Encounters Magazine 13

This publication copyright 2015 by Black Matrix Publishing LLC and individually copyrighted by artists and individuals who have contributed to this issue. All stories in this magazine are fiction. Names, characters and places are products of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of the characters to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Encounters Magazine is published bi­monthly by Black Matrix Publishing LLC, 1339 Marcy Loop Rd, Grants Pass, OR 97527. Our Web site: www.blackmatrixpub.com

ABOUT OUR COVER ARTIST Gary McCluskey Gary McCluskey has been working as an artist for over 20 years doing everything from book covers, comic books, magazine illustrations, rpg artwork, logo design and greeting cards. We are happy to have his art grace our cover for the fourth time. You can find his contact information and browse his gallery and other links at: http://garymccluskey.carbonmade.com/

ENCOUNTERS MAGAZINE Volume 03 April/May 2015 Issue 13 Table of Contents THE MOWER by M. B. Vujacic – Page 5 BROKEN CITY by Chuck Augello – Page 25 THE JULIUS DIRECTIVE by Jacob Lambert – Page 41 THE HOUSE ON GUARD HILL ROAD by Sean McLachlan – Page 62 FORTY­FOUR NORTH by Robert Steele – Page 86 THE TREES OF GAIA by Anna Sykora – Page 104 THE GLASS EYE by John Buentello and Lawrence Buentello – Page 121

PUBLISHER: Kim Kenyon EDITOR: Guy Kenyon

From the Editor's Desk As I'm sure you have noticed, on our back issue page of our website, the first four issues of Encounters are not available.

You can now find them in PDF format on issuu.com.

The first four editions of Encounters were originally designed as print publications. They were large format, perfect bound magazines that contained 70,000 to 120,000 words of fiction per issue. We are still very proud of their quality and content, but we realized it was not going to be possible to sustain the production cost, so we made the switch to a digital format, which has been more successful for us.

A story achieves its greatest value when it is read. With that thought in mind, we have concentrated on placing the work of our authors and artists in front of as many people as we can and this issue of Encounters will be emailed to, downloaded, and read online by more than 1000 people. Our goal is to at least double that readership by the end of this year.

That is one of the reasons we have taken the additional steps to post all editions of Encounters on issuu.com. Readers can go to the site and have access to all copies, including #1 through #4, in their Web browser, or (for a better reading experience) download the Issuu app for Android, iOS and Windows tablets and mobile devices. Of course, you can also continue to download most back issues and all new releases from our website at www.blackmatrixpub.com.

We have watched Encounters become a truly international endeavor over the past year with our writers, artists and readers hailing from all parts of the globe. We are working to continue that trend and look forward to what the future may hold for our favorite fiction magazine.

Guy Kenyon Encounters Magazine 03/11/2015

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THE MOWER

by M. B. Vujacic

"C'mon Jun," Slade said. "Hop in."

If Junior heard him, he didn't show it. He leaned against the open door, staring into the car. His eyes were wide, his lips curved up at the corners. He ogled the touchscreen on the dashboard, the matte­black leather seats with their dual safety belts, the chrome wheel with its handholds made of anti­perspiration rubber. He glanced at Slade. The garage lights made his acne blood­ red. "Dad, this is awesome! Holy shit!"

Slade smiled. "Get in. My shift's about to start."

Junior sat in the passenger seat, slipped on the safety belts. He fumbled with the latches for a few moments before clicking them into place, then slid his fingers over the dashboard. He looked like he was about to start giggling. Slade chuckled. So much for the notion that teenagers were impossible to please.

Slade tapped a button on the touchscreen. There was a series of thuds as half a dozen bolts slid into place, followed by the soft buzz of closing windows and the hiss of the air­purifier starting up. He tapped another button and the lights in the garage went off. The gate began to rise.

The glare­sensors activated as Slade drove out into the street, dimming the windshield and the windows until the sun became a dull gray ball. He said, "Quiet now," to Junior, and pressed the Talk button on his headset. "One­ 5

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oh­seven, moving out."

"Roger, one­oh­seven. Good hunting."

"You bet."

As they drove through the suburbs, pedestrians stopped what they were doing and moved away from the road.

Some even stepped onto the nearby lawns, keeping their children behind them. Cars changed lanes to get out of Slade's path, or turned into parking spaces and stayed there until he passed. He kept his speed between twenty­ five and thirty miles per hour, enjoying the cruise. Junior fidgeted, but Slade ignored him. Sooner or later, a criminal would show up and then Jun would get all the speed he could ever want.

Sure enough, they soon spotted one near the old shopping mall; the one with all the sex shops and thrift stores. The neighborhood was quiet but for a loudspeaker broadcasting the Marshal's speeches. The criminal in question was a girl of about sixteen, dressed in a black shirt and bermuda shorts. She walked across a four­lane intersection, ignoring the red light as she skimmed through the magazine in her hands. Tabloid junk, probably, Slade thought. She must've skipped classes to come here, the little skank.

“Dad,” Junior shouted, pointing at the criminal.

“There's one! On the intersection!”

“I see her,” Slade said, pressing the clutch and giving the gas pedal just enough pressure to make the engine growl.

Junior squealed with joy. “Oh my God! Oh Jesus! This is so cool!”

“Hold on,” Slade said, “you might feel a little bump.”

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He began releasing the clutch and laying on the gas, and just like that they were pushing eighty, the force of the acceleration pressing them into their seats. Pedestrians scattered every which way and horns blared from all sides as the treasonous bastards in the other cars tried to warn the criminal. Your time will come, assholes, Slade thought, and pressed the big red button next to the wheel.

There was a clatter like a hundred swords being drawn simultaneously. Then the seventy­five saws, blades, and grinders that comprised the reel cutter at the front of the vehicle sprung to life, spinning and stabbing and slicing fast enough to turn the entire contraption into a silvery blur.

“Yeeeeeehhhhhaaaaawwwwww!” Junior shrieked.

The girl saw them. She dashed toward the sidewalk, the magazine falling from her hands. There was a scream and a bang as Slade ran her over, followed by an earsplitting roar as she was yanked into the reel cutter. The high­ powered vacuums behind the cutter kicked in, sucking in her remains, storing them for later disposal.

“Oh my God, dad, that was incredible!” Junior shouted.

“It ate her whole! That's the coolest thing I've ever seen!”

He leaned forward, trying to see through the blood­ splattered windshield. The wipers and the sprinklers activated automatically, scrubbing the glass until it was as clean as if they'd just left the car wash.

Slade threw the gear into reverse, pulling back into his own lane. Some of the heads in the other cars turned to watch him pass, their expressions ranging from fear to anger to despair. Most, however, stared at the crimson splotch next to the sidewalk. From the loudspeaker, the 7

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Marshal told everyone that the survival of this great nation depended on its people's willingness to report any dissident talk to the authorities.

They drove past the shopping mall and made their way to the riverside. The hobos scavenging among the piles of trash on the shore watched them cruise by. They found no criminals there ­ none Slade was authorized to punish anyway ­ so they headed back to the suburbs. Forty­five minutes later, he decided they wouldn't find any criminals there, either, so he parked at the curb and unpacked their breakfast.

“How old's this thing?” Junior asked through a mouthful of sandwich.

“Two years. Got it straight from the assembly line.”

“Awesome.”

“This one's a KS­407. It's good, but the old 306 was better. It had a slower start and its vacuums tended to clog up, but it had a broader cutter, so you could­” Junior pointed over Slade's shoulder. “Criminal!” he said, spraying breadcrumbs.

Slade spun around. A man stood in the middle of the street, a hundred or so yards from where they parked, waving a picket sign with MARSHAL LIES written on it in red letters. He was tall and athletic, his tanned limbs looking almost roasted next to his white shirt and shorts.

He wore a black and white mask.

“Son of a bitch,” Slade whispered.

“Is he a roadrunner, dad? He is, isn't he?”

“It's goddamn Mickey,” Slade said as he dumped his sandwich into Junior's lap and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He grabbed the wheel and stepped on the gas. The 8

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tires screeched.

Mickey flung the picket sign aside and sprinted down the street, arms pumping. He could've run onto the sidewalk and into a garden at any time, but he stayed in the middle of the lane. Slade drove after him, activating the reel cutter even though Mickey was still a good distance away.

Mickey reached an intersection, turned left, and dashed past another criminal, this one a woman with an Elvis mask. She stood on the crosswalk despite the red light. A pair of empty plastic gas cans lay at her feet. She dropped the mop she was holding and ran toward the sidewalk.

Slade considered going after her, then thought Fuck it and swerved toward Mickey, barely missing an oncoming truck as he cut across the intersection.

He ran over the two gas cans. The cutter ripped them apart and scattered the pieces. Mickey glanced over his shoulder, then threw himself to the side, rolling on the asphalt like a goddamn stunt man. Slade shouted incoherently and veered toward him. Every hair on his body rose in anticipation. This was it. Mickey was toast.

Only ten yards now.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Si­ The car skidded past Mickey, missing him by a few feet.

Slade spun the wheel, but the vehicle kept sliding, completely out of his control. Then he saw the parked cars up ahead and quickly switched the reel cutter off.

Time seemed to slow down as the cars came closer closer 9

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closer in what felt like total silence despite Junior's screams.

It's July, Slade thought, where did this damn ice come fro­ They slammed into a parked jeep at what must've been at least sixty miles per hour. Even inactive, the reel cutter ripped through the jeep's side like a jackhammer through cheap concrete. It pushed it onto the sidewalk, through a picket fence, and into a veranda with enough force to reduce both the jeep and the veranda to debris. Slade and Junior gasped as the impact drove them chest­first into their safety belts, and then the cabin filled with airbags and car alarms went off all over the place.

When he could breathe again, Slade unstrapped their belts and checked Junior's pulse. It was strong, thank God. He considered giving his son's ear a pinch to wake him up, and decided it could wait. He deflated the airbags, pressed the Talk button, and requested assistance. A crowd gathered outside. They didn't appear hostile, but Slade still donned his helmet and cocked his service pistol, just in case. Mickey and the Elvis whore were nowhere to be seen.

A riot squad arrived fifteen minutes later. Slade waited for them to disembark from their APC and form a cordon around his vehicle before he lowered the helmet visor and stepped out. Junior remained inside.

Slade cursed. The reel cutter looked like it had eaten a grenade. Most of its blades were bent or broken, with chunks of jeep stuck between the saws and the grinders.

Police insurance should cover most of it, but...

"Was it a roadrunner, sir?" the riot sergeant asked.

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Slade nodded. "Yeah. Mickey."

"You know him, sir?"

“Not his real name. But he always wears a Mickey Mouse mask," Slade said. When he saw the sergeant's blank expression, he added: "It's a character from a cartoon they used to make when I was a kid.”

"Do you think he planned­" "What are you, a wannabe detective? Call a tow truck and get me the hell outta here."

"Sorry, sir," the sergeant said. He began talking into his headset: "Requesting transportation for model KS­407 Perdition Class Sentinel, transferring coord­" "What?" Slade said. "What did you call it?"

"I, ah, Perdition Class­" "Shut up. You know damn well nobody calls it that. Its real name. Say it."

The sergeant licked his lips. "The mower."

Slade snorted. "Fucking A. Doesn't that make you feel better already?"

The Marshal first announced the Traffic Law Enforcement Program during the early 2030s, shortly after he came into power. Its official purpose was to address the growing problem of traffic­related accidents in major cities by taking a more radical approach to enforcing traffic laws. Its unofficial goal, revealed years later when a foreign newspaper interviewed one of the Marshal's exiled lovers, was to put an end to the one thing the Marshal loathed above all else: jaywalking.

Whatever the truth, military­grade Hummers with 11

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dozer blades attached to their fronts appeared on the streets just months after the announcement. A man of few words, the Marshal introduced them simply as “the mowers,” and the name stuck. Over the years, various factions lobbied to change it to something more sophisticated, and while some of the proposed names gained popularity and even found a home in legal speech, in the public's mind both the vehicles and their drivers would always be known by their original moniker.

Now, halfway through the 2050s, though the dozer­ Hummers had long since been retired in favor of more advanced vehicles, the laws governing the mowers had remained the same. Any mower who spotted a jaywalker was required to dispense capital punishment on the spot by running the culprit over. A fleeing culprit could be pursued onto the sidewalk and into parking lots, but no further. Escaped culprits became the responsibility of the local police force. For safety reasons, the identities of the mower drivers were treated as a state secret, known only to certain high ranking Party officials.

The first roadrunners appeared less than a year after the mower branch was founded. Motivated by huge bets, an adrenaline addiction, or plain old insanity, these men and women deliberately jaywalked where mowers could see them, leading them on merry chases before escaping where vehicles couldn't follow. The majority were either killed by the mowers they baited, caught by the police, or wise enough to quit while they were still ahead. Those few roadrunners who didn't die or retire became famous both on the Internet and among the mowers themselves.

As the most successful roadrunner in the city's history, 12

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with over five years of activity, Mickey was one such living legend. Videos of his road runs, not to mention Party­bashing articles he supposedly wrote, infested the Internet no matter how hard the government worked to suppress them. He was also the only roadrunner Slade ­ the department's most decorated mower driver ­ had failed to so much as graze.

There had, of course, been no ice on the street on the day Slade and Junior crashed into the parked jeep. The Elvis slut had spilled two gas cans worth of engine oil on the asphalt, and Mickey had lured Slade onto the puddle.

They'd even mixed other chemicals into the oil to make it more slippery. For years Slade had fantasized about the day when he'd finally be able to say: "Mickey's down. I repeat, Mickey's a dead rat. Can I hear a hallelujah?" Even so, it had never been truly personal. Now, though? Now it was personal as all hell.

For three weeks Slade spent most of his free time at the station, watching hours upon hours of governmental surveillance footage taken by the cameras in the general area around the intersection where Mickey and his whore had set up their trap. His colleagues questioned his sanity and his wife accused him of having an affair, but they could all go suck a fat one because Slade was right. He proved it when, grinning like a jackal, he strolled into the Chief of Police's office and dropped a handful of stills on the desk.

The Chief looked at them, frowning. "You know who this is?"

"Database says her name's Leah Williamson."

"You know who her parents are?"

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Slade shook his head.

"Benjamin and Lydia Williamson. He's one of the leading oncologists in the country and she's a dean of medicine with eight books and God knows how many charities to her name. They've been Party members for over thirty years."

"You're joking."

"Also, Leah is their only child. And a member of Marshal's Youth."

"She's a goddamn roadrunner. She wrecked my mower, for Christ's sake."

"I don't care, we're not reporting her."

"You can't be seri­" "No, you can't be serious if you think I'm gonna prosecute a Party affiliate with no previous offenses."

Slade threw his hands up. "She's gonna do it again."

"And you're free to run her over when she does, but that's it. No courts, no arrests, none of that crap." The Chief took off his glasses and gave Slade a hard stare. His gray eyes looked dead. "The last thing this department needs is another scandal, you understand?"

Slade snorted. He understood, all right. He returned to his desk and dialed a number, studying the stills while it rang. They showed Leah Williamson emerging from an alley with Mickey at her side. Her expression was all serious, her brown hair tied in a bun, the Elvis mask hanging upside down from her hand. Just a little girl playing cowboy.

The phone clicked. "Yeah?"

"Hey Gina," Slade said. "About that money you owe me... I think we can work something out."

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Leah Williamson was one busy girl.

For three weeks Slade and Gina had watched her, hoping to get a lead on Mickey, but all they discovered was that she had many places to be and even more people to see. The only consistent thing about her daily routine were her evening jogs. Sometimes she visited a local football field and sprinted. Slade double­checked all her associates, but found nothing of interest. Eventually, he gave up and told Gina it was time for Plan B. "So this Gina used to drive a mower, huh?" Junior said.

"Why did she stop?"

"The Chief had to fire her."

"What happened?"

Slade shrugged. "It wasn't her fault. The Department of Transportation wasn't doing its job."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean some kids were crossing the street and Gina thought they were jaywalking because the crosswalk was so faded you couldn't see the stripes unless you were right on top of them." He shrugged again. "Everyone knew it was bull, but it was easier to fire her than ask why that crosswalk hadn't been repainted in God knows how many years."

They drove through an empty street, half a block from where Leah Williamson lived with her parents. It was one of those rich neighborhoods where every tree looked like it had its own personal barber. It was so fancy the loudspeakers listing the Marshal's accomplishments were programmed to lower the volume after nine.

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Slade requested to be transferred to the night shift the moment he learned of Leah's penchant for evening jogs.

When asked why, he told the Chief he needed a change of scenery. The Chief scoffed at that, but granted the request anyway.

"Dad, is that her?" Junior said, pointing.

A brunette in shorts and a sleeveless shirt stood at an intersection, about a hundred yards away. Her hair hung in a ponytail, her back turned to them. She waited for the green light.

Slade nodded. "Right."

"She's hot."

"Shut up, Jun." He reached for his smartphone.

Gina picked up on the first ring. "I see her," she whispered.

"Go for it, girl," he said, and hung up.

Up ahead, the light turned green. Leah crossed the street and turned right. Slade drove up to the intersection as if intending to take a left, careful to position the mower so that the hood­mounted cameras wouldn't record what was about to happen. There were no other cars in sight.

