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"Don’t you think coming here goes beyond macabre and falls into the category of completely and totally mental?” Casey asked, fiddling with a Gray Bobble-Head.
“You tell me, man,” Zeke drawled. He was looking through the bumper stickers: “I crashed in Roswell,” “Area 51: Use of deadly force authorized,” “I want to believe.”
“You’re not putting one of those on the car,” Casey said. He began looking through key chains. “We should send one of these to Stokes.”
“Knock yourself out,” Zeke said. “We could never go there again, since she would kill me for taking you here, but you go right ahead.”
“I should, and then let her have at you,” Casey said, and rubbed at his forehead with the back of his palm.
“Head still hurt?” Zeke asked. He had moved on to the books: Exposing the Military Cover-Up, What They Don’t Want You To Know, Loose Ends. The last title made Zeke snort.
Casey hadn’t bothered to answer Zeke and was chewing on his fingernails as he looked at little stuffed Grays. For some reason, they were in miniature baseball uniforms. Casey was squinting at them in a way that was becoming familiar, and was making Zeke think that Casey needed glasses.
“How’s your head?” Zeke asked again. He picked up one of the Bobble-Heads and made it wag its own disproportionate head at Casey in concern.
“Hurts,” Casey said succinctly, and rubbed at his eyes. “Can we leave now, Zeke?” This was the real Casey, or someone close to him, but the whine had strong overtones of the child Casey.
“Yeah,” Zeke drawled. “You gonna hit the bathroom again before we get back out on the road?”
Casey nodded and disappeared in the back. While he was gone, Zeke bought one of the stuffed Grays and a keychain for Stokely. She was going to kick his ass, but it would be worth it for the look of outrage on Stan’s face.
The Gray was for Casey. While he waited in the lobby, Zeke pulled the stupid thing out of the bag and made it dance around in front of him.
“Man, all these people who think it’s a joke,” he heard someone say, and glanced up to catch a glimpse of a dweeby-looking skinny guy in a grimy T-shirt and jeans being steered outside by a pony-tailed big man in inadequate shorts and a shirt that was riding up over his gut.
“Just remember,” Fatso told Dweeb, “when it all comes down, people like that won’t last a day. Totally unprepared.”
Zeke kept his eyes on them through the glass doors as they got into their car. He was so fixated on them that he jumped when Casey said at his elbow, “Zeke.”
“Present,” Zeke said, like Mr. Furlong used to, like one of those poor bastards who wouldn’t last a day when it all came down. “Here, gotcha something,” he said, and thrust the stuffed alien at Casey.
Casey snorted, but took the toy with a smile. “Wow, you shouldn’t have,” he said, then frowned and said, “You probably really shouldn’t have.”
“We’re flush right now,” Zeke said. “When are we ever going to drive by the International UFO Museum again? Gotta have something to mark the occasion.”
Casey shook the Gray, then poked its belly, then stroked its head gently and smiled. “Hey, buddy,” he said, “wanna go on a road trip with me and Zeke here? I should warn you, he’s grouchy and he’s stingy with his smokes.”
Zeke had just taken the pack out of his shirt pocket and slid one between his lips. He strode toward the door, Casey trailing behind him.
“Little Gray’s smokes are coming out of your allotment,” Zeke said. “Deal.”
Back in the car, Casey fell asleep in the heat and the drone of the highway. Zeke rolled down all the windows and wedged Little Gray onto the dashboard. “You and me, buddy,” Zeke told the toy. “We’re gonna be there when it all comes down.”
Maybe just a little bit mental, he thought, and kept driving.