, and she was going to hug him like his name was Teddy and it was stuffed
bear season. Which led to discovering his real face was impossibly featureless.
Which should have freaked the frak out of her, but somehow didn’t. The crazy
is strong with this one, this one being me. Either she had quietly flipped
out or her weirdness threshold had been exceeded to the point that her her
freak-out engine was out of gas. Explanation One was discarded, which left
Explanations Two or Three, but Four was beginning to poke its crazy little head
from the corner of her mind she had consigned it to. People like Face-Off
didn’t exist in her world. Which meant…
The news report came in, and that did the
trick. Especially when they
she figured out what was going on.
“I’m sorry,” the wrist-phone or comm or
whatever said in a pleasant female voice. “Your call cannot be completed as
dialed. Please make sure to enumerate the area code and the eight digit number
you are trying to reach.”
Eight digit number? Christine typed the
number again – and got the same message. She tried to punch a 1 before the area
code to make it to eleven digits, and she got a slightly different message that
pretty much said the same thing. “I don’t think the phone is working,” she
said.
“Are you sure? It seems to be in working
order.”
“Phone numbers are seven digits long,”
Christine said. “With the area code, that makes ten.”
Father Aleksander looked confused.
“That’s quite wrong, I’m sorry to say. Phone numbers are eight digits long,
eleven with the area code.”
Christine gently put the wrist-phone
thingy down and had some more some soup while she tried to think things
through.
Explanation Number One: The good Father
was out of his freaking gourd, kind eyes or not, and he’d probably put that
useless talking wrist thingy together with a pieces of discarded I-Phones and baling
wire. She wasn’t in New York, she was probably in some abandoned church in
Michigan, and any second now Aleksander and the Faceless Vigilante, who
probably was a leather-clad gimp living in a steamer trunk in the next room,
would grab her and do unspeakable things while they sang a jaunty song from Oklahoma .
Explanation Number Two: Christine’s brain
had been scrambled by some roofie combo last night, and she’d apparently
forgotten a few facts of life, such as phone numbers having one more digit than
she remembered and that the latest mobile devices had wrist straps. The damage
was probably permanent and she’d spend the rest of her life painting pleasant
watercolors in some innocuously-named institution with beautiful lawns and tall
walls where they played soothing Enya tunes in the background.
Explanation Number Three: This was all a
dream, and she was in a hospital, or lying unconscious on the frat house lawn,
dreaming of Ukrainian Orthodox priests and wrist-comms and cabbage and kings.
She would either wake up eventually, or check Explanation Two, except add more
Enya, eliminate watercolor painting or any activity and, for an added bonus,
orderlies rolling over her comatose body checking for bedsores every other
week. With her luck one of the orderlies would be called Buck and he’d be there
to… you know.
There was an Explanation Number Four, but
she didn’t want to go there. Might as well enjoy the borsch and watch the boob
tube, which was playing Live! With Regis and Betsy , which was weird
because Regis had retired a while back and weirder still because there was no
sign of Kelly Ripa or even Kathy Lee anywhere and she had no clue who Betsy
was. Whatever she did, she would not explore Explanation Number Four, because
that way lay madness.
The arrival of the Faceless Vigilante had
stopped her brain from shooting up into the stratosphere for a whole three
seconds or so. One look at him and she’d known several facts with total
conviction: she could trust him with her life, he wasn’t nearly as old as he
looked, and she was going to hug him like his name was Teddy and it was stuffed
bear season. Which led to discovering his real face was impossibly featureless.
Which should have freaked the frak out of her, but somehow didn’t. The crazy
is strong with this one, this one being me. Either she had quietly flipped
out or her weirdness threshold had been exceeded to the point that her her
freak-out engine was out of gas. Explanation One was discarded, which left
Explanations Two or Three, but Four was beginning to poke its crazy little head
from the corner of her mind she had consigned it to. People like Face-Off
didn’t exist in her world. Which meant…
The news report came in, and that did the
trick. Especially when they
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