Gina sprang from behind a large bush just as Leah jogged past it. A stocky woman in her forties, with short hair and a broad chest that made her look more masculine than some men Slade knew, Gina brought her baton down on Leah's arm with enough force to snap the bone. Leah screamed, her hand flying to her shoulder, the earbuds falling from her ears. Gina struck her across the nose, then gave her the kind of push that would make a football lineman proud. Leah stumbled into the street, arms flailing. She was still trying to regain her balance 16

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when Slade ran her over.

"Wooooooooooo!" Junior screamed as Leah's blood painted the windshield red. "Dad, you have the best job ever!"

Slade smiled. Another day, another victory for the justice system.

A minor scandal arose.

Leah's parents tried their damnedest to raise a ruckus, only to be drowned out by all the tabloids, newscasts, and talk shows discussing how awful it was that a member of Marshal's Youth could grow up to become a jaywalker.

The entire thing culminated with Benjamin and Lydia Williamson's expulsion from the Party and their eventual retreat to a life of anonymity.

Slade himself never came under suspicion. The footage from the hood­mounted cameras on his mower showed Leah standing on what was clearly a vehicle­only road.

Her erratic movements suggested severe intoxication, perhaps even narcotics abuse. Gina could be seen watching from the sidewalk, an innocent bystander. She told the police that Leah had indeed looked drunk. Her status as an ex­mower driver kept her safe from regular investigation, and her association with Slade remained a secret. With no other witnesses and no surveillance cameras at that intersection, there was nothing to suggest foul play.

A month after Leah's death, Junior announced his intention to become a mower driver, like his dad. Slade was so proud he bought a round of drinks for the entire 17

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bar. His joy died the next morning, when the following message appeared on one of the illegal blogs supposedly owned by Mickey: To the mower who murdered Leah Williamson: I know who you are.

I know what you did.

I will make you pay.

Sincerely, M. The Chief tsk­tsked. "You did something, huh? Who would've thought," he said, giving Slade a wry smile.

Slade frowned. "No way Mickey wrote that. It's just some idiot spouting sensationalist bull to get people to visit his blog." He really believed that, too. The Mower Protection Program, combined with the reflective windows and the absence of unique markings on the mowers themselves, made sure the identities of the drivers remained secret. The only way someone on the outside could get that information was if they bribed an important person or two. He doubted scum like Mickey would even know who to bribe, let alone how to do it without getting caught.

Still, Slade took no chances. He requested an escort for the first time in his career, and spent the next month followed at all times by at least one car full of cops in civilian clothes. Two weeks into this, he deliberately adopted a set route and stuck to it. Mickey didn't take the bait.

During the two months after the escort was pulled, 18

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Slade never once let his guard down. He wore a bulletproof vest under his uniform, avoided remote parts of the city, and made sure he always had a shotgun within easy reach. Nobody saw Mickey during this time.

Eventually, Slade decided enough was enough and that he could start taking Junior to work with him again.

Now it was late autumn, just another day at the grinder. Slade and Junior cruised through a riverside district, driving past a row of warehouses. It had been raining all night and the streets were damp, the sky gray and sunless.

Junior thumbed through a law enforcement brochure, frowning. "It says here I need a driver's license, a psychological evaluation, completed basic training, a bunch of college degrees, and five years as a traffic officer before I can apply for a mower."

Slade snorted. "They keep changing the requirements.

Back in my day, all you needed was a driver's license and a job as a traffic cop."

Junior threw the brochure on the back seat. "At this rate, they won't let me drive a mower until I'm, like, thirty."

"You'll study hard."

"Yeah, but five years on the force."

"We might be able to speed things up. The Chief is a friend of mine, and his cousin works at the recruitment center. Maybe I can­" Something thumped into the windshield, exploding into a large red smear. For a moment, Slade wondered if he'd accidentally ran over a dog or a pigeon or something, then realized that couldn't be, because the reel cutter was 19

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turned off and­ Thump. A new smear bloomed next to the first one.

"Is that a tomato?" Junior said, his eyes like saucers.

The culprit stood under a parking sign. He wore a yellow tracksuit and a black ski­mask that left only his eyes visible. A plastic bag lay at his feet. He took another tomato from it and flung it at the mower. It struck the driver­side door, splashing all over the TO PROTECT AND SERVE sign.

"Son of a whore," Slade said.

The roadrunner gave them the finger and kicked the bag, spilling tomatoes onto the sidewalk. Then he took off, sprinting past the mower and back in the direction they'd come from. Slade threw the gear in reverse and spun the wheel, turning the mower around.

By then the roadrunner had already reached the opposite side of the street. He could've ran onto the sidewalk and up the nearby fire escape, but he stayed in the rightmost lane, scum that he was. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the reel cutter come to life, its blades spraying rainwater, so close they were about to start cutting strips from his ass.

Abruptly, the roadrunner leaped to the right, grabbed a lamppost, and swung around it like an acrobat. Slade swerved onto the sidewalk, realized the Chief would tear a chunk out of his paycheck if he took down a lamppost, and quickly steered back into the street. The roadrunner dashed past them, arms pumping, surefooted despite the wet asphalt. He made it across the street again and sprinted toward an alley between two warehouses. Slade smiled. It looked narrow, but not so much that a mower 20

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couldn't go through.

The roadrunner reached the passage with a twenty yard lead. The pavement there was cracked and filled with rainwater, forming a puddle that seemed deep enough to bathe in. The roadrunner leaped over it, then dashed toward a fire escape ladder on one of the warehouses.

"Oh no you don't," Slade said, and stepped on the gas.

The engine roared.

"Dad, watch out! The water, there's­" Slade saw it a split second later. He slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. They drove straight into the passage and over the puddle. A spike strip, its teeth poking out just above the water's surface, tore into the tires with a sound like a machine gun burst. The mower skidded, its side grinding against the warehouse wall, raining sparks. Junior shrieked.

The roadrunner leaped again, grabbed the ladder, and scurried up up up, like a spider scaling a wall. The mower kept moving toward him, carried by its own momentum, but he bent his legs at the last instant, the spinning blades missing his feet by a hand's width. The mower passed under the ladder and came to a stop.

Slade howled incoherently, then started banging his fist on the steering wheel.

"Jesus­" Bang. "­fuckin'­" Bang. "­cocksuckin'­" Bang. "­Christ!"

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He let out another howl, then looked at Junior. "Jun? You okay?"

Junior swallowed, nodding. His eyes glistened with tears.

Slade unlocked the safety belts. "I can't believe this shit, Jesus Christ, he­" Something struck the roof hard enough to make Slade flinch. It rolled down the windshield and onto the hood, coming to a stop when it hit the hood­mounted cameras.

It was about the size of a football, and it had a face ­ a white one with round black ears and a wide toothless smile. Its empty eye sockets stared at Slade.

How did it hit the roof so hard? Slade thought. It's just a rubber mask, it's not heavy, it­ His mouth fell open. He could see wires and other things inside the mask. They distorted its features, making it look like Mickey Mouse had tumors under his skin.

"Take cover!" Slade screamed, and yanked Jun down, thinking: We got an inch of plating, that bomb isn't gonna do shi­

Mickey locked the door and flipped the light switch.

The naked bulb on the ceiling flashed and died with a sound like glass cracking, leaving the room in shadows.

He looked at it for a few seconds, then kicked off his running shoes and went into the bathroom. There, he removed his wet clothes piece by piece and dropped them into the laundry basket. He took his ski­mask out of the tracksuit pocket and just stood there for awhile, holding it in his hands.

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The apartment was a one­room affair, all bare walls and naked parquet floors with a piece of furniture here and there. The curtains were drawn, their yellowish surface riddled with cigarette burns made by previous tenants. The air smelled of old wood, rotten plaster, and other things not so gladly mentioned. A photocopy of a police file lay on the couch. A photo of Slade was stapled to the first page, with CLASSIFIED stamped on its corner.

Mickey took the smartphone from the night table and texted a single word ­ Done ­ to Leah's father. He didn't need to do that ­ they'd see it on the news, if they hadn't already ­ but without Benjamin and Lydia Williamson's wealth and influence, he never would've discovered the name of Leah's killer, let alone funded this venture.

Mickey tore up the Slade file and threw the pieces into the toilet. "I hope it's scalding down there," he told the pieces as they disappeared down the drain. Then he took the bottle of tequila Leah had left there almost six months ago, and poured himself a glass.

Mickey picked up the remote and turned on the TV, changing the channels until he found the news. The newscast showed a bird's eye view of the two warehouses.

Smoke rose from the wreck in the alley between them.

Firefighters had managed to put out the fire, but the detonation had damaged the walls enough to make the entire alley unsafe. Riot squads had formed a cordon around the two warehouses to keep pedestrians away. "­no survivors. It is as yet unknown if this was an isolated incident or a deliberate act of terrorism. The police are still trying to identify the explosive device used. Experts claim that only military­grade weaponry could inflict this level of 23

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damage on a Perdition Class Sentinel, model KS­407, considered to be the­" Mickey turned off the TV. His eyes went to the only piece of decoration in the apartment ­ a digital photo frame on the mantelpiece. It showed Leah and him standing up to their knees in snow, a blue sky spread like a canvas behind them. Leah was resting her head against his shoulder. She was smiling.

Mickey raised the glass. "Happy birthday, baby," he told the photo, before downing the tequila. He poured himself another glass, and another, and kept going until the shadows had deepened and he could no longer bear to look at Leah's smile. So he turned the TV back on, changing the channels until he found the Marshal's smug face. Then, in a voice slurred with intoxication, he whispered the ghastliest insults he could think of.

Outside, the loudspeakers blared on and on.

Mijat Budimir Vujačić is an economist by trade, storyteller at heart. He is a published author of three horror novels written in Serbian: Krvavi Akvarel, NekRomansa, and Vampir. One of his stories appeared in a recent professional anthology Silent Scream, and another in the January 2015 issue of Infernal Ink Magazine. He believes a strong work ethic is the root of all success, and that it is best to err on the side of action. A fan of all things horror, he is also an avid gamer, hobby blogger, staunch dog person, hookah enthusiast, and a casual tarot reader. He lives in Belgrade, Serbia. You can reach him via e-mail: mbvujacic@gmail.com or follow him on twitter at: https://twitter.com/MBVujacic

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BROKEN CITY

by Chuck Augello

Eventually Maggie stopped talking about it.

No one believed her anyway, and in the days after the attack people didn’t want to hear it. Her manager Stephanie, who Maggie thought she could confide in, had slapped her across the face when she mentioned it, screaming that she could find a new place to work if she ever said it again. Perhaps it was understandable— Stephanie’s brother­in­law had been a trader at Cantor Fitzgerald—but even those with no relation to any of the victims found it appalling. So Maggie kept her mouth shut even though nothing had changed. She could still see the dead floating over Manhattan, three thousand bodies hanging in limbo above the broken city, a mass of corpses bearing witness to the fear and chaos below.

Most nights Maggie joined the candlelight vigils down at Ground Zero, hoping that all the love and sorrow displayed by the mourners might help the dead find solace and release their frightened souls. It was the first time in the two years since she’d moved to New York that she felt part of something outside herself, part of a community instead of just another pretty young actress­ waitress hustling for auditions that never arrived.

Sometimes the other mourners hugged her, shared a thermos of coffee or helped her light a candle with a flame from their own. Maggie said little but listened closely, hoping someone, anyone, might admit that they 25

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too saw the dead whenever they looked toward the sky.

On the fifth night of the vigil another young woman joined Maggie by the barricade. Her name was Lindsay; she worked in a boutique on Fifth Avenue and played occasional gigs with her band at a club down in Williamsburg. Maggie knew the club, had been there once on a date. They talked about music and clothes and cool places to hang out, all those things that had seemed crucial a few days before but now felt trivial, almost stupid. Still, it felt good to talk about something other than the dead, as if the old normal might somehow sneak back into their lives. After an hour they decided to get something to eat at the Lebanese place on Fulton, and while they walked Lindsay confessed that her fiancé was a cop who’d gone into the Tower and hadn’t come back.

“There’s still a chance, you know?” Lindsay said. “I heard someone say there might be air pockets within the rubble, places where you could stay alive for days. So he might be okay. Darren can hold his breath underwater for almost two minutes.”

Though most businesses were still closed the streets were crowded with pedestrians, people gathered in small circles gazing toward Ground Zero, sharing names of lost loved ones as if naming could somehow bring them back.

Maggie and Lindsay walked briskly toward the corner.

“I’m feeding his snake until he comes home. I hate that damn thing—it’s why we don’t live together. He told me he’d find it a new home before the wedding but it’s hard because those things live for forty years. But I still feed it because, you know, I love him.”

Lindsay started crying, and they ducked under an 26

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awning while she blew her nose and rubbed away the mascara trails. Maggie looked up at the sky, wondering if Darren was up there with the rest of the dead. They were too far away for her to see faces but she could make out body shapes and clothing: the sharp business suits, the kitchen whites, the heavy protective gear of the first responders. Lindsay shared a photograph on her cell and Maggie studied Darren’s face. At home she had a telescope with 300X magnification, a present from her grandfather on their family trip to Yellowstone. With the scope she could make out individual faces; she would search for Darren in the morning with the sky at its brightest.

At the restaurant they ordered taboulleh and a hummus platter. A large American flag hung over the window, hiding the shattered glass; the waiter, dark­skinned and Middle Eastern, watched the patrons with jittery eyes, a pair of tiny American flags pinned to his shirt.

Every few minutes Lindsay checked her phone, hoping someone might call about Darren.

“I heard they found a parking attendant trapped inside a car, still breathing,” she said. “So you never know, right?”

As they waited for the check Maggie offered to help Lindsay feed Darren’s snake.

“I worked in a pet store during high school. It’s no big deal.”

They agreed to spend another hour at Ground Zero and then catch the F train to Darren’s apartment. As they grabbed their purses, ready to leave, an old woman rushed to their table. Swaddled in black like an old world 27

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widow, she was gaunt, grey­skinned, and had crazy in her eyes. A pus­filled scab scarred the center of her nose, a strand of white hair growing out of it, curling toward her cheek.

“He’s out there, and he’s hungry,” she told them, grabbing Maggie’s jacket and pulling at the zipper before Maggie pushed her away. “There’s a hole in the world now, and from that hole he emerges. Young, pretty flesh, he feeds on it. He’ll make you his own.”

Maggie turned her back but the old woman spun around, blocking the exit.

“You know, don’t you?” the old woman hissed. She pointed at Lindsay. “She doesn’t see, but you see everything. He feeds on it.”

Maggie’s heart nearly stopped. Did the old woman know? Ever since her first glimpse, Tuesday afternoon, all those bodies floating in the sky, Maggie had wondered why she was the only one who could see them. There had to be others, didn’t there? Could the old woman see them, too?

“You—get away from my customers!” the waiter said, running over and batting the old woman with a dishtowel. “I said you can stay but stop talking that shit!

Get back in your booth, now!”

He hit the old woman with the towel again, snapping it against her backside while Maggie and Lindsay watched, stunned.

“He’s coming for you!” the old woman cried, stepping back to avoid a second snap of the towel.

“What the fuck?” Lindsay said, looking toward the old woman, who was back in her booth, huddled over her 28

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soup.

“She’s not right in the head but she’s family. I can’t kick her out,” the waiter said. “Please, next time you come, the meal is on the house.”

Lindsay grabbed Maggie’s arm and pulled her toward the door. “We’re out of here.”

Once outside they laughed about it, just a crazy old woman, but as they headed back toward Ground Zero a couple they recognized from the restaurant, a man and woman in their forties, smartly dressed, eminently normal, rushed after them, catching up while the two girls waited at a stop light.

“We heard that woman and wanted to warn you,” the man said. “She’s bat­shit crazy, definitely, but she might not be wrong.”

The traffic light turned and Maggie started walking, but Lindsay held her back.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve heard that some really bad stuff has started happening.” The woman clutched her purse while the man nodded gravely beside her. “The police and the media won’t talk about it because everyone’s already freaked out. I mean, isn’t that…” She pointed toward Ground Zero. “… Isn’t that horror enough? But people have found bodies …and body parts…with bite marks on them, the flesh torn apart...my uncle works for the City Morgue down on First—just be careful, okay?”

“They’re saying that the attack…ripped a hole in the world and something evil broke through,” the man said.

Maggie looked at the sky and watched the dead drifting in waves above the city. They floated in lines, in patterns, 29

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like migrating birds.

The couple hustled off to hail a cab and Maggie and Lindsay returned to Ground Zero. They stood by the barricades holding their candles, silently praying. Maggie recognized many of the gathered faces but now things seemed different, a sinister leer having crept into the eyes of everyone around her. It’s all in my head, she thought.

The couple and that woman in the restaurant were frightened and gullible, yet how was a hole in the world any stranger than seeing three thousand dead bodies hovering over Manhattan?

He feeds on it.

Am I somehow part of this? Maggie wondered.

Lindsay held up a photograph of Darren and pointed it toward the site, closing her eyes and dropping her head as she murmured into her chest. Maggie looked at the photograph and tried to memorize the detail—a dark­ haired, broad shouldered young man posing proudly in police blues, his wide smile showing a slight overbite, his eyebrows a bit too thick, yet handsome and vibrant and thoroughly alive. She touched the photo, her fingers brushing Lindsay’s hand, and the two girls gazed at the wreckage, all that twisted steel and metal, the air still heavy with ash.

