Realizations

Continued from here.

"Geff?" I ask, "Geff's dead. His asthma got him when that," I point over my shoulder at the traitor curled in a fetal ball in agony, "said he was going to get medicine and betrayed us to New America."

Piper and fuzzy, I get where my imagination is going now.

Oh crap! While I was talking, he got his hand on the thing he was reaching for...

So my counterpart is dead. I guess that shouldn't surprise me; my human body did need things you can't just whomp up in a kitchen. I don't think he's processing what I'm saying; that was an awfully mild reaction to hearing a stranger claim to be your dead friend you're in the process of avenging. I need to keep it simple.
I unclip the ring and hold it out. "See the chain hanging from this? Try to grab it. You should be able to, right? I say you can't, that your hand will pass right through it. That chain is magic; I took it from a ghost. Go on, try to touch it."
If he was James Randi, this would get me a million dollars.

"OK, if you really are Geff, then why don't you seem the least bit concerned that a whacko has stabbed your brother in the gut with a knife and is insisting that you let him die a slow agonizing death while holding you at gun-point?"

"That's not my brother. Maybe his counterpart from another history, but not mine. Appearances aside, there's no way in hell you're strong enough to put a mundane knife through the clothes he always wears these days. As for the gun, panic is guaranteed not to help and I get wierder things than you free with my breakfast cereal. OK, they don't make cereal anymore, but that quote was too good to pass up. Seriously, though, I kill monsters for a living now. Undead and demons, mostly, because I have a talent for finding them. Once you've seen somebody cut in half, only to have the lower half grow a mouth and then both halves keep trying to kill you, plain old bullets just aren't quite so scary anymore."
"Also, if I can talk you down, that stab wound can be healed. And maybe he really is that traitor from your timeline; if so, you can have him. I hate fucking Illinois Nazis. On that point, can you think of any physical changes from after the point of divergence? Does your 'New America' tattoo its members or something?"

"OK, if it's my Chris, he's got a scar on his right forearm from when I rolled the car in Kentucky."

"You know, somehow the dead coming back to life seems more comfortable than what plain old humans do to each other."

Slinging the rifle, I pry Chris' arm away from his belly and check for the scar. And there it is.

"Look!" I say, "It's the prick I say it is."

"I never saw any such scar before, so that's a big point in your favor. It's a good start, but his failure to flee still has me worried. I don't know anything about paratime besides what I've read in science fiction, and as far as I know, those authors were making it up. If you're wrong, my not stopping you means I share in the guilt; I need to be literally stab-somebody-in-the-gut sure about this. Let's see if there's anything on him that doesn't fit. Does his driver's license show a renewal date after the nuclear war? Is he carrying money that wouldn't spend? Is there anything fishy here, anything at all?"
Wow. I never participated in a murder before.
"Oh, about the dead coming back? If that was all it was, I wouldn't rekill them just for being what they are. The nicest ones just devour your flesh. Less cuddly are those that make you their slave for all eternity. And there is no way in hell I'm taking any chance of raising a revenant. I destroy undead for a living, and I freely and publicly admit that I am terrified of revenants. If this Chris dies, there are some funereal rites I will perform. As your undead hunter, I strongly advise you to participate."

"He probably didn't run because he didn't recognize me. Hell, I noticed a long time ago that the wanted posters stopped looking like me a long time ago. Being a guerrilla is more than a little stressful and the food sucks. I had hair last time he saw me too."

Not that anyone could see that I was shiny head bald under the bandanna and boonie hat.

"I would guess that 'this' has a New America ID with his tier number on it. Anything above a 20 is a citizen, anything above 30 is master race. You don't flip off the master race," I hold up my left hand so Felix the Cat can see that the middle finger is gone.

"You wanna check him for ID, go right ahead, I am convinced I got the right one. And I am not entirely certain that I don't want to off every single Chris in every conceivable dimension. It might be cathartic. It might also knock me off the edge, I mean I am talking to comic book character."

"Ouch. The good news is, you can get that regrown if we can get back to town."
There's no way around it. I have to pick a dying man's pocket. For bonus points, he looks just like my brother.
"Here it is. Tier 26, citizen." I hold the card up for everyone to see. Then I drop it and wipe the blood off my hands.
"Okay, he's yours. Let me know when he croaks; we really need to keep him dead. Once that's taken care of, I recommend figuring out where and when we are."