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George Armstrong Custer watched with everyone else as Earheart’s plane soared away to New York. And watched as everyone went their own way, to savor what night there remained to them.
In one direction went Thinker and the white Grecian marble woman whose name escaped him. In another, the Tuskegee Airmen talking amongst themselves. Those cherubim soared overhead, circling around and around each other, seeing how high they could climb before the magic of the night brought them back down.
The Giant Octopus rolled and splashed in the Reflecting Pool, not looking like it was about to head for the basement one second sooner than it had to.
Everyone left. Everyone but Custer himself. “We’ll know,” he said to himself. “We know what we did here, on this night.” We saved the world. Stopped the agents of darkness and death.
But that didn’t help the fact that he was alone.
It crossed his mind that perhaps he should walk down to the Museum of the American Indian, and see if Monasetah was there. “No,” George told himself. “I’m here because of my disaster. They wouldn’t have her there.” Or at least not on display, a thought which lifted his spirits – he hadn’t been on display either.
With a look at the sky to gauge how long it was until the break of day, Custer then dashed to the nearest museum with an eye to getting back underground. What do I have to lose? If I can find Libbie or Monasetah, or better still both, even if I come upon them two moments before daylight kisses the horizon, then that’s by far better than just sitting on my duff between now and dawn. It would be an ending he would have no problem with.
And so he spent the next hour and some, searching, questing, reading each label on every crate that looked as though it might hold something the size of the women in his life. Not my previous life. Not entirely. If it weren’t for them, I’d make a clean break. Mostly but not solely from Little Bighorn.
And right after nearly being gored by a Chinese kirin, Custer leaned against the empty box, one hand to his forehead as if to wipe away sweat, and
*
And instantly found himself back where he had been when the adventure had begun. Was it all a dream? No, Custer thought to himself, dismissing that possibility. No plastic draped over me like some rogue blanket.
A quick look around soon confirmed his fear: I’m back. But how did I get back here?
A thought occurred to him, and it was at least as frightening: we’re alive again. Now what?
Custer sat down on a circular base which read ‘North Island Moa’ but was devoid of giant birds. He well remembered how Larry had suggested to him that the people here needed a leader. He remembered as well how, when Larry had asked if he wanted to be that leader, he had said yes. I could’ve said ‘just for now.’ But I didn’t think we were going to wake up again.
With him alone.
“Me in charge,” he said to himself. “Great. For how long?” Unspoken but certainly thought was, How long until Kamenra or someone else comes to fight for control?
And how long until I have another atrocity under my belt? He remembered men back in his day, men who, when they had power, let it go to their heads. Probably going to be me in…well, does it really matter how long it takes?
Further introspection was put on hold when a woman told Custer, “Hands on your head.”
He turned said head, and saw someone in a uniform identical to Larry’s own, so he complied. “General George Armstrong Custer,” he introduced himself to her. “At your service.”
“Sure you are. And I’m Valentina Tereskova,” this woman night guard said, holding a gun on him.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Custer said, though he had a feeling that eye-rolling meant the same now as it did when he was a boy. “S there a problem?”
“How’d you get in here?” she wanted to know.
Grinning, “Not a clue. I woke up down here, pitched in when I was needed, and, well, here I am,” Custer said proudly.
She pulled a handheld something from her belt, raising it to her unpainted lips. “Mike, we’ve got an intruder in -” and paused when there was something wrong. “No signal?” she asked herself. To the man who claimed to be Custer, she said, “What’s going on?”
“We came to life,” George Custer said simply, toning his grin down to a smile.
“’We’?”
“Everybody,” he said, not sure how to answer better than that, without getting into the nitty-gritty.
“Get up, and keep your hands on your head,” she decided, clipping the walkie-talkie back to her belt.
“We going somewhere?”
“You’re going to prison. Me, I’m going to finish my rounds after I turn you in.”
You haven’t seen anyone else down here? which gave him an idea. “I’m unarmed,” Custer said. “I just want to do one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said. Though I don’t recognize any of the names on the crates here, I don’t have any other options. Killing the night guard was not only a bad idea – Custer had seen how Larry had fought Kamenra – but it didn’t seem like the thing to do, either. “Just let me do one thing. I’m not coming toward you, and I’m not gonna run.”
“Then what?” she asked, not about to lower her gun.
Custer threw himself at the nearest crate, collapsing to the ground once there was enough room for whatever was in there to come out. Thank God it only took one hit, he thought to himself.
Several quaggas sedately looked out of the broken wall, looked around, and ducked back into the shelter of their crate.
“Usually they high-tail it away,” Custer said, remembering when he and Larry had raced through these corridors.
“Well they are extinct,” the night guard said, all the sarcasm drained away as she took in what she’d just seen. “George Custer?” she asked him.
“That’d be me,” he confirmed.
“I’m Joan.”
“Good to meet you. Let’s find ourselves some horses so we can run patrol.” Whether I lead or not, I think it’s best if I patrol this place – gives me something to do, long term.
“Horses?”
“That’s right.”
“If you’re General Custer, what do you need a horse for?”
“I like horses. I’d rather use one than that tank I saw down the hall last night. So a horse.”
“Of course, of course,” Joan muttered. “Who’re you looking for? Anyone in particular on this patrol?”
“My wives.”
“’Wives’ plural?”
Custer nodded. “Elizabeth and Monasetah. Libbie’s maiden name was Bacon, if it helps any. And Monasetah’s father was Little Rock, chief of the Cheyanne.”
Joan sighed and told him, “I’ll help you a little. Then I have to get back to work.”
“Sounds fair,” Custer said.
*
“Think you could help me?” Custer asked her as they went up the stairs.
“With what?” Joan asked. With what now?
“From what I’ve gathered together, no matter who’s in charge, there has to be a night guard keeping us from coming to blows.”
“And what are you basing this on?”
“Larry Dailey. From the New York museum.”
“Huh,” Joan said, and made a mental note to see if she could get in touch with Larry Dailey.
*
There was something about Joan’s face as she took in sights such as Darth Vader strolling alongside Valentina Tereshkova as they discussed the finer points of craft design, or Thinker continuing to show off for that Grecian, or…
“All this,” Joan said.
“Yup,” Custer said.
“Let me guess, you know where Jimmy Hoffa is too.”
“Not a clue. Think we should ask Earheart.”
“Amelia Earheart?” Joan asked. And when Custer nodded, she said, “Of course.”
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