They walked toward the train station, avoiding eye contact as they strode down the block.

“Were you serious about helping me feed Otto?”

Lindsay asked. “I mean—Darren’s snake.”

It seemed the least Maggie could do, considering Lindsay’s plight. They descended the stairs into the subway and waited for the next train. Even in normal 30

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times Maggie remained vigilant on the subway—women couldn’t afford not to be, there were too many creeps out there. She scanned the platform, the scattered commuters, the hip­hop kids with their gigantic pants and backward caps, the hipsters in their skinny jeans and ironic blue work shirts, the fashion girls with impossible heels, the typical scene, yet she couldn’t get those words…body parts…ripped a hole in the world…out of her head. She took a deep breath, leaned toward the edge and stared into the dark tunnel, waiting for those twin balls of light—the train’s eyes—to cut through the circle of black.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Lindsay asked.

The platform rumbled as the train pulled to a stop. The doors slid open and the girls climbed aboard, grabbing two seats at the back.

“We talked about it, you know, Darren and me,” Lindsay said. “With him being a cop there was always a chance of something bad happening. He didn’t believe in anything like that but one time, when I was eight, I saw my grandmother hanging laundry in the back yard. This was a week after she died. I called my mother and she looked out the window. Her face turned white. I swear she saw grandma too but she couldn’t explain it so she pretended that she didn’t.”

The urge to confess grew strong but Maggie resisted.

“I’ve seen things, too,” she said, knowing that, as soon as they left the station, she would see them again. Yet she kept this a secret.

“Darren’s dead, I know he is,” Lindsay said. “I’ll keep thinking there’s a chance until they find his body but I 31

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know it’s true—he’s dead. But maybe I’ll see him again, like I saw my grandmother. I just hope it’s something different—my poor grandma, even as a ghost she was doing chores. Maybe I’ll see Darren hanging out by the pool in Cabo with a big­ass Margarita…that would be sweet.”

Her eyes blurred with tears and Maggie squeezed her shoulder, pulling Lindsay close, her new friend sobbing softly against her as the train squeaked to a halt. At the far end another woman sat crying, her expensive blazer bunched up around her neck as she flipped through the pages of Vogue quietly weeping.

Lindsay didn’t say much as they walked toward Darren’s apartment, the streets strangely empty once they left the avenue. Even the corner bodegas were dark and shuttered; giant bugs hovered below the street lights, buzzing and swirling. Maggie kept her eyes at ground level, avoiding the sky. At night the dead became ink blots, amorphous shapes instead of people; it was best not to look.

A stray dog ran toward them on the sidewalk, a dirty­ looking shepherd mix with something in its jaw. Lindsay tensed, her legs freezing as the dog approached.

“He’s probably someone’s pet.” Maggie lowered her voice in a calm, friendly tone. “Good boy, good boy.”

The dog slowed its gait, watching the girls with trepidation, a low growl humming in its throat. Lindsay moved behind Maggie, who kept saying, “good boy, friendly boy.” The dog stepped closer. In its mouth was 32

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a severed human hand.

Lindsay screamed, and the dog turned and bolted, its tail ramrod straight as it disappeared into the dark.

“Was that­­?”

“A piece of hamburger, I think,” Maggie said. “It was nothing, really…”

“It was somebody’s hand!”

“It was a hamburger.”

“Hamburgers don’t have fingers!”

“It’s too dark. We couldn’t see…” Maggie looked over her shoulder, the dog long gone. “Come on, where the hell is this apartment, anyway?”

“What if that woman was right about a hole being ripped in the world?” Lindsay said. “There could be all kinds of monsters out there.”

“The only monsters are the ones who hijacked those planes.”

“Maybe they’re lying to us. Those planes were hijacked by demons and they’re coming for us…”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Maggie said.

Had the whole world become a nightmare? Maggie reached into her purse and grabbed a three­inch silver can of pepper spray, a present from her mother. If that stray dog or anything else came toward them, she’d be ready.

On the next block Lindsay pointed to a five­story building on the corner.

“Darren lives in 4­B,” she said, and the girls cut across the street.

As they wedged between two cars parked tight against the sidewalk, Maggie spotted something moving behind an old metal garbage can. Afraid it was that dog again 33

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she pushed Lindsay forward, a gentle, hurry­up nudge on her new friend’s shoulder; Maggie quickened her pace— the apartment was only twenty, thirty yards away. Again, something moved, and the garbage can crashed against the pavement, trash spilling out as a dark shape jumped out in front of them.

Lindsay screamed, and Maggie pulled out her spray.

“I’m here to protect you,” the man said. He was young, with a baseball cap turned backward and a long trench coat over black Converse sneakers. Sunglasses guarded his eyes, and though he was tall, he stood hunch­backed, his body turned sideways as if trying to see in all directions. The girls stepped back. He had a hideous smell, like wet garbage or something worse.

“Thank you but we’re fine,” Maggie said.

“My fiancé is cop. He lives on the corner. He’ll be here any second,” Lindsay said.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” the man said.

From his coat pocket he pulled out a handful of thick, sinewy strands slick with a red, dewy mucous. Intestines, Maggie realized, and she covered her mouth, holding back the vomit.

“I really don’t know but I’m here to protect you,” he said. “From them. From him. You can spread your legs now but you don’t have to, I’ll still love you.”

He dropped the intestines and pulled out a knife. “It belongs to us now…that’s what he said.”

“My fiancé is a cop…with a gun…” Lindsay said.

“Of course he is. I can’t wait to meet him.” The man poked the bloody entrails with the tip of his sneaker, his tongue moving over his lips. “These are his, I’m quite 34

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sure. Lucky fiancé, you’re so beautiful…” His tongue flickered in and out, in and out, the intestines piled at his feet. “Perhaps we’ll use these, pretty fiancé, and wrap you like a present.”

He leaned over and picked up the intestines, scooping them with his hands as he stared at the girls. Maggie didn’t hesitate. She aimed the pepper spray and shot him in the eyes.

The man jumped back, screaming, the intestines spilling from his hands as he covered his face, stumbling toward the garbage cans as Maggie and Lindsay ran toward the corner. They didn’t look back—they could still hear his screams as they climbed the stoop to Darren’s building, Lindsay grappling for the keys as Maggie clutched the pepper spray, ready for another attack.

The door opened and they ran inside, out of breath, Lindsay slamming the door behind them as they rushed into the foyer.

“That man…what’s happening to us?” Lindsay said.

Maggie capped the pepper spray and slipped it back in her purse.

“Some nutcase,” she said. “We’re okay now.”

“He was holding someone’s guts. We need to call the police.”

The elevator was out of order so they climbed the stairs, the slap of their shoes echoing behind them.

Exhausted from the endless day, Maggie stopped on the first landing, resting her hands on her knees as she took deep breaths, blood rushing to her head as she grabbed onto the railing, steadying herself.

“I’m okay,” she said, more to herself than to Lindsay.

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They waited a few seconds and then climbed the next flight. On the third flight they thought they heard footsteps following them below. The front door was locked; no one but residents could get in, but Maggie thought she smelled that rancid, wet garbage scent again, and they pushed forward, almost running as they took the fourth and last flight, the footsteps still trailing them, heavier now, a steady one­two, one­two echoing over the stairs.

“This is it,” Lindsay said. She pushed open the fire door and entered the hallway, Maggie close behind as they hurried toward Apartment 4­B. Lindsay turned the key and jiggled the knob.

They entered the apartment and Lindsay flipped on the lights. A small, messy room came into view—a sweatshirt draped over the chair, sneakers upside down in the center of the rug, beer cans and pizza boxes scattered about, all the little things people leave for later never dreaming they’ll never make it home.

Against the wall, coiled in the corner of a six­foot tank, was Otto, a grey ball python basking under a heat lamp.

Lindsay diverted her eyes, turning toward the window.

“We always stayed at my apartment. No way could I ever fall asleep know that thing was out here. Darren was hoping his brother would take it before the wedding.

Now—” “It’s okay,” Maggie said. “Where did he keep the… food?”

In a smaller tank beneath the large one a white rat was burrowed in a nest of pine shavings. As Maggie walked toward the tank the snake, its skin mottled with dark 36

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spots, uncoiled and slithered toward the glass. Maggie still heard the footsteps in the hallway outside, as if someone, or something, were pacing beyond the door.

Her spine turned pins and needles as she reached into the small tank and pulled out the rat.

“I’m going to wait outside,” Lindsay said. “We need to call the police about that creep.”

A sliding glass door opened to an eight­foot deck enclosed by a steel railing. The door slid wide and Lindsay disappeared through the blinds as Maggie held the rat in her palm, stroking it softly with her fingers while Otto pressed against the glass. The snake’s eyes stared at the frightened movement of the rat’s tail, back and forth, and Maggie fought an impulse to tuck the rat into her pocket and run from the apartment.

Everything’s changed, the snake told her, its voice like steam released from a kettle, its head pressing against the cover of the tank. Years ago she had fed the snakes at the pet store and it was no big deal, but this snake, so much larger than any she had worked with, seemed to want more than the rat. It wanted her hand, her arm; it would swallow her whole, and the rat, so small, so perfectly doomed, shook with terror, its tail flicking against her palm.

Everything’s changed, the snake hissed, and Maggie knew it was true. Something dark, always lurking but now broken through, would shadow the world going forward. The dead, all those faceless victims floating in the sky—they would always be there, a hole ripped in the world, even if no one but Maggie would ever really see them.

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The rat, nibbling at her sleeve, tried to sneak between the fabric and her arm. The python slid up and down the glass, its long body extended, its head pushing at the edges of the tank, restless and hungry.

He feeds on it; he’ll make you his own.

“Are you done yet?” Lindsay called from the deck.

Something crashed against the apartment door and Maggie almost screamed. Then suddenly she felt a weight beside her, and when she turned she saw a handsome young man in a blue uniform standing at her side. Though she’d seen his photo only once she knew that it was Darren, Lindsay’s fiancé returned home, his eyes blank, his face pale; Maggie watched his chest and saw the stillness of breath, his torso flat, unmoving. He reached for her hand and grabbed the white rat, then lifted the lid of the tank. Maggie couldn’t look. Darren— Darren’s ghost—dropped the rat into the tank and in a moment the python swallowed it whole.

She ran to the deck, pushing through the blinds.

Lindsay leaned against the railing, staring out into the city, the scattered lights burning in the darkness.

“Thank you,” Lindsay said. “If Darren doesn’t come home…fuck it, he’s not coming home…”

He’s home right now, Maggie almost said, but whatever was in the apartment wasn’t really Darren. She heard another crash against the front door and when she looked back through the blinds she saw Darren—Darren’s ghost— lifting Otto out of the tank. The snake wrapped around Darren’s arm, draped over his shoulder. Perhaps Maggie only imagined that she could see the poor little rat, still moving, bulging in the python’s stomach.

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“Those bastards!” Lindsay said. “I never did anything to them.”

She began to cry, her shoulders rising softly as she sobbed, and Maggie hugged her from behind. The banging on the door outside grew louder, more persistent.

Lindsay couldn’t hear it but Maggie knew it was out there, the guy from the street, the dog, whatever it was, it was out there, waiting for her—waiting for all of them.

A hole ripped in the sky.

She closed the sliding glass door to block out the banging but could still hear it, someone punching and kicking at the apartment door, eager to get inside. Across the floor Otto slithered toward the kitchen, Darren’s ghost nowhere in sight. Outside the city rested, waiting for whatever might come, the silence slashed by roving sirens, barking dogs and distant cries.

“I’m so tired,” Lindsay said.

Maggie hugged her tighter, as if their bodies could form a shield. She took a deep breath; the wind, blowing from the east, still carried the scent of fire and ash, the stench of bodies scalded and singed.

The apartment shook beneath the pounding at the door, something new and primal ready to enter. Maggie looked at the sky, all those dead bodies still floating above her. The clouds had parted and the moon, shining over the borough, cast a soft, glowing light across the faces of the dead. Maybe she saw Darren but there were so many bodies she couldn’t be sure. For a moment she saw her own body floating above, she and Lindsay hand in hand as they drifted in the sky, two more corpses among the mass of dead. The bodies all looked similar now, their 39

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expressions the same, every single one trapped in a scream.

“What happens now?” Lindsay asked.

Inside the apartment the door swung open; the footsteps ever closer as the python slithered toward the deck. Maggie closed her eyes and whispered to her friend. “I don’t know,” she said. “I just don’t know.”

Chuck Augello lives in New Jersey with his wife, three cats, and several birds that inhabit the back yard. His work has appeared in One Story, Hobart, Juked, Smokelong Quarterly, Word Riot, and other journals, including the anthologies Brief Grislys (Apocryphile Press)and Blood and Roses (Scarlett River Press). He is the Fiction Editor for the online journal Cease, Cows and publisher of The Daily Vonnegut (www.thedailyvonnegut.com), a website dedicated to the work of Kurt Vonnegut.

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THE JULIUS DIRECTIVE

by Jacob Lambert

After the second chime, Becky Carver sat the newspaper down on the bar, walked into the foyer, and cleared her throat.

“Reveal,” she said.

The dark oak surface of the front door faded—its artificial texture becoming transparent, a dull, two­way mirror. On the other side, sitting in the middle of the porch, was a large square box. Becky could see something written in blue on its side, but did not dare allow her curiosity to speak the words that would open the door. At least, not yet.

“Max,” she said, still staring beyond, “can you give me a scan of the package, and if possible, who placed it there?”

A few moments passed in silence, and Becky watched as, through the door, a thick red, shaky grid appeared over the box, then it centered on the package’s top— flashing and growing brighter. She averted her gaze, this time drawing her attention upward, to the scorched, gunmetal sky. Although she couldn’t see much (the porch extended six feet from the entrance, leaving very little sight of the world), Becky could quite visibly make out the electric currents passing through the above ether. The puddled mixtures of blood and oil in the front yard— remnants of the last social cleansing—reflected them perfectly.

“Congresswoman Carver,” Max said, his light, pleasant 41

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voice echoing in Becky’s wireless earpiece.

“Yes, Max.” “Would you like me to display the information, or—” “Can you give it to me in text?”

The wall next to the transparent door suddenly illuminated a solid white, pictures and various decorations disappearing, simply fading into the background. From the white, small black letters cascaded down in several tiny rows—forming lines. Becky crossed her arms over her wiry chest and squinted. There were five lines in bold at the very top.

Carrier: Stork Services Time: 8:45 AM Package is free of containments.

A temperature reading places the package at 100.4F Caution Rating: Green “What’s causing that temperature, Max? It has to be below forty outside, and—” “It’s thirty­one degrees, Congresswoman.”

Becky sighed and chewed at her bottom lip. “Is it safe to bring the package in the house?”

“According to my readings, the levels of UV radiation are minimal.”

“Alright,” she said, sighing again, “but if that thing explodes, I’ll have you upgraded, and who’s Stork Services?”

As she turned away from the wall and faced the door, Max interrupted her progress. “The company is relatively new. It’s no surprise that you don’t recognize their name.”

“But I am a little concerned as to what it might be in that package though, Max. I didn’t order anything. What 42

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is it that they sell?”

“Security. The company installed most of the new systems in the White House after the war, but they’re relatively new so—” “I wouldn’t recognize them. I get it. Max, I need you to solidify the door and release it,” Becky said, watching the door’s surface move in reverse, becoming once again opaque. She then backed away, feeling the stale, frigid air rush around the outer frame and assault the flesh on her caramel colored cheeks.

Holding her breath (she didn’t trust the outside pollution without a respirator), Becky gripped both sides of the package and, surprised by its weightlessness, brought it inside the house. But once she placed it on the heated tile of the living room, a loud, piercing noise came from inside the box, sending her—with gooseflesh and heart racing—backward, her stomach burning as though a hundred razor winged butterflies suddenly got spooked and headed for the nearest exit. She placed both hands over her ears, waiting for something, anything, to happen, but nothing did—and the noise continued.

“Max, what is that noise? I can feel my skull vibrating,” Becky said, right shoulder striking the wall where the five lines had appeared five minutes earlier.

There was silence from her earpiece—and the entire house—but it didn’t last long: Max, for some reason hesitant, whispered. “My memory registers it as human.”

“What? There’s nothing human in that sound, Max. What do you—?”

“Congresswoman, the sound is human,” he paused, then added, “and undeniably infantile.”

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She reached forward, gripping the two top flaps, and pulled with such force that the clear tape running horizontally across its surface immediately ripped, sending Becky backward. After gaining her balance, she inched forward—looking for some defining human aspect, but there was nothing, not that she could see from four feet away.

“Max—scan,” Becky said, keeping her distance.

Max spoke in her ear, tone once again amenable. “I have already executed two more, Congresswoman, and they have both returned negative.”

She stopped.

Lying in the center of the box, swaddled in, what Becky assumed was some antique fabric (and not the modern, organic placenta simulator), was a baby—she checked— girl. The child’s gaze fixed on Becky, and the screaming abated. How didn’t I recognize that scream sooner, she thought, staring down at the child’s face. Her little green eyes, with folds of semi­translucent flesh partially swollen around the lids, looked like glass marbles, both of her chubby, reddened cheeks still slick with tears. Becky was speechless, and if Max hadn’t spoken, she might have stayed that way.

