Missionary

Walt staggered into Mica and then draped himself over Mica’s shoulder. He shouted something, but Mica had no idea what he’d said. "Can’t hear you," he mouthed as precisely as any number of mood enhancers floating on a sea of alcohol would allow.

Walt shouted again, but Mica could only shake his head. So Walt tried printing something out on his led only to collapse against Mica in helpless laughter as a stream of gibberish scrolled across. Mica laughed with him. Baud, it had been eons since he’d cut loose like this. Even if they failed to collect any evidence on this impetuous run to Seattle, it wouldn’t be a total waste. At least Mica had been able to find his misplaced sense of humor.

A young man collided with them and hung on as well. They were fast becoming an island in the middle of the rampaging dance floor. Perhaps sensing the inappropriateness of their immobility, Walt gripped the young man’s hand and twirled off with him.

Mica watched them go, smiling. It always amused him how Walt, usually as dull as any white bread gringo, turned on his Latin charm in situations like this, dark hair slicked back instead of falling over his forehead the way it usually did, brown eyes smoldering with passion. With another grin, Mica went back to whatever it was that he’d been doing. Maybe Central was right. Maybe this was just an urban myth, a spooky-spoofy X-files conspiracy of young men spirited away in the dark of the night. So far he hadn’t seen the slightest sign of apprehension. Each club was solid with music, bodies, testosterone, youth and so much horniness even the most well-adjusted luminizen might have been scandalized.

• • •

The seven of them sauntered along Broadway, five missionaries and two friends out on the town. They hadn’t detoxed yet, deciding to try just one more club. It was lovely out, late April, the air damp against his skin and packed full of oxygen so close, here, to sea level. Even more miraculous, it wasn’t raining. Mica was full of himself. He was so enjoying being all faggoty in the uninhibited company of Walt and his friends. Most men were liberated now, but sometimes Mica forgot he had that luxury.

The van was old and armored. As it screeched to a stop, all three doors flew open. A group of hooded men were on them in an instant.

A stick to the belly doubled Mica over. Someone kicked him in the head. Someone else, Walt, slammed into him. He tried to steady himself, ducked as a fist came his way. Then he lashed out, going for the dark shapes, trying to sort out the builds and luminescent clothing of his companions.

"Let’s get out of here!" one of them bellowed.

Good idea. These bastards were tough. There were only four, maybe five. Though the seven of them weren’t outnumbered, they were clearly losing the fight.

Mica jabbed his elbow into the guy holding him and bolted. Even as he sprinted away, he felt vindicated. The rumors were true. They were. Wait till he got back to Central.

A single shot. A cry of anguish. Mica spun around. He crumpled down against the concrete foundation of a building. It was Walt, Walt writhing on the sidewalk and gripping his thigh. Two men grabbed him under the arms. Walt jabbed and kicked at them. The van was backing toward them down the street, light streaming out from the side door. Mica could see the silhouette of a shotgun or rifle in the fourth man’s hands.

Greg, next to him, moved forward to help Walt. And someone else. Mica tried, but he felt glued to the rough cement. It was like the echoing crack of the gun had severed something inside.

The man with the rifle squeezed off a couple more shots. Then he turned to help the other two wrestle Walt into the van. They jumped inside. The tires squealed. The van pulled away. For a moment Walt, head and torso straining, was visible, but then they hauled him back inside and the door slammed shut.

Only then could Mica move. He hurtled after the van, feet pounding against the sidewalk, trying to see something, anything, in the dark, the make, the license number. "Walt," he yelled. "Walt." Three or four blocks later he finally gave it up. The others caught up to him and circled round. Mica gripped their shoulders as he fought for air. Central had been right. "This is for the cowboys," they’d warned him and Walt. "If the rumors are true, it’s nothing the two of you should be messing with."

The faces of Walt’s friends looked ghastly under the streetlight. "We’ve gotta go after him," Mica said, still staring off in the direction the van had gone as if he could hold onto some kind of connection to Walt.

"Go after him in what?" Garrity demanded. "We came by transport, remember?"

"We should link up," Greg suggested, already touching wrists with his partner. "Central could have a car here in a couple minutes."

"Of course, of course," Mica agreed, joining his wrist to Greg’s. Stupid. He seemed to get stupider every day. They’d planned this little adventure in secret for so long he was still locked into that clandestine way of thinking, but the time for secrets was over. Already Walt could be anywhere, shackled in the basement of some Seattle cult or on his way to one of the camps in the rough country outside the city. They’d need every resource and technological advantage of Central to find him, and to find him in time. With a vicious snap of his head, Mica forced himself to focus on the linked call for help. But still, in the back of his mind, the research he had done ticked away. Of the half dozen men reported missing, not one of them had ever been found.