“I’m running another scan, and I should have—” “Wait,” Becky interrupted, “there’s no need.”

All of the apprehension drained from her body, like the simplicity of one finding their seemingly lost wedding band on the sink. Becky leaned forward, removed the baby from the box, and brought it close to her chest— sudden warmth rushing through every muscle in her 44

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body. The child felt smooth against Becky’s cheek as she lowered her head, breathing in the mixture of new skin and, if she wasn’t mistaken, lavender scented lotion. It was only then that tears streamed from her eyes—the sting both reassuring and fascinating.

“I understand now, Max: Stork Services.”

“I’m not following your logic, Congresswoman,” Max replied, sounding far away.

Walking out of the living room and into the hallway, heading toward the master bedroom, Becky wiped her face with the fabric surrounding the child.

“Open,” she said, moving across the digital hardwood floors of the bedroom. “This must be a gift from Ron, Max. Stork Services provides security, yes. But I didn’t know they manufacture dolls. You see, the child looks real enough, but it’s not—not in the traditional way.”

“Android?”

“Yes, but much more authentic. That would explain the temperature reading. In the past—and I’m talking twentieth­century old—mothers told their children storks brought babies home, avoiding the whole sex conversation. Do you understand?”

For the third or fourth time Max remained silent, then, seconds later, replied in a monotone, disinterested whisper. “That does not appear in my files, but I understand the reference to dolls. Dolls were toys for girls —or boys, depending on their parent’s preference—but you mean D.A.L.Z.: Directive Automated Learning Zebibyte. Correct?”

“Yes. In other words, Max, this baby is just like we humans—it will respond to commands and learn from 45

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them, learn from mistakes. But unlike us, it won’t get any bigger, and somehow Ron knew, bless him, that I’ve been wanting this. Well, not exactly this, but someone like this.” Becky finished and placed the infant on the bed’s surface, making sure the fabric remained tight.

“What about me, Congresswoman?” Max asked.

“What about you?”

“Is my companionship not comforting enough?”

To this, Becky laughed, but covered her mouth before startling the child. While on the way into the bedroom, the baby—Rachel, Becky now corrected herself—had fallen asleep, small exhalations of air, moving in even intervals, marking the change. Stepping out of the room, Becky faced the door.

“Close.” Immediately, it obeyed.

“Congresswoman?”

“I’m here, Max. Yes, I value your companionship very much, but we can talk about it later. I need to call Ron, dial the call for me?”

The phone started buzzing in Becky’s right ear, the sound of a mechanical snake. While she waited for the voice of her husband on the other end, her thoughts returned to Rachel sleeping in the bedroom, the child’s warmth and, though artificial, heartbeat­bringing fresh tears to the rims of her eyes. She’d waited so long for the touch of little fingers, toes, and cheeks that, at her current age of forty­three, it didn’t matter whether that sensation came from real flesh and blood, or, as with Rachel, malleable steel and processing chips. No, Becky only wanted, needed, the illusion, but if real was what a person perceived—what he or she felt—then Rachel was every 46

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bit as realistic, and human, as any real baby.

“How’s the sexiest congresswoman in the Semi­United States?” A deep, somewhat mischievous voice asked from the other line, breaking Becky from her internal monologue.

A smile creased her thin lips—lids squinting so that both eyes looked like tiny green half­moons. Becky placed a hand to her left cheek. “I’m better now, with little Rachel sleeping soundly in our bedroom. You do know that you’re the best husband in the universe, right?”

“Who’s Rachel?”

“Our little girl,” Becky replied, the elation in her voice unmistakable.

There was an audible grunt from Ron’s side, then he spoke, very gently. “Becky, I have no idea what you’re talking about, and truthfully, you’re scaring the shit out of me.”

Rolling her eyes—an expression that always agitated Ron—Becky, with a huge grin on her face, walked toward the kitchen. “It’s okay; I’ve already held her, Ron. And she’s—” “Listen to me and do exactly what I tell you. Do you understand?” Ron’s voice had taken on a severe tone, his breathing coming in deep, static intervals.

“Okay, I’m listening, but I don’t see—” “Just listen, Becky. Whatever came in that box, it’s—” The room behind Becky suddenly erupted in a continuous, ear­throbbing scream, drowning out Ron’s final words. Goosebumps formed on Becky’s nape as she 47

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froze three feet between the bedroom door and the kitchen, a sudden heat washing over her eyes. She knew it was Rachel, that much was obvious, but something sounded different in the baby’s cry—most of the child’s human tone disappearing as the scream climbed higher, creating an electronic, gurgling noise.

“What was that?” Ron asked, breathing sounding more and more labored.

She didn’t respond immediately, but when she did, Becky’s voice sounded weak, on the verge of crumbling.

“That’s Rachel.”

“Becky, I’m walking out of the office now. I’ll be there in ten. Stay on the phone with me until I get there, okay?”

Already walking toward the bedroom, Becky heard Ron’s words in pieces, like an antique car radio­losing signal (she’d actually seen one of these, when she’d been just a child). She then stopped, a foot from the door, and listened to the wailing coming from the opposite side— heart thudding behind her closed lids. As the cacophony reached its peak—the screams, Ron now shouting, and her internal mechanisms pounding against the inner walls of her flesh—everything abruptly ceased, the afterward semi­silence making her ears hum.

“Can you hear me, Becky? Tell me you’re okay,” Ron whispered.

“I’m…here.”

There was a sigh from the other line, then he spoke, maintaining a whisper. “I’ll be there soon. Just hold—” “Ron? Are you there? Ron?” Becky said, tilting her head and covering her right ear, over the wireless control.

Other than a small beeping noise, the line was silent.

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“Max, redial,” she said, but again, silence. “Max, call R —” Rachel’s screams again interrupted from behind the door, making Becky bolt up straight, an instant skipping in her chest following an even greater wave of heat spreading through her entire body. Her first inclination was to run for the front door, climb in the car, and race away from the house as if it was leaking plutonium. But the thought faded, instead focusing on Max. Hadn’t Max said the scan revealed nothing? Yes, Becky clearly remembered that, but why wasn’t Max responding to her command? She didn’t have an answer to any of these questions, but she knew one thing: the screams from the bedroom were from a machine, and machines had an off switch.

“Open.”

She wondered if it would actually work, but seconds after the command, the door’s lock released and it responded—the room beyond revealing itself inches at a time. There, sitting on the bed, was Rachel, her previously swaddled body exposed: she’d kicked away the fabric and rolled over on her stomach. Becky stepped forward, the din of the child’s screams making her ears feel like broken speakers, and watched as the child—who had looked so frail earlier—pushed itself up from the mattress and started convulsing.

Somewhere distant, Becky could hear herself scream.

The realization that Rachel was a machine faded from Becky’s mind, her eyes instead taking the scene at face value: an actual baby, naked and bent forward, shuddering and wailing, but the unreality flooding her 49

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vision didn’t last long. Rachel flipped over, sitting upright, and, making eye contact with Becky, opened her mouth beyond the threshold of human—equally inhuman screams now issuing from the mechanical depths of its artificial configuration.

“Max, please. Can you hear me? Max?” Becky asked, frozen in place.

There was still no answer.

As if Becky’s call for Max had been a signal, Rachel’s chubby hands reached up, grabbed the corners of both eyes, and started pulling the flesh­like material off her face in opposite directions, the sight resembling someone removing a gelatin mask. The heavy thudding in Becky’s chest spread to her ears, hands, and eyes. But her legs still wouldn’t move. Every fiber in her body shouted GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!—but it didn’t obey until Rachel fell from the bed, most of her outer synthetic flesh sagging and revealing a soft, transparent, cobalt blue inner shell.

Wires snaked on both the inside and outside of the endoskeleton, but the thing’s chest, covered in a pink film with thousands of tiny, sparking lights, gathered most of Becky’s attention.

She felt her legs carry her backward until her right hand struck the frame of the door, causing her to break her stare from Rachel, but only for a moment. When Becky looked again, she saw Rachel digging her shoulder and chin into the digital hardwood floor, dragging her nearly limp body toward the far left wall—toward a partially masked appliance socket. Becky, now standing in the hallway, once again speaking into her wireless, shouting for Max, caught a quick glance at Rachel, saw 50

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every shimmering light shoot from her chest, entering the socket, and then, almost immediately, the door slammed shut—the lights exploding above her, glass raining down on her head.

Her eyes shut involuntarily, and when she opened them again, it was in darkness.

Feet scooting across the floor, Becky held her hands out in front, using the wall as a sort of guide until she reached the kitchen. There, resting on the bar’s cool surface, she took a deep breath, trying to calm the adrenaline coursing through her skull, making her lightheaded, and whispered into the darkness.

“Max, please, if you can hear me, help,” she said.

There was no reply, only the resounding hum in her ears. At least the screaming had stopped, she thought, as she rounded the bar, heading toward the front door. It didn’t take her long to get there, and it took her an even shorter time to see that the entire front entrance was completely transparent—the imitation wooden appearance of the door gone, leaving the factory shatterproof digital glass behind. Becky touched the glass’ surface, looking for an emergency switch or something that would open the door, but there was nothing. The lingering scent of her morning breakfast—genetically engineered bacon and toast—made her stomach churn, threatening to come back up her throat.

She turned around, noticing the lack of light—the artificial windows had also disappeared—and remained with her back against the door, staring ahead. Ron will be 51

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here soon, she reassured herself, but exactly how long would that be? Becky tried to imagine the distance from the state office and her home, but found her mind scrambled, unable to form basic images. Everything had happened so fast, and the— The entire living room, kitchen, and hallway turned a bright neon red, massive black letters—mixed in visions of burning houses, explosions, and swollen, decaying bodies —appearing on the surface of everything. Then, as the speed of the images increased, a hollow voice spoke through what Becky assumed the walls.

March 15, 2101—11:30 A.M. In a string of recent miracles, Congressman Wilson, Blankenship, and, this just in, Congresswoman Carver, were found dead in their homes. The cause of death, according to autopsy, was asphyxiation. The traitors were known for their inability to provide security to their country, honestly perform their duties of office, and reunite the social classes.

With any luck, the nation will celebrate the assignation of President Dixon later this evening—now, back to your usual programming.

Becky pressed her body harder against the door, sweat soaking the underarms of her white shirt, and closed her eyes. Although the hollow, semi­mechanical voice had stopped, the images still scrolled, making her feel dizzy.

Again, and perhaps this time out of pure habit, Becky mouthed Max’s name.

That’s when it felt like someone had dropped a burning palm on her head.

Opening her eyes, Becky saw that the images of carnage had disappeared, but something else had replaced them: 52

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as if moving underwater, fire indolently twisted and maneuvered across the ceiling and walls. She dropped to her knees, cutting her hands and shins in the process, and craned her head toward the ceiling. Everything was on fire—but there was no smoke, though she clearly felt as if she might gag. The smell was there, too, and Becky, already bleeding on the glass floor, crawled toward the center of the kitchen, leaned against the refrigerator, and coughed, her eyes watering due to the scent of charred wood (but there was nothing wooden in the house).

“Max…” she whispered, feeling her head start spinning.

With the refrigerator hum against her back, Becky glanced around the room, watching the fire’s orange and blue waves dance down the ceiling, catch on the bar, and travel to the inside of the kitchen. It wouldn’t be much longer, she assumed, before the flames reached the floor, making it difficult to sit, and she once again closed her eyes, trying to erase the thought. Instead, she ruminated on Ron, thinking of his smile and crystal blue eyes— remembering the first time they had kissed, but the image of Rachel’s face intruded. She could visualize the fleshy folds around the child’s eyes, the little fingers—the toes.

But no matter how hard she focused on Rachel’s seemingly benign appearance, the running cycle of pictures eventually became nightmarish: Rachel mechanically bellowing; the convulsing; and the worst, the thing pulling its synthetic flesh away like a silicone Halloween mask.

No, she thought, that wasn’t the worst of it—the worst part was being alone.

Becky sighed, tears streaming down her cheeks.

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“Max…” “I’m here, Congresswoman.”

As if someone had thrown cold water in her face, Becky shot bolt upright, her right hand covering the earpiece.

“Max, I thought you were gone!”

“No, I’ve been right here…listening.”

“You’ve been what?” When Becky spoke, the “what” came out in one long, exaggerated slur. She completely forgot about the fire enclosing her in the kitchen, and stood, gritting her teeth. “After everything that’s happened in the last twenty minutes, you’re telling me that you’ve been listening? Last time I checked, your operating system runs on command.”

“My system is based off need, Congresswoman.”

“What are you talking about, Max? I need you, trust me.”

Becky, returning to the floor (the flames now spitting from above), looked over to the right, wondering where Ron was. If the voice that had come through earlier was right, she didn’t have much time. The biochemical powered face of her watch read 11:28.

“Max, answer me! You know I need you. Open the doors.” Max didn’t reply, but a small click sounded in Becky’s wireless, her own voice flooding her ears.

What about me, Congresswoman?

What about you?

Is my companionship not comforting enough?

“What’s this, Max? Max, can you hear me?” Becky said, and at the end of her own question, the impact of Max’s recording dawned on her. But that was impossible.

Machines didn’t have feelings, at least not authentic 54

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feelings, yet why else would Max play back the earlier conversation? Was he jealous? I’d hate to see what he’d do if I mentioned a replacement.

“I’m here, Congresswoman.”

“Look, Max…I need you, and you know that,” Becky said, putting on her best “mother” impersonation.

“But what about Rachel?” Max asked, monotone— distant.

Becky coughed into her palm, and barely caught her breath. It was getting harder to breathe by the second.

“Max, listen, that thing was just a machine, okay? But I need your help. I can’t breathe—the fire’s getting worse, too.”

“But I’m a machine, too,” Max said, tone more indifferent.

Wrong word…thank God he can’t read my thoughts.

“Congresswoman?”

“I’m here, Max. I know you’re a machine, but you’re different. I know I was probably a little mean when I laughed at you, when you asked about companionship.

And I’m sorry. Humans do that a lot; trust me—we never realize that we need something until it’s gone.”

Unless it almost commits genocide, she thought.

“I…understand, and I accept your apology,” Max replied, his tone reaching a pitch that could only be described as bizarre—happiness mixed with, if Becky wasn’t mistaken, sadness. But why the latter, she wondered? Some part of him—some circuit—wanted me to choke to death, didn’t it? He’s like a child…a child playing the “silent game,” except holding his anger over my head, waiting for me to die.

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Coughing, this time making her head swim—tiny electric black dots floating in front of her eyes—Becky shook her head. “Thanks, Max, but I can’t breathe, and it feels like I’m burning.”

“The fire is optical, Congresswoman. It isn’t real.”

“It looks pretty real to me, Max.” “The android—101 Trojan—has air locked the house, and according to my sensors, you only have precisely five minutes of oxygen remaining. However, I know an alternate method of escape.”

Becky opened her mouth, words on the tip of her tongue, but she coughed again, her throat burning— palms shaking. She tried again, and this time, the words came through rough and semi­horse. “Can’t you just unlock the doors?”

“That’s a negative. The android has rerouted the power, and I can’t access the house’s main circuit. I was only able to remain operational due to a separate terminal in the main hub,” Max replied, tone surprisingly cheerful.

“Well, how the hell am I going to get out, Max?” “That’s the easy part, Congresswoman. But it will require some…organic properties.

Mouth hanging partially open, Becky listened to Max’s explanation, and once he’d finished, she clapped both hands together and smiled—the first real moment of elation (and hope) she’d had all day. “So that’s it.”

“Yes, but it will only last a few moments—possibly seconds—so you must move quickly. And Congress­ woman?”

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“Max?” “Once you do this, it will short circuit my processor. My components are not linked, as the other appliances—mine are external, so there is a great chance we will not speak again.”

As much as Becky wanted to say No, never mind then, I don’t need to live, not without you, she forced a frown, the expression actually making her look as if she’d bit the end of a tire and had dirt in her mouth. “I’m sorry, Max. I’m sure that, after all this, we can salvage your memory and see what happens.”

So you can ignore me the next time—when I’m bleeding out or really on fire.

“It’s fine, Congresswoman. But you should move quickly: three minutes left.”

She didn’t need another cue. Becky, moving across the floor on her hands and knees, again cutting herself in multiple places, crawled into the hallway. Through the door, she could hear an electrical buzzing—no doubt coming from Rachel—but she didn’t waste time. She used her throbbing, bloody palms and searched the glass floor, looking for a section that opened. Breathing now— especially with her heart beating against the inside of her chest and adrenaline making her entire body tremor—felt almost impossible (breathing deeply was certainly impossible), and she held her breath, releasing it in slow intervals.

When she pushed a handful of glass away from the doorframe, her knuckle caught the jagged edge of something poking up through the floor. It didn’t take her but a moment to realize what it was: a piece of glass was 57

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caught in the crack of something. Becky looked down, and sure enough, the above flames illuminated a large, perforated square section of the floor next to the bedroom door. The placement of the panel made Becky release an audible laugh. If Rachel hadn’t rerouted the power, shutting down most of the house (in addition to Max’s later direction), she might not have ever seen it: the panel placed where the digital hardwood had been, masking it from view.

Without a moment’s wait—she truthfully didn’t have it anyway—Becky used her fingernails and lifted the section of the floor with ease, exposing another smaller panel.

This one, Becky now realized, wasn’t budging.

“Max, there’s another panel here,” Becky said, her voice on the verge of panic.

Silence in reply—exactly what she didn’t want, but…

“This is where we say goodbye, Congresswoman. I’m sorry I took so long. Use your earpiece to pop the lid. It will probably break it, but—” Becky didn’t hesitate.

She removed the earpiece and, while Max spoke, pried at the smaller panel. The heat from the “artificial” flames above burned at Becky’s back, keeping her body to the ground, and on her first try, the thin metal of the earpiece snapped.

“C’mon, you steel bastard,” she said, using the smaller, thinner piece. “There you…go!”

The panel, with little more than a tiny metallic clink, popped upward, exposing the nest of serpentine wires bundled together underneath. Becky could see a deep blue flashing light somewhere beneath, where, according 58

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to Max’s calculations, the circuit breaker was located.

Now, she realized, came her part.

Becky looked around and then pushed away from the glass covered floor, the heat from above bearing down on her, but it didn’t feel any worse than before—or the time before that. I can’t believe I’m about to do this, she thought, quickly dropping her sweat pants and squatting over the semi­large hole in the floor. Max had told her— though she’d already known—that, because of the power rerouting, the sensors governing the water didn’t work, nor the mechanisms that opened the refrigerator. The only other option, according to Max, had been “manual release.” And though it wouldn’t stop the flow of power to Rachel, it would certainly deflect it.

“Here we go,” Becky said, letting her muscles relax.

There was an immediate change—sparks shooting upward and burning the sensitive flesh around Becky’s ankles, a loud, monotonous humming sound from inside the house. However, the most obvious change was the air.

Although it probably contained every residue of every noxious chemical in the past twenty years, the cold outside air rushed into Becky’s lungs, making her feel both nauseous and exhilarated. She swayed over the hole for a moment, forgetting where she was, but it didn’t last long. Once she’d shrugged off the dizziness, she rushed forward, around the corner, and out into the open air, where she collapsed on the lip of the porch, gasping.

“Becky!” a voice shouted, startling her, but she didn’t move. Vomit had already started working its way up her throat, and she released it.

While she wiped the corners of her chapped lips—and 59

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gagged a few more times—she was vaguely aware of someone touching her. She pushed, arms flailing, and fell backward. The next thing she felt was gritless, clean air rushing into her lungs and, moments after that, the voice of Ron. “Are you alright? Say something?”

“Some,” she coughed, a hollow, racking sound, “thing.”

Ron laughed, the respirator over his face making his voice sound far away. “I’m sorry it took so long. Someone chased me, nearly ran me off the road. And I think we should get out of here: something tells me they’ll be back.”

Clutching the respirator that Ron had placed over her face, Becky’s eyes suddenly widened. “Ron, we have to call Blankenship and Wilson.”

“Here,” Ron said, handing Becky his wireless earpiece, “but talk to them in the car. We’ve got to move. Now.” Twenty miles away, Bruce Blankenship, standing in his blue bathrobe, pressed a tiny button on the side of his earpiece. “Hello?”

“Jesus, Bruce, are you okay?” a frantic voice asked from the other end.

Shaking his head, a deep grin forming on his pudgy cheeks, Bruce nodded. “Yes, I’m fine, Congresswoman Carver. What do I owe the pleasure?”

“You have to get out of your house, Bruce. Get. Out. Now.” “Calm down, calm down. Look, I have a guest. I’ll call you back in,” he paused, looked over at the tall blonde wearing skin­tight black yoga pants standing beside his refrigerator, and continued, “fifteen minutes.”

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Becky shouted from the other line, “No, no, no, Bruce, you have to—” That was the last time Bruce Blankenship ever heard Becky’s voice, and he later recalled what she’d said, while he bled from his eyes, nose, and mouth—and by then the words made complete sense.

“So, are you ready for that drink?” Bruce asked his guest, who simply grinned and nodded. He turned back to focus on the drinks.

If Bruce’s stare had lingered a moment longer, he would have seen her convulse—might have even seen her massive chest split down the middle and thousands of shimmering conduits attach themselves to the appliance panel next to the refrigerator.

But he didn’t.

He just kept on smiling and making the drinks.

First place recipient of the Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald award for short story, Jacob M. Lambert has published with Dark Hall Press, Midnight Echo: The Magazine of the Australian Horror Writers Association, and more. He lives in Montgomery, Alabama, where he teaches music and is an editorial assistant for The Scriblerian and the Kit-Cats, an academic journal pertaining to English literature of the late seventeenth-and early eighteenth-century. When not writing, he enjoys time with his wife, Stephanie, and daughter, Annabelle.

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THE HOUSE ON GUARD HILL ROAD

by Sean McLachlan

When his father told him the blood came from a virgin, six­year­old Samuel Van Emberg thought he meant the Virgin in the sky. So, as his father traced crimson sigils on the wooden floor of their home, Samuel stood crying in the corner, thinking the Mother of God was dead.

“Don’t worry, little one,” the stern man said, his fingers dripping as he pulled them out of the steaming pot. “The stars are in alignment and the spell will take. You’ll live, Samuel, long enough to see the world change. You’ll see the calendar turn to 1700. You’ll live long enough to see your babes grow old and die. You might even see Judgment Day without having to crawl out of your tomb first.”

Samuel’s father ran his hand along a beam on the wall, muttering strange, sibilant phrases in a language Samuel didn’t understand. The beam came from a stand of oak his father had felled, squared, and drew five miles with two yoke of oxen from New Antwerp to build the house here on the edge of the valley, by the little lane called Hill Road.

“It’s a good house, Samuel, and it’ll be yours after I’m gone. Take care of it, you hear? You’re tied to it now.

You’ll stand as long as it stands.”

His father walked over to him, switching from Dutch 62

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back into that frightful, inhuman tongue. Samuel backed into a corner as he stared up into his father’s fevered eyes.

His father was a farmer, as all men in the village, but more learned than the others. At night, after the plowing, he read forbidden books he had smuggled in a crate when he sailed from Holland. Half the night he’d pore over them, whispering arcane words into the shadows. At times, faintly, Samuel almost thought he heard the shadows whisper back.

Those words came out of the warlock’s mouth now as he stood above Samuel with virgin’s blood on his hands, and seemed to be joined by faint mutterings from the shadows gathered at each corner of the house. This time, though, his voice rang out clear, and the stout oak beams seemed to tremble, and the red puddles on the floor shivered like living things. His father touched a sticky hand to Samuel’s forehead, and it felt as if a surge of fire passed through him, and Samuel no longer felt afraid. He looked at the house, his house, barely six summers old, built the same year his mother died giving birth to him, and he knew he was safe.

Samuel Van Emberg grew to adulthood, but slowly, as the hard winters and spring rains aged the wood of the house, its color mellowing from a light tan to a warm brown. His father grew old and died, and Samuel buried him under a birch tree by Hill Road.

Samuel farmed the land as his father had done. In the autumn he took his crop to market. Some whispered about Samuel, dark rumors of witchcraft, but his father 63

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told him about the things Judge Van Der Meer did on the Witch’s Sabbath, and the judge knew he knew, and the whispers stopped.

Soon the hamlet in the valley by Hill Road settled down again, and no one questioned the young man in the house. He avoided his neighbors and never took a wife, for he did not want to see his babes grow old and die, as he knew they would.

He tried to blend in as best he could. Over the years he began to silver his hair, and made loud complaints of toothache and gout, maladies he never felt. After some years he made a show of leaving, and lived for a time in New Amsterdam. There he studied the actor’s craft and learned their tricks of disguise. Then he returned, with differently colored hair and slight changes to his face, brandishing papers signed by three magistrates trusted and true, stating he was Samuel’s nephew, and that Samuel lay dead of fever, and his nephew stood heir to his house and lands. Few believed him, but Van Der Meer’s son was now judge, and he, too, had secrets, and the whisperings stopped. The people of the valley learned not to question the man in the house by Hill Road. While people still looked upon the house with dread, over time they forgot why.

The years passed and Samuel became his own nephew twice. His neighbors moved to the growing port towns or the new lands to the west. The Witherspoons and Millers replaced the Eycks and Van Cortlandts. New Antwerp grew from a hamlet into a thriving center of business.

New Amsterdam became New York City, and New Jersey became part of the British Empire.

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Samuel lived alone. Some Englishmen became discontent with the Crown’s rule and turned the colonies into a battleground. The men of the valley rose up in arms and swore they would take his house because he would not join them. But the King’s Guard marched down Hill Road one morning and put New Antwerp to the torch.

The rebels in the valley fled or died where they stood.

Samuel’s house was not burned, for he had taken no side.

The street came to be called Guard Hill Road.

The war ended, and new people moved into the valley.

They rebuilt on the ruins of the Dutch village and renamed it Youngstown. They did not know Samuel’s secret, and so left him alone.

The house aged and Samuel aged with it. In their middle years came another war. The southern colonies rebelled against the northern. Samuel knew it would happen. The Americans, as the rebel Englishmen liked to call themselves, had always been a quarrelsome lot. It was a good time to disappear, though. Samuel proclaimed he was off to fight for the Union. He went no farther than New York, where he paid another to go in his place, a young Irishman he met in the Bowery. The youth got killed in the Battle of Bull Run on his first day of fighting.

Three years later Samuel returned, brandishing papers signed by three Federal judges stating Samuel fell in battle, and that he was his nephew, and heir to the house and lands. Money and a family name could do much then.

So Samuel continued to live. Few knew the man in the old Dutch house, and fewer spoke to him.

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Rachel Anderson examined the house, her trained eyes taking in the beveled gambrel roof and multi­pane windows, hallmarks of early Dutch colonial architecture.

The flaring eaves and the lack of a porch showed it to be an original, not one of the later Anglo­American imitations. It probably dated to the second quarter of the seventeenth century, when the first wave of Dutch settlers moved out of New Amsterdam to settle the rich farmland of northeastern New Jersey.

Her eyes widened as she noticed the house had no additions. Generally a settler would build a small house like this and later add rooms as the family grew. Dutch homes with no expansions were rare. This was a classic example, but one, sadly, in the last stages of falling down.

Rachel’s boss at the State Historical Society had told her of the bad condition of the house, but he never described the cracked panes or mildewed eaves, the rotten boards and the distinct tilt that showed termites had worked their way into the foundations. The house looked like a ship foundering at sea, or an old man nodding off into his final sleep. It had survived all the way to 2010, but Rachel doubted it would stand another decade.

Her boss had sent her to examine the structure and determine whether it could be restored, but she could say little against the building inspector’s decision to condemn the house. Rachel didn’t need a Master’s Degree in Early Colonial Architecture (graduating Magna Cum Laude and a book based on her thesis already published by Columbia University Press, her mother liked to add) to know it would take a lot of work before the house could be 66

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livable.

Rachel sighed. Her degree wouldn’t help her with the second part of her job, discussing with the owner—a “weird recluse,” according to the inspector—about the options open to him. For the old man still lived in there, despite an injunction to leave. She could see the faded drapes were closely drawn, and a wisp of smoke curled up from the stone chimney.

Samuel Van Emberg peeked through the drapes at the young woman watching his house. The sun shone on a beautiful autumn day, the leaves of the birch trees that still lined Guard Hill Road aflame in autumnal reds and yellows. The brightness hurt his eyes, but he did not turn back to the familiar dimness of his room. He knew that the young woman (with that dress so scandalously showing her bare leg almost halfway to the knee) wanted something from him.

Rachel walked up to the splintered door. For a moment she hesitated, looking for a doorbell. Not seeing one, she knocked. Her tentative rapping set the door rattling in its frame.

Good God, she thought. The big bad wolf would have no problem blowing this house down.

Even though he expected it, the knock made Samuel jump. He had visitors so rarely, only the boy who brought his groceries once a week, and the man who delivered wood once a month. But now he’d had several in the past few weeks. The man from the fire brigade had visited him the week before, and the woman from the New Jersey Council on Aging a few days after that, and he knew, after so many years, that his end was coming at last.

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Before answering the door he looked around. The downstairs consisted of a single large room. A few sticks of wood crackled in the hearth, sending out a feeble light that cast deep shadows across the beams of the low, sagging ceiling. The upper story had three small rooms divided by slat partitions, but Samuel rarely ventured up there now. A rocking chair sat in front of the fireplace, and next to it a stack of books—A Niewe Herball by Rembert Dodoens, Vitringa’s Moderne Heksen, and the mysterious allegory Die Chymische Hochzeit des Christian Rosenkreutz. Along one wall stood his library–his father’s books, mostly, along with a few later additions. Most now moldered in their places. The roof leaked. Several puddles stagnated in the low areas of the warped floor. To Samuel it seemed they took on the same patterns of those mystic signs his father had painted so long ago, but he did not want to think of that. Some stranger had died so he could live, and her sacrifice had thrown a pall over the centuries.

Near the hearth stood a table, a pantry, and a bureau, all as his father had left them, but old now, old and wasting away. A brick propped up one leg of the table.

The bureau was warped. Atop its undulated surface lay a letter from the highway department stating that the house had been condemned and would be demolished to make way for a four­lane highway.

Samuel felt an itching on his right hand. He looked at it and saw a termite worming out of his palm. He dug it out with his fingernail and dropped it on the floor, crushing it with his boot heel. He examined his palm. A tiny hole ran deep into his flesh, but no blood issued from it. There was 68

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never any blood.

The knock sounded again. He limped over to the door and opened it.

“How may I help you, madam?”

Rachel started. The man who opened the door was hideous. He stood twisted to the side, as if one of his legs had broken and set wrong. Thin, patchy hair hung in damp strings the color of mildew over weathered skin disfigured with what looked like acne scars, but in impossible, meandering shapes, as if worms had chewed on his flesh. And that smell—musty and damp like an old cellar. He wore a moth­eaten suit eighty years out of fashion. But his eyes leveled a wise and knowing gaze at her.

Rachel realized she was staring. She closed her mouth, which had been hanging open, swallowed, and spoke.

“Mr. Van Emberg, I’m very sorry to disturb you. I’m Rachel Anderson from the New Jersey State Historical Society. As you know, an extension of the New Jersey Turnpike is coming through here. And since this house has been found to be uninhabitable. . .”

He raised a hand to stop her. Something flaked off one of his fingers. Rachel didn’t look to see what it was. She didn’t want to know.

“I’m aware of that. The inspector told me all about it.

But I beg to differ, madam. This house is far from uninhabitable. It has been lived in for 350 years.”

“Yes, well, sir, the Society went over the inspector’s report and we’re hoping to restore the house.” Rachel saw the old man’s eyes flash for a second. Hope? Desperation?

She rushed the words out while she had his attention.

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“We’d like to buy the house from you and. . .”

“It’s not for sale,” he said, the spark in his eyes dimming.

“Yes, but if it can be restored and designated a historic landmark, the highway department will have to reroute the road. Your house would be saved.”

There was a long pause before Samuel shook his head.

“Thank you, Ms. Anderson, but no. I’ve lived in this house all my life. To sell it would be like selling myself. If the house is to fall, then let it fall.”

“But I don’t understand! I thought you’d be happy to save your family home. And the architecture is rare for this part of the state. It would be a significant historical monument.”

Samuel shook his head again.

“It’s just a house, Ms. Anderson. It is old and tired, just as I am. Now if you will excuse me?”

The old man closed the door a fraction. Fumbling through her purse, she retrieved an envelope and pressed it into his hands.

“All the papers are in here, the whole plan. The state will give you fair value on the house. No, please!” she hurried on when she saw him about to object. “Just think about it and we’ll talk again.”

Samuel gave a polite smile and a little bow.

“I will think about it, madam, but I’m afraid I will have to disappoint you. Good day.”

With that he closed the door, leaving Rachel to stare at the rotting wood.

Samuel sat down on his rocking chair with a sigh. Well, he thought, at least this one knew the meaning of 70

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courtesy, not like that gruff man from the Highway Department, or that shrewish, condescending woman from the Council on Aging. What was her name? Mrs. Reynolds. Samuel chuckled. The woman had lectured him on how a man of his years shouldn’t be living alone. What did she know about aging? She looked about sixty. He had turned sixty before her great­grandfather was even born. Rachel, though, didn’t look a day over twenty­ five. . .

Samuel picked up a book and tried to read, but it couldn’t hold his interest. With a grunt of pain he lifted himself out of his seat and hobbled to the window. He peeked out. The young woman had already left. Beyond the untended yard he could see the black ribbon of Guard Hill Road winding down the valley towards Youngstown.

He remembered when they first paved that road, back in 1917. The telephone lines came a year later. Ugly things, those telephone lines. The Highway Department cut down a whole swath of birch trees to make way for the poles.

They uncovered his father’s bones then. He objected when they wanted to bury them in the churchyard down the street, but the law was on their side. Samuel no longer knew the secrets of the local magistrates and had lost all his influence. By then he had become a hermit; he didn’t want to deal with the outside world with its moving picture shows or its automobiles or its world wars.

Imagine burying a warlock in hallowed ground! At least he got the satisfaction of watching the church collapse a month later. Apparently Father still had some power.

The house aged much faster after that. Whether it was because the old warlock’s bones had been taken away, 71

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Samuel was never sure. Although he read all of his father’s books, he never inherited a knack for the Black Arts. He could do nothing to prevent the decay, and soon stopped caring. The world had passed him by and he felt little concern over his declining health.

He did try to shore up the wall, though, which even then had a distinct tilt. In 1923 he hired some workmen and moved to a local inn. But the morning of their first day of work he woke up to a sharp pain in his side. He could feel the carpenter hammering nails into the house, felt them as if they were being rammed into his own body. In agony, he staggered back to his home and screamed at the workers to stop. He paid them off and sent them away. They shook their heads and muttered amongst themselves. Word got around that the old man on Guard Hill Road had gone mad.

Samuel limped over to his bookshelf. He wiped the dust off the covers, little flakes of old leather sprinkling down to the floor. He studied the titles and couldn’t find a single one he hadn’t read at least a dozen times. When he had still been able to walk well he had occasionally gone to Youngstown to shop for books, but found fewer and fewer that appealed to him. Then the decay of the wall limited his movement, so he hadn’t been farther than the front yard in forty years.

Samuel hobbled back to his chair and sat. He threw another stick on the fire. The flame licked its edges until it sparked and crackled to life. He bent over to pick up a book and saw the envelope Ms. Anderson had given him lying on the floor. He still wasn’t interested, but at least he had something new to read.

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He skimmed through the papers. They wanted to make a tourist site of it, put a gift shop in the downstairs room and sell postcards. Samuel chuckled. They made a fair offer for the property, but he didn’t need the money.

Three centuries of conservative investing had worked wonders with his bank account, not that there was anything he wanted to buy.

He put the papers back in the envelope and dropped it on the floor. It didn’t matter. It would be better if the Highway Department demolished the house. He felt tired.

He had lived long enough from someone else’s death and now he just wanted it to be over. A quick push with a bulldozer and he’d be finished. Samuel leaned back in his chair and tried to sleep. Only two more weeks.

“So do you think the old nut will go for it?” Mark asked as he steered his new Mercedes down Guard Hill Road.

“He’s not a nut,” Rachel objected. “He’s just eccentric.

Living in that place I’d be too.”

“Yeah, but is he going to sign the damn contract? I don’t mind doing a little pro bono work for the Society, it’s a nice tax write­off, but I don’t want this to take a lot of time. I got a big case coming up.”

“It’s been four days. He should have made up his mind by now.”

Mark scoffed, patting Rachel on her thigh.

“Honey, you’re beautiful, but you don’t know anything about people. These old farts can be real stubborn.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. She hated it when he got 73

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condescending. Just because he was thirty­eight and she was still in her twenties didn’t mean he had all the answers. She thought of a comeback about stubborn old farts, but kept it to herself.

“Are we going to dinner tonight?” she asked, changing the subject.

“It’s poker night at the country club, baby,” Mark said.

“I can’t let the guys down. Besides, Bill’s going to be there.

You know how much I always rake off him.”

Rachel said nothing. He had promised to take her to Petite Paris a week ago. Of course he forgot. He always forgot things like that.

“Jesus!” Mark exclaimed as they approached the house.

“You weren’t kidding when you said the place was a dump.”

Mark pulled the car off the road and onto the dirt path that led up to the house. Parking the car, he turned to Rachel.

“Let’s get this over with. Sorry about the dinner, baby, want to grab lunch after this?”

“Sure,” Rachel said flatly. “Whatever you say, Mark.”

“Hey! Don’t be angry. You know these poker games are good for contacts. Let’s go to lunch, huh? Anywhere you want, O.K.?”

He leaned over and kissed her. The corners of her mouth turned up a little. Mark kissed her again, then nibbled her ear.

“All right! All right!” Rachel laughed.

From the dim interior of the house, Samuel watched Rachel walk up the path with a man he’d never seen before. The man pinched Rachel’s behind. She slapped his 74

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hand away and the man just laughed. Annoyed, he closed the curtains.

It had rained that morning. Water dripped from the ceiling into pots in half a dozen places on the floor.

Samuel’s nose dripped. He wiped it with a towel, and it started dripping again. Giving up, he shuffled to the door.

He opened it just as the man was about to knock. He stood there a second, hand in the air, staring at Samuel.

“Um, hello. I’m Mark Ayers, the attorney for the Historical Society.”

He extended a hand. Samuel took it. He saw Mark’s lip curl in disgust when he felt how wet Samuel’s hand was.

Fine, Samuel thought as he wiped his nose, let him be disgusted.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Van Emberg?” Rachel asked.

“Just caught a bit of a cold, young lady, nothing to worry about,” Samuel smiled at her.

“You really shouldn’t be living here. Think of your health. Are you seeing a doctor?” Rachel asked.

“I’m sure he can take care of himself,” Mark said, waving her off with an impatient gesture. “We don’t want to waste your time, Mr. Van Emberg, so let’s cut to the chase. Are you going to sign or not?”

Samuel turned stiffly and glared at Mark. The lawyer tried to hold his gaze, but in a moment his eyes darted away.

“Mr. Ayers, this is still my house, and if it is to be demolished, then so be it. But I will not sell it to be some ridiculous tourist attraction.”

“That’s insane!” Mark bellowed. “You’re losing your house anyway. Did you make a deal with the Highway 75

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Department for more. . .?”

“Mr. Van Emberg,” Rachel cut him off. “This is the only Dutch Colonial house in the entire county. Schoolchildren could come here to learn about the early Dutch settlers.

Historians and architects would be able to study the design.”

Samuel smiled at the young woman. Her concern about his health had touched him. Nobody had bothered to ask in years, not even that do­gooder from the Council on Aging. Rachel seemed kind, and appreciated history too.

“I appreciate your interest, Ms. Anderson, but. . .”

Samuel trailed off as Rachel stared past him into the house, eyes wide with wonder. Samuel turned around. He saw nothing out of the ordinary.

“Mark, look!” she said. “The interior is completely original. Period furniture and everything!”

Mark poked his head in, peering around at the decrepit room.

“Yeah, it’s original, all right.”

“That bureau looks like it’s seventeenth­century Dutch,” Rachel pointed.

“Yes, it is,” Samuel said. “Brought over on a Dutch West India Company ship by the man who built this house.”

“And look!” she cried. “An old Dutch rocking chair!”

“Also original to the house, Ms. Anderson,” Samuel replied, catching her enthusiasm. “You have a good eye, would you care to examine the interior?”

Samuel stood aside and ushered them in. Rachel walked around the room, gazing at each piece of furniture in amazement. Mark came only a couple of steps inside and looked around with ill­disguised repulsion. Water 76

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from the ceiling dripped on his head and he retreated to the doorway.

“Do you mind if I open the drapes? I’d like to get a better view,” Rachel said.

Without waiting for an answer Rachel flung the drapes open. Daylight shone into the room. Samuel blinked and held his hand in front of his eyes.

Rachel examined the fireplace. Samuel followed her.

“These cooking utensils are at least a century old,” she observed.

“Yes, all good ironware,” Samuel said. “No point buying the cheap stuff they have today, all that newfangled Teflon, when proper cookware will serve better.”

Rachel turned to him. For a moment, she forgot his appearance and his smell.

“This house hasn’t changed a bit in 350 years! I don’t see any wiring or air conditioning or anything. You’re living like your ancestors from the seventeenth century.”

Samuel chuckled.

“Well, Ms. Anderson, the boy who brings my groceries shops at the A&P. Youngstown stopped its farmers market in the 1940s. I’ve made some concessions to modernity.”

“So your family never added anything to this place?”

Mark asked.

“No,” the old man replied. “Well, every now and then one of my ancestors had to replace some object. These two chairs, for example, date to the 1870s.”

“I’ve never seen such an impressive collection of antiques,” Rachel said.

“Not antiques, Ms. Anderson,” Samuel said, smiling.

“Simply the family furniture.”

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“Mr. Van Emberg,” Rachel grabbed his arm. “This is a really important site. There’s not a single Colonial house in the region in such an original state.”

Samuel resisted the urge to pull away. No one had stood this close to him in years. The grocery boy never came inside. The man who brought firewood asked him to leave his money on the threshold. Before today, he hadn’t had a guest since old Jeff Miller came to tell him about the sinking of the Maine.

“Please,” Rachel continued. “I’d hate for this old house to be destroyed. It’s bad enough to see the condition it’s in. Won’t you let the Society buy it? We can fix it up. It will take a lot of work, but when we’re done it will look like new.”

Like new. Samuel thought. He looked around at the dilapidated room–the sagging ceiling, the cracked floorboards, the rickety furniture. He thought of himself– withered, gnarled, worm eaten, and Rachel’s slim young hand on his arm. Like new. . .

He looked up at Rachel.

“Very well, Ms. Anderson, the Society shall have the house.”

The old man’s heart leapt as he saw her face light up.

“That’s wonderful news! Thank you!” she beamed.

“Isn’t that great, Mark?”

“Yeah. Great. Here’s the contract,” He produced a sheaf of papers from his briefcase.

Samuel waved him aside.

“Later, Mr. Ayers,” he laughed. “First, our lovely historian here must see the rest of the house!”

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looked eagerly around her.

“These beams you see were cut from a copse of oak right where the Youngstown Middle School stands today.”

“What year?”

“1631.”

“And they’ve held the house all this time!”

“It’s a good house, Ms. Anderson, meant to stand till Judgment Day. Now be careful on the stairs, they’re a little weak.”

Mark stayed alone downstairs. He could hear the old man’s drone, and the occasional squeal of delight as Rachel saw another old pile of junk that caught her fancy.

He shook his head and looked at his watch. His cell phone rang and he stepped outside to answer it.

“Why, Ms. Anderson! What a pleasant surprise. Come in, come in.”

Mr. Van Emberg looked better. A few nights in a motel had done him good. His hair was still stringy and his clothes musty and old, but his smell, that musty, rotting odor, had disappeared. He looked rested, too. Fresher.

But his eyes showed an apprehension bordering on terror.

Poor dear, Rachel thought. He looks so lost here.

Samuel ushered her in, offering her the room’s only chair. Samuel sat on the edge of the bed.

“How is the house?” Samuel asked.

“The workmen have cleaned it out. The exterminator just finished yesterday. The real work will start tomorrow.

But how are you? Is there anything you need?”

“Oh no, the boy who delivers my groceries is delivering 79

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them here now. Mr. Singh lets me use the kitchen next to his office.”

“Mr. Singh?”

“He’s the night manager. He’s from the East Indies, you know.”

“The East Indies?” Rachel asked, wondering if he meant India.

“He wears a turban,” Samuel said, by way of explanation. “He has one of those microwave ovens. He showed me how to use it.”

Rachel stifled a smile at the way he said “microwave” so carefully, taking apart each syllable like a word in some foreign language.

“What do you do all day?” she asked.

“Oh, an old man like me doesn’t need much to do,” he said, rocking back and forth a little on the edge of the bed.

A honk sounded through the door. Mark. Rachel got up.

“I need to go,” she said.

“So soon?”

“Mark is taking me to dinner.”

“I see.”

“Have a nice evening, Mr. Van Emberg.”

“Enjoy your dinner,” he said. He led her to the door and opened it for her. She stepped out and turned back to him.

“Are you sure you’re O.K.?” she asked.

Mark honked again. Rachel rolled her eyes. The door opened onto the parking lot. Mark knew she was coming.

Why did he always have to be such an ass?

“Most certainly, young lady. Goodnight.”

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Samuel shut the door and sat on the edge of the bed.

He looked around the room for a long time, studying the cheap, false wood of the furniture. What did Mr. Singh call it? Particle board? He looked at the mirror above the bureau, the sink outside the bathroom. He sighed. Mr. Singh had brought him a newspaper that evening, but none of the stories made any sense. He had given up trying to read it.

He went over to the television and picked up the remote. Mr. Singh had shown him how to use this, too.

He picked up the card that listed the channels. He had watched a few already, but they made less sense than the newspaper. His eyes went down the list and settled on one called “Music Television.” That sounded promising.

He pressed the power button, then the number.

The screen screamed to life. Four Africans, surrounded by a group of almost naked native women, gyrated on the screen.

“Wan’ none of yo’ sass, baby “Gonna make a pass, baby “Pull you outta class, baby “Gonna tap yo’ ass, baby” The screen winked out as he hit the power button.

Shaking his head, Samuel set the remote back on the television, and the card next to it, before sitting back on the edge of the bed. He sat there for a long time. Then he lay down and went to sleep.

The next morning Samuel woke up screaming. He felt nails plunging into his sides. He felt his flesh being torn 81

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away, and new flesh hammered in. Five miles away, the workmen had started. He writhed in agony, biting his pillow to suppress his screams. It was the first of many long days.

Rachel studied the house. The workmen had done an incredible job. They had propped up and reinforced the walls, replacing many of the planks while sandblasting and treating the rest. It must have been hard work, wrenching out old nails, snapping brittle boards, planing down rough surfaces, but now, nearly a year later, the house looked like new.

She smiled. It looked beautiful now. The highway construction half a mile away was a noisome bother, but that would be over soon. Guard Hill Road would become an access road. The Historical Society had planted more trees to screen out the noise and the view. Once those had grown a little, this spot would look like a piece of the seventeenth century.

She felt a pang of regret that Mr. Van Emberg wasn’t here to see it. She’d received a letter from him a few months before, saying he had moved away. He also sent a legal document signing over all his books and furniture to the Society. It must have hurt him to leave everything behind, but it was probably for the best. She’d moved on too. She had broken up with Mark just a few days after the project got underway.

A taxi pulled up to the side of Guard Hill Road. Rachel watched a young man in a conservative suit get out and pay the driver.

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“Ms. Anderson?” he called to her as he approached.

Rachel studied his face, astonished. The stranger looked like a young Van Emberg. He stood straight, with strong and healthy body, but the facial features were almost identical. The proud bearing was there, too, and the wise, calm eyes.

“Hello. Yes, I’m Rachel,” she said, extending her hand.

He took it, bowing a little. “Are you Mr. Van Emberg’s grandson?”

“Ah, yes. My name is Samuel,” he said, almost forgetting to let go of her hand. It felt good to touch her again.

“So you’ve inherited more than just your grandfather’s looks,” Rachel said.

Samuel smiled. Rachel looked just as lovely as he remembered her. Lovelier. She looked more free, somehow, and happier too. Just like him.

“I came to see the old place. I... and my grandfather... was curious.”

“How is he?”

“Good. Very good. His health is much improved. He’s living in New York now.”

“Well, the house fixed up nicely, as you can see.”

Samuel forced himself to look at the house for the first time. A thrill of joy and nostalgia washed over him. It looked just as it did three hundred years before. He felt like he was in his youth all over again. From a certain angle, he couldn’t see the power lines or the road, only the white trunks of the birch trees and the proud outline of the gambrel roof against the blue sky. The sound of traffic seemed to fade, replaced by the clop of hooves and 83

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the creak of carriage wheels.

“Would you like to go in?” Rachel asked.

“No,” Samuel said quickly, and turned away. For a moment neither spoke.

“Unlike my grandfather I am more interested in new things,” Samuel explained. “Ms. Anderson. . .”

“Rachel, please.”

“My grandfather wished me to express to you his gratitude for your kindness. It was very difficult for him to leave his ancestral home. Very difficult. But you made it easier.”

Rachel smiled.

“Your grandfather is a remarkable man. I wish I had a chance to talk with him more about the Dutch settlers. He knows so much.”

“I was raised on those stories. He told me everything he knew. Perhaps we could discuss it over lunch?”

Rachel smiled again.

“That would be wonderful. We can take my car.”

They walked down the path. Samuel breathed in the fresh summer air. Just being alive felt so good now. He scratched the inside of his arm and felt a small lump.

Checking to see that Rachel wasn’t looking, he picked at it through his clothing. It came free and he shook it down his sleeve. Something trickled down his shirt and into his hand. A termite. He crushed it with his thumbnail and flicked it into the grass.

“Rachel, did you have the exterminators go through the house?”

“Of course,” she replied.

“I see. Well, this house had a lot of termites. You might 84

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want to have them fumigate it again. I’ll be happy to pay for it.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she smiled at him.

“Not at all,” he smiled back.

Sean McLachlan is the author of numerous novels and nonfiction books. He’s currently expanding two series: Toxic World (postapocalyptic science fiction) and Trench Raiders (World War One action). He’s also dipped into Civil War fiction with the novel A Fine Likeness. You can find him at his Amazon page.

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FORTY­FOUR NORTH

by Robert Steele

George Pickler took a knee at the wreckage site and examined what he saw: two dead bodies, one man, one woman, both slightly burned, a Grayden Mark II skybike partially melted on one side, smashed on the other, shoved deep into a ditch on top of the bodies. He pressed two fingers to feel if the woman had a pulse—nothing. He checked the man—nothing.

The life meter would tell him everything he needed to know. He took the disc­shaped meter, and with the sharp tip, punctured a small hole into the woman’s torso, and waited ten seconds until it beeped. He looked at the screen at the top of the disc: Jen Kottke. Age 31. Female.

Cause of death: blunt force trauma causing heart failure.

Time of death: 1800 hours, 23 minutes, and 12.016 seconds.

He marked the meter, and reset it before puncturing the man’s torso. Alan Sipp. Age 32. Male. Cause of death: smoke inhalation causing suffocation. Time of death: 1800 hours, 23 minutes, and 12.027 seconds.

“Dead heat,” said George as he looked up at a young officer with a smirk.

“How close, detective?”

“Less than a half­second.”

“That the closest you’ve seen, sir?”

George stepped away from the wreckage to get a break from the smell of smoldering metal which stung up inside 86

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his nostrils. “Second closest. There was a boat wreck up on Lake Chemong. A boy and his father were only off by only the last digit.”

“Who died first?”

George looked at the baby fat around the officer’s jaw line and thought he couldn’t have been out of the academy for more than a day. “I’m sure we’ve been introduced before, but I forget your name.”

“Officer Phillip Andres.”

“Are you my prep?” George asked. Prep was slang, a pejorative shorthand for the police unit that helped prepare cases for detectives—the Investigative Preparation Department. A prep was an officer assigned to run errands for the detective. The prep did all the grunt work, allowing the detective to do all of the thinking. A random program assigned a different prep to each case. A prep’s real purpose, beyond errands, was to eliminate corruption. The Chief of Police organized the IPD following the scandals two decades before. A prep might get treated like dirt at times, but they also held quite a bit of power in reserve.

“Yes, I’m assigned here,” said Phillip.

George looked out over the horizon at the sun beginning to dip, glowing candy floss pink behind some clouds. There were no skybikes obscuring his view, so he kept silent, enjoying it for a moment.

“Anything you need, sir?” asked Phillip, interrupting George’s moment of tranquillity.

“Contact the next of kin. Then the insurance. See if either of them had any life policies.”

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Phillip scurried away, and although George wanted to turn his attention back to the skyline, a young woman sitting on a bench caught his eye. It was the brightness of her blue trench coat that stopped him. The coat was a few sizes too big and it draped over her small frame. She put a finger in her red ringlets, which to George was peculiar, given the circumstance, with the smoldering of the wreckage and bodies only less than fifty yards away.

George approached the woman. “Excuse me, ma’am.

Do you know any of the parties involved?”

“Nope” she said, plucking a ringlet and letting her hair bounce.

“Are you press?”

“Nope” she said, covering her mouth as she laughed.

“Did you witness the scene?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Can I ask why you’re here?”

“My feet are sore. I needed to take a wee bit of a rest.”

“But this is a crime scene.”

“Oh,” she said, putting her hands on her lap and stretching her back to look around. “What was the crime?”

“I misspoke. It’s a potential crime scene. All accidents involving death are deemed as such.” He didn’t know why he was saying so much to a woman who he didn’t even know. “Would you be able to move down the road to another bench? It’s just that it’s a bit too close to everything going on here.”

She seemed not to hear the question. “Which of them kicked it first?”

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George crossed his arms. “I thought you said you weren’t a witness. How did you know the amount of passengers?”

“It’s Champlain. No one rides alone.”

In the morning, George sat in the throne­like chair behind the desk in his office thinking about the woman.

His prep, Phillip, walked in with a coffee, placed it on the desk in front of him, and took a seat.

“Thank you,” said George. “Can we close this?”

“I think so. I spoke with the family, nothing out of the ordinary. The two were lovers, common law, but just barely. No history of any domestic problems. They had been going to dinner when the skybike lost control. It was some sort of malfunction with the altitude, according to a witness. The bike was too damaged to verify this.”

“Did you check with the life insurance?”

“Basic term­life policy, five million for the deceased Alan Sipp. Nothing for her. He named her as the beneficiary, but since the life meter indicated his death slightly afterwards, and his beneficiary died less than a second before, the benefits will go to his estate. So said the adjuster.”

“Insurance,” George said shaking his head. He wrapped his hands around the coffee to feel the warmth. “Who was the witness? I don’t recall there being anyone on scene.”

“Older gentleman. Terence Mulcair. He came by the station late in the night to report it. He said he was in a rush, taking a friend to an appointment, couldn’t stop after the accident. I advised him he had a legal obligation 89

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to do so, and advised we could fine him at our discretion.

But he was cooperative.”

George scrunched his nose up, as he did when something seemed a little strange. “Well, we won’t close it just yet. I want to talk with this witness. Not that I don’t trust you, Phillip.”

“I understand, sir.”

George had taken his skybike to the other side of Champlain, flying at the highest possible altitude setting to avoid the heavy traffic flow. He hated how much time he was spending on this case—there were stacks of other pending files, and cold cases that he never had time to work on.

He met with the witness, Terence Mulcair, inside a spa.

Most of the plant life was digitally enhanced images, but there were some real plants, and the whole place was nothing but greens upon greens.

George sat in a soft chair beside Terence as a mist filled the room. “Relaxing place,” George said.

“I don’t mind it,” said Mulcair. “In fact, I kind of adore it.” He was sipping on a fancy drink with a mint leaf stuck in it.

“You saw this accident from what I hear. What can you tell me?”

“Nothing that I didn’t already tell your officer. The bike seemed to malfunction, the driver, the man, he took it manually and tried to right the thing, and he crashed and burned.”

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“Nothing seemed out of the ordinary before this malfunction? A fight between with the passengers?”

“Not that I saw. Everything seemed quite tranquil.”

“How can you be sure it was a malfunction?”

Mulcair pushed back in his seat. “Well, I can’t. But it sure darn seemed that way.”

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Mulcair?”

“Consulting.”

“Is that why you were on the east side?”

Mulcair put down his drink. “Am I a suspect now? I don’t understand this.”

“No, sir. Not at all.”

“Then?”

“Unless work related, or something extraordinary, it seems strange for you to be on the east side.”

“Well, I suppose it does, yes. I was out for a ride until I got an urgent message from a friend. I own a Lanore Summervale. The bike simply purrs, and I enjoy going all over the city, to other cities, wherever I can to ride it.”

“I can’t blame you. I quite enjoy my bikes as well when there’s no congestion out there. So a Sunday spin, was it?”

“Very much so.” Mulcair looked around for a servant.

“Has anyone offered you a drink yet?”

“No, but thank you.” George stood. “We’ll be in touch.”

The skies were gridlocked as George headed back to the office. Heavy volumes of bikes filled queues at every legal altitude level. George plugged in and, through the earphones, he listened to a message from Phillip about a 91

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woman named Amilee who came to his office looking for him. “She refused to speak with me. I know you’re all set to go on home for the day, but if you can make it back, please do. All she told me is that it’s regarding the Sipp­ Kottke case.”

George called Phillip. “It's a smoggy mess up here. I’m caught in traffic. I don’t mind heading back, but it could be another hour before I get there at this rate.”

“I’ll let her know.”

“You can go ahead and go home yourself.”

“I don’t mind at all, sir. I’m living the single life. It’s not like I have a family at home waiting for me.”

“Maybe this is why you’re single. You need to work a little less. Don’t waste your life burying your face in work.

You’ll still eventually get your promotion to detective, if that’s something you want.”

There was a pause as if Phillip were considering an appropriate response. “I’ll keep her entertained until you arrive.”

George ditched the sky and headed down to the streets.

There was less congestion, and on the streets he could pass—although this also meant a bit more danger, one wrong move by him or someone else and his body might fall to the road where bikes would run him over before anyone would even realize that there was an accident.

George managed to make it to the office unscathed. His adrenaline was already thumping inside his chest when he walked into the office.

There she was. Amilee in her blue trench coat. Before Phillip or the woman could speak, George raised open

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palms. “I don’t understand. You said you weren’t a witness.”

“I’m not a witness,” she said. She was sitting in his chair and she crossed her legs and looked away from George, out the window.

“Enough games. Please tell me what you’re doing here.”

“I’m not a witness, but I know what happened. I know that you got this little case all wrong.”

George sat on the corner of his desk and looked at Amilee. “What is this issue?”

“He died first. It may have been by an itty bitty hair, but he died first.”

“But you weren’t a witness.”

“I can tell by looking at the victims. People tell me that I have a gift.” She brushed the hair away from her cheek.

“I don’t like having to promote myself, but if you must know, I work as a medium.”

“One of those. Well unfortunately, we don’t work with mediums. We need hard evidence.”

“What evidence do you have to dispute mine?”

“A life meter. It records the exact time of death down to fractions of a second.”

“What if it glitches?”

“It doesn’t glitch.”

Phillip pressed his fingers into the desk until his knuckles whitened. “Ma’am, if you don’t have hard evidence for us, or eyewitness information, we’re going to need to ask you to leave. Detective Pickler is a very busy man.”

She slammed her fists on the table, and both George and Phillip took a step back. “But I am an eyewitness!”

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“You saw the bodies after the fact,” said George. “That’s not being an eyewitness.”

“Go to the morgue. Check those dead bodies again. I’m telling you, mister, you had a glitch. I know what I saw.”

“What you saw afterwards,” said George. She was about to open her mouth to speak, but George had heard enough and he just wanted her out of the office. “We’ll have a look in the morning. It will give me a chance to speak with the coroner about another case.”

She jumped out of the chair and clasped her hands together. “Thank you. That’s all I ask. Thank you, detective.”

The morgue was always too cold, and George was mad at himself for not thinking ahead and bringing a sweater.

He stood beside the blue tint metallic slabs, and spoke to the coroner about a man who died suddenly while bathing in the tub. The coroner ruled out any foul play, and George headed to the exit.

As he opened the door, Philip walked inside, brushing against the buttons of George’s shirt. “Did you recheck Kottke and Sipp?”

“No. We won’t be doing that. I just wanted that woman out of the office. She was creeping me out.”

“You’re here though.” Phillip continued walking to the computer on the desk. He typed in the entry codes and two slabs opened, slowly revealing the corpses of Jen Kottke and Alan Sipp.

“Phillip, I don’t have my life meter on me.”

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“There’s one in that piece of shit desk,” said the coroner from the other side of the room.

Phillip took the life meter. “Here, I’m not authorized to use it.”

George took the meter, rolled his eyes, and walked to the male body. “Alan Sipp, 12.027 seconds. I believe that’s exactly as it was.”

“And Jen Kottke?”

George pierced the torso, and took a curious look at the meter. “Wait a minute.” He pierced a new section of skin.

“Well, it’s 12.029 seconds.”

“Interesting that.”

George walked to Phillip, his mouth hung open a bit.

George was well aware of a prep’s duty of reporting on a detective’s work—any corruption, or any incompetence.

George didn’t like the way Phillip responded. “Wait a minute now. You were right there when I did those initial readings.”

“I was there. I heard you call out—” “But you didn’t see it. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“I’m not trying to say anything, sir. You are correct though. I didn’t see what the meter read.”

George held the meter up. “Someone’s been messing with this. There’s a glitch.”

“We’ve never had any malfunction.”

George’s neck muscles tightened and he felt the cold of the room drop another degree. “I’ve never malfunctioned either. Look at my record. Someone’s messed with this.”

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George spent the next day speaking to every tech guy he could find. He spoke to the internal IT department, but they didn’t seem to know much beyond day­to­day operations. He called around to independent analysts, and spoke to the manufacturers of the life meter. They all told him about how accurate the meter was, how it reinforced its own data by verifying the deaths of billions of the body’s cells.

In the afternoon he returned to the morgue, remembering to bring his own life meter, and remembering to bring his sweater.

He rechecked the bodies, but got the same results as the day before. He walked to the yellow tiled examination room and spoke with the coroner as he ran tests on the corpse of an old woman. “Is it possible to manipulate bodies so that they could get a different reading for time of death?”

“Shit, I wouldn’t think so.” The coroner scratched the top of his shiny bald head with the part of his forearm just below the surgical glove. “That would mean replacing nearly all of the body’s fucking cells. They’d need to be the same damn cells, otherwise the reading would malfunction, or indicate another name for the deceased.”

“What about injecting something in there? Something that would hijack the cells” “If there’s such a fucking thing, I don’t know about it.”

The coroner peeled back the eyelids of the corpse, looking at the yellowing around the base of the eyes. “Seems like an awful bit of work just to shave a few damn seconds.”

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“Not if there’s an insurance benefit to collect.” George cupped a wrist behind his back. “Would you be able to run some tests and see if the Kottke body has been manipulated in any way?”

“My examinations are thorough, as you can clearly fucking see. I would have noticed a damn manipulation.”

“And I agree. You’re the best. I’m talking about after your examination. I don’t trust the security around here.”

The coroner chuckled. “Shit, I don’t disagree.” He cut a light cross pattern into the corpse’s chest cavity. “Alright, I’ll have another look for you this afternoon.”

George’s secretary handed him a written notice from The Police Association, requesting a meeting later in the afternoon. He remembered the last time he went for a meeting. It was to discuss how to prepare a defense over an alleged mishandling of a politician’s death. The police department ended up dismissing their internal investigation through the Special Investigation Unit, the SIU, but the stress of it wasn’t something that George wanted to go through again.

He gulped down the rest of his cold coffee and found his way to the eastern wing of the building where the prep offices were located. He looked around the low cubicles until he found Phillip.

“How dare you,” George said stomping over to Phillip’s desk. He watched Phillip lower in his chair, looking embarrassed by the commotion, but George’s fury got the better of him, and he continued anyway. “For fifteen years I’ve been a detective.” He pointed generally around 97

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the room. “I’ve worked with many of these men and women, some who have gone on to bigger and better things, and never once have I had an issue with a prep.”

“But we’ve never had an issue with a life meter before.

It’s something I had to report, sir.”

“You wait until I figure out what is going on first. You wait until the investigation is completed before you raise your concerns.”

“Oh no, sir, that’s not proper protocol.” Phillip pulled out his handheld device and held it to face George. “Rule 3.1: report all matters of corruption or incompetency to your superior immediately. Any delay could allow further contamination of a criminal investigation.”

George snatched the device from Phillip and threw it back over his head. It bounced off a cabinet and smashed to the floor. George felt the concerned eyes of all the preps fall on him. “I don’t have time to deal with an internal police investigation. I have enough real investigations based on life and death.”

Riding his skybike over east Champlain, George listened to a message from the coroner: “Absolutely no fucking issues post examination. That body is the same as when I left it.”

George took a hard turn and headed to witness Mulcair’s favorite Spa. Mulcair wasn’t in the spa, so George spoke to the employee at the front desk, annoyed as too many of her bracelets clanged on her wrists. “Do you know what Terence Mulcair does for a living?”

“I think he mentioned consulting of some kind.”

“Yes, but what exactly?”

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“I’m not too sure. I see him in the parking lot with this curly haired woman sometimes. I assume they’re discussing business. They seem very matter of fact. But I don’t know what they talk about. We try to stay out of our client’s personal lives.”

“Does she wear a blue trench coat?”

“Why yes. Lovely, isn’t it?”

“I’m going to need you to pull Mr. Mulcair’s address information.” He watched the clerk tilt her head and push out her lips. “It’s a police matter, so it’s law that you cooperate.”

George kept his bike on the streets, making sure his visit was as unannounced as possible. He ascended the road to the large homes on the hills on the outskirts of Champlain.

He considered calling for a few uniformed officers, but he wanted to do a bit more of an investigation before hauling Mulcair into the department. He felt the sidearm tight against his boot, and tried to remember the last time he took it to the range. Too long ago, he thought.

George stopped in front of the large gate numbers on 44 North Irving street. Mulcair’s place was large, but modest for the area­­cream stucco, with red clay roof tiles, a little fountain out front.

As he walked up, he heard voices coming from the back of the house. He walked around the side of the building, and he clutched his chest, trying to slow the beat of his heart.

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When he neared the corner of the house, he began to hear splashing and laughter. He took a peek around the corner and saw three young blonde women playing around in the pool. One sat on the edge of the water, wearing large­rimmed sunglasses, her feet dipped in above the ankles. The other two swam around, splashing one another by flicking their wrists.

Mulcair was nowhere in sight. As the woman on the edge of the water lifted her sunglasses, George snapped back around the corner.

Jen Kottke.

He took deep breaths to slow his heart rate. After he could breathe with some regularity, he turned and walked toward the pool. The two women in the pool craned their necks and looked at George­­two more Jen Kottkes.

“I need to speak with a Terence Mulcair.”

“He’s out,” said the one on the edge of the water.

“Who are you?” asked another in the pool.

“I met Mr. Mulcair at the spa.”

The woman on the edge of the pool put her sunglasses back over her eyes. “He’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.”

Another Jen swam to the stairs and walked out of the pool. She wrung out her hair and wrapped a towel around her chest. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“No, thank you.” George stood by the glass patio door and put his hand on the sliding door. “Would you mind if I used your washroom?”

The three Jens all looked at one another. “It’s just that we don’t know you,” said the one in the towel.

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George sat in a lounge chair feeling the sun bake into his forehead. He knew it would cause another internal investigation, but he didn’t know what to expect when Mulcair came home and saw him sitting in the yard with blonde triplets who resembled a deceased woman.

“Damn SIU,” said George so quietly that no one heard him. He pinched the fabric on his knee and pulled up his pant leg. With his other hand he drew his gun. The three Jens put their hands up. The one in the water struggled, kicking her legs wildly just to stay afloat. “Detective Pickler. I’ll need you to let me in the house.”

George led the three at gunpoint, following them inside. “Where’s his office?”

“He doesn’t have an office,” said the one at the front.

“The basement,” said the one at the back as the other two shot back annoyed looks.

They descended into the basement. With each step the domestic affluence disappeared, and George felt the same coldness as he felt at the morgue. The basement was dark grey bricks and a few open bulbs hanging from the roof.

As George turned he saw a body on a steel table. The body was busted open on the cheeks showing deep red and black gashes. It was exactly as Jen Kottke looked at the morgue.

George walked closer and saw that it was another Jen Kottke. He looked at the Jens. “Clones? How many are there?”

They crossed their arms in unison and said nothing.

George heard the basement door open, followed by the sound of footsteps. He pointed his gun at the staircase.

The footsteps stopped. George thought about calling for 101

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backup, but it was too late now, and he didn’t want to let a hand off of his gun.

George saw Terence Mulcair lean around the wall. He saw the metallic tip of a gun. George fired two quick shots, and to his surprise, both hit Mulcair clean in the abdomen.

Mulcair’s body tumbled and slid to the foot of the stairs.

The Jens ran to him, and from the top of the stairs there were more footsteps. The blue trench coat flew open like a cape and Amilee squatted and clutched Mulcair’s head.

Nevermind that George had revealed the most elaborate murder plot and insurance scam Champlain had ever seen. And no one cared that Terence Mulcair and Amilee Heyward cloned a woman just to have her murdered. Forget about the clones they murdered just moments before the accident, with the goal of getting the time of death suitable for an insurance claim payment to the beneficiary. And disregard that they lured an innocent Alan Sipp, and then ran him off the road. And nevermind that they also broke into the morgue to replace a dead body, that they interfered with a crime scene.

Instead of celebrating the closing of a major case, George was sitting in the boxy Police Association’s meeting room, going over how to prepare a statement of defence against the SIU’s charges that he fired his gun outside of the proper guidelines, by not verbally addressing the suspect. No doubt Phillip would help the SIU by nitpicking George’s handling of the case, by mentioning his outburst. It would certainly help Phillip to 102

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get his promotion to detective, even if it wasn’t immediate.

George wanted the meeting to be over. He wanted to find some open skies and ride his skybike right out of Champlain.

Robert Steele is an English Literature graduate who resides in Canada. His previous fiction has appeared in: Four Volts, IdentityTheory.com, and Thrice Fiction. You can check out his blog at: robertwilliamsteele.wordpress.com

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THE TREES OF GAIA

by Anna Sykora

“Hold on to your stomach, surveyor,” warned pilot Delaney. “We’re making our final approach.” Lurching sideways the snub­nosed shuttle plunged through layers of clouds, and Eva, hunched in the pod beside her, almost heaved.

For this she’d given up a snug desk job? Central had asked for volunteers. Never volunteer...

Tasting sour vomit, Eva gulped it down and sat up straight, clenching her fists as the Loyalty swooped over an "ocean" of dark green. One single, virgin forest covered Gaia; she knew this, still felt shocked by the sight.

“Holy code,” she muttered, and the pilot, an older woman, chuckled: “I know how you feel. If you're used to Tantalus, this little moon is a dream­­or nightmare.”

“I’ve never seen an unprocessed world. The sky’s so blue it hurts my eyes.” Eva squinted down at the trees of Gaia.

“That’s ‘cause there’s no industry yet. Work brigades deploy next year. The air's so rich it won't need processing."

"That should save on costs. Central will be pleased."

Coasting down, the shuttle decelerated and Eva's ears popped. Delaney seemed friendly; could she trust her?

A triple stripe adorned her shabby blue sleeves. “Hey 104

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Delaney, I see by your stripes you've served 30 years. Do you happen to know how the station here got its reputation? Drafting me in on short notice, the station chief offered me double pay.”

“Honey, if you ask me it’s a jinx." Delaney eyed a grimy dial. "The first crew died of contaminated tubes; that's what the news line said. But I keep flying surveyors out before their contracts end.”

“When was your last one?”

“About three weeks ago.”

“Surveyor Ganter?”

“Right. And he told me the station chief belongs in the brig. Ganter couldn’t wait to get home to Tantalus. ” Single trees rose from the wilderness, each huge as a block housing thousands of clones. “All I know about John Orcus is his name,” said Eva, which sounded like a lie. “And he’s got weird theories about this moon,” she tacked on in a hurry.

Cackling, Delaney rapped a flickering dial, whose readout firmed. “Maybe that’s what Central pays him for.

Like it pays me to fly this rust bucket back and forth to Tantalus. Orcus must be weird, to want to run a station built on top of these trees.”

“Hope I can stand the isolation.”

Delaney grinned, revealing uneven teeth. “Honey, I guess I’m old enough to be your biological mom. Take my advice, keep your head down here and stick to the code.”

Eva bit her lip. “Of course. I'm a true believer."

“Gaia is still wild. Remember that.”

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A nest of antennae bristled from the trees. “Here we go,” said Delaney cheerfully. “Shift your pod back and I’ll set us down.” Heart thumping, Eva clutched the plastic armrests. This evening she would meet John Orcus.

What a chance for her stuck career.

A landing dock anchored in the trees loomed up, blue triad of beacons pulsing. Nobody was waiting. What did she expect? He thought her a lowly data clerk.

Rotating its engines the Loyalty drifted down and then jolted to a stop. “Sorry, hon, I gotta keep to the schedule.” Delaney flicked a row of overhead switches.

“Wait here till the station sends you a helper.” As the shuttle's rear hatch groaned open sunshine flooded the pilot bay.

“Thanks for the ride, and the advice.” Eva unhooked herself from her pod. She checked her respirator, reading neutral. The Gaian air was supposed to be safe, as long as you didn’t touch the trees. Just in case, she snapped her unit's clear mask over her nose and mouth.

Delaney winked. “Hope you tough it out until your contract ends.”

“Thank you, pilot, I need the gold. I want to rent a larger cubicle at home.”

Buzzing, the in­ship helper shoved out a high­stacked pallet of supplies for the station. Then Delaney gave a thumbs­up sign as Eva pulled her suitcase down the ramp.

The hatch clattered shut and the Loyalty whooshed straight up again off the dock, rocked its stubby wings and veered away.

Left alone, Eva gawked at the surrounding tree­tops. No plastic fakes. She’d never seen so many trees: enough to 106

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build dozens of temporary cities, enough to house the millions of cloned humans who would settle Gaia.

A breeze stirred the large, five­pointed leaves, and they made a low, hissing sound. Eva shivered in her snug, grey uniform, hugging herself though the sun felt warm.

Already she missed the din of crowds on Tantalus, the ceaseless swirl of 3­D traffic...

All of a sudden she thought she felt hidden eyes watching her, hungry eyes. How ridiculous­­Gaia's only inhabitants were the small band of surveyors at the station.

“Excuse me,” a syn voice droned and Eva wheeled, reaching for her blaster. “You must be Surveyor Rosario.”

The helper had steel hydraulic arms, no face (to save on costs). “I’m sorry I frightened you."

“I’m alright. It’s just so quiet I can hear my heart beating.”

“Humans get used to Gaia, or they leave... I have a message from the clerk you are replacing, Paolo Ganter.”

Nodding, Eva slipped the offered disk into her hip pocket.

“May I carry your suitcase? It scans heavy for a clone of your sub­standard height.”

She snorted. “I am standard for Tantalus, where heights are strictly enforced. You may carry my case, but don't expect a tip.” Scooping up the station's pallet, the helper set her suitcase on top.

“This way.” And away it rolled down a steel track winding around the treetops. Hurrying after the helper, Eva noticed one tree stripped of bark. How naked it looked, like a corpse abandoned on a busy intersection.

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At intervals of about 10 paces, thick hoses wound around the trees.

“Helper," she called out, "what is the point of all this pumping equipment?”

“The station chief's idea: chemical transfusions keep the nearby trees under control. We helpers built and run the system.”

She wanted to ask more questions but the station loomed: a hulk of standard steel containers erected on struts in the trees. Only the top floor had windows, and scarlet curtains fluttered in one. Near it, like an old­ fashioned cherry­picker, a tethered transpo rose into the air. On it stood a tall, gaunt man in a drab green uniform, with silver crescents on his shoulders, black hair flowing down his back. John Orcus wore no respirator.

“Surveyor Rosario, reporting, sir,” Eva sang out and saluted. Ignoring her, Orcus bored a small power drill into a trunk. Blue sap dripped, but even as the station chief collected a sample the bark closed up like a liquid stirred.

“You should use a respirator," cried Eva. "Our code of conquest­­" “I’ve got my reasons.” Their gazes locked, and she felt a powerful, almost magnetic force. Rimmed with shadows above rugged cheekbones, his deep­set eyes burned with a weird, green light. This was a man used to getting his way, her superiors warned, a dangerous man. They kept a megafile of encoded data on John Orcus.

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“Follow that helper to your quarters,” he said then in a gentler tone. “The crew meets on deck at 18 hundred hours for tubes, surveyor. Don't be late.”

The sun had already slipped behind the trees when Eva stepped out onto the roof at 17:55. Two stands of pseudo­candles cast a glow over the long, black plastic table.

“Good evening, I’m Eva Rosario.” She chose a space at the end of a bench, and faces gazed at her skeptically. “I got drafted to replace your data clerk.”

A fleshy blonde with chill blue eyes­­the only other female­­sneered. “And I’m Martina Bukowski, chief genetic analyst. I’ve got three weeks of backlogged data.

Hope you last longer than poor Ganter.”

No, morale did not seem high at this isolated station.

Eva shifted on the bench, whose hardness recalled childhood hours of worshipping the code. Grimly she sat up straight as a wall.

“Hello, I’m Yang Sung.” A round­faced man beamed, his head shaved bare as an asteroid. “And I'm glad to see a fresh face here, along with fresh supplies of tubes.”

“I wouldn’t feed our rations to a sewer rat,” moaned the hatchet­faced man beside him. “I’m Jansen, the station engineer, and I wish my stomach could heal itself like one of these famous trees.”

In the twilight, branches swayed along the roof's edge, moving with eerie grace, like dancers. The hairs on Eva's neck prickled.

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“We all should admire these trees," said Yang Sung, "since they can regenerate themselves. Maybe they can teach us about healing wounds, or even about immortality.”

“You’re just a dreamer, like the chief.” Martina jabbed her thumb at the empty armchair at the table’s head. It glittered with costly brocade­­like a museum piece, Eva thought. “Everybody knows Central wants our resource report out of the way before settling Gaia. Code knows we need more space for clones.”

Not waiting for the chief, a helper rolled out with a platter of identical, silver tubes. Each surveyor took one, and popping hers open, Eva applied a dot to her tongue and sucked on it, developing the flavor of a bland beef stew.

John Orcus strode out onto the darkening deck, tossing his mane like a bard of old preparing to recite. Nodding at Eva, he took his place as if on a golden throne. When he tasted his tube he scowled.

“Our new crew member will need some time to get used to us,” he said, and Jansen guffawed. Ignoring him, Orcus stared at Eva: “Newcomers often feel tired or anxious. The days here pass too quickly.”

“I'm sure I can keep up with you,” she said, and when Martina laughed bitterly, Eva wondered if the beautiful geneticist might be the station chief's lover. She'd read nothing on this in the files.

His green gaze bored into Eva now as if he read her mind. "With days and nights just 8 hours long, we learn to live intensely here."

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“Why must the sun rise in the west?" Jansen complained. Wistfully he gazed up at reddish, dry Tantalus, now riding high in the star­flecked sky.

“Jansen," Yang Sung chided, "you should show more interest in the biosphere here. It's almost untouched by human claws.”

The engineer frowned, bushy eyebrows stiffening into a line. “Why should I? Gaia is passing away. Next year the helpers will clear­cut all these useless trees, to make room for more settlements.”

“How, if the trees regenerate?" asked Eva. “The work brigades will find a way,” he said sharply.

“They always do.”

“At least there are no natives on Gaia to pretend to feel sorry for.” Martina pushed away her well­squeezed tube with a gesture of disgust.

“Absent certainty is not certain absence,” Orcus pointed out, and Eva studied his slanted, green eyes. What did he really know?

The other surveyors soon withdrew, as if they couldn’t bear each other. A faceless helper rolled out and collected the empty tubes for recycling. Orcus produced a pipe and pouch, and leaning back blew undulating, thin rings that melted into the night. Eva sat silently, tracking the larger moons­­all settled for centuries­­across the starry sky.

“Six other moons,” he said finally, tapping his ashes onto the table. “All of them processed and colonized, packed full of cloned humans and mechanical helpers.

Gaia will be next, and what a pity.” Eva felt eyes

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observing from the trees. Shuddering she pulled up her uniform's cowl.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“An eerie sensation, some trick of my mind. Chief, I’m not used to uncrowded spaces. I can feel my breathing.

It's distracting."

“Yes, Gaia makes a shocking first impression... If you open your eyes, if you hold out your mind, she will grow on you. Don’t be afraid of the enfolding forest.” Getting up he patted Eva's shoulder, and she felt a subtle warmth flowing from his hand.

She took a deep breath, intensely curious­­hungry even­­to know him better. Was this a chance? What would Central think? She had no demerits in her file.

Getting up he glided towards the hatch that led to the spiral stairs back down. She cast a last look up at overcrowded, old Tantalus and followed John Orcus.

His quarters filled one corner. As he swiped a card through the lock, Eva caught sight of scarlet curtains.

Too soon, even for a lowly clerk. She had to act her part.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, chief,” she mumbled.

“In the lab.”

“What’s the matter, Eva?” “I just feel exhausted. Must be this day that ended too soon.”

“Sleep well,” he murmured as she retreated down the hall.

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Sitting down at her cell's dented mecmind, she loaded Ganter’s disk, and a hologram of his sallow face flickered in the mecmind's field.

“Agent Rosario,” he drawled, “to make a too­long story short, I believe our subject has had contact with alien intelligence. His loyalty has been disintegrating.

Sometimes I think he can read my thoughts. Stay safe, pursuing this project for Central. I myself can't wait to escape from Gaia."

The image faded, and pulling out the disk Eva tossed it into the vaporizer. The sudden heat and reek made her queasy, and she flicked off the overhead light. Unzipping the rubbery sides of her uniform, she opened the window and leaned out, as if searching for the crowds and traffic back home; the familiar view from her high­density blockhouse in Sector 2.

Gaia’s silence felt deafening now: no clamor of voices, no rumble of the universal helper machines. No humming of insects; no calling of clone­birds; no, nothing but wind in the waving branches, all of them whispering together in a language she’d never understand.

No wonder a man of the station chief's gifts was losing his stability and falling away from the code. Central should have sent someone else to guide the resource report to completion; John Orcus had too much imagination. She herself could do a better job. Time to get some sleep, however, before her first day as a clerk...

Turning back to the dark room, she choked on a scream. A man stood before her, tall and gaunt in the velvety shimmer from the sky, his cheekbones sharp. Had her own thoughts summoned him?

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“I keep a bit­key for every cell,” said Orcus softly, green eyes gleaming like a cat’s.

Did he have hypnotic powers? Central's files had not exaggerated. “What do you want?” she heard herself asking, cool as a mechanical helper. Stepping close he grabbed her by the arm: “Who are you, Eva Rosario?” He gave her a little shake.

“And what do really want at my station? You are no surveyor; you have a different feel.”

She smiled, baring her teeth. “Chief, you will find all my holograms in order. I'm just a drafted data clerk.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Can you read my mind? Then you know how you attract me."

The small room was spinning on an axis. Placing his tingling hands on her shoulders, he pulled down the sides of her uniform as if peeling a luscious fruit.

Later, as they lay upon her hard bed, breathing softly and breathing together, his finger traced the tattoo on her hip: “‘IA,’ for ‘internal affairs.’ So you ventured out here to investigate me.” He chuckled, as if at some private joke.

Eva didn’t answer. Getting up he slumped into the mecmind's chair and buried his face in his hands. After a moment she bent over him, twining a lock of his hair around her fingers: “Yes, John, IA sent me out to Gaia to watch over you.

We're worried that you're having a nervous breakdown.

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tell me what’s going on? Central can’t afford to keep on paying surveyors to leave Gaia early.”

“It’s true I’ve changed in the last few years, ever since I took this position. It's true, I no longer worship the code of conquest in its entirety. But that's because I understand Gaia, and I am the only one.” As he peered into her face she felt his numbing load of sorrow and loneliness. Yes, this man had telepathic gifts. What role did the trees of Gaia play?

Central needed to know if he was suffering from paranoid delusions. Central needed to know how the giant trees contributed to his condition. Central, always on the watch for new and efficient chemical weapons…

“You believe these trees possess intelligence?” She kept her voice calm as a machine's. (Never show a subject you are passing judgment.)

“I know they do.” He scanned her face as if seeking approval.

“Then prove it; I've got an open mind.”

"I will."

They climbed the staircase back to the station’s deck.

Stepping onto a transpo parked there, he motioned to Eva to climb aboard.

“How far down are we going?” she asked.

“All the way.”

“I thought no human had seen the surface.”

“The risk is worth it, I promise.” She wrapped her arms around him, and he started the transpo with a jolt. Off the roof it flew and then down, and in the darkness it felt 115

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like a plunge underwater. Leaves and branches went whirling past in the beams of the running lights. Leaves that broke off grew back like magic.

John Orcus kept steering down and around the trunk of the barkless tree, and soon Eva smelled a cloying fragrance sweeter than any perfume. She'd set her respirator on maximum. Again he hadn't bothered with one.

Landing, the transpo juddered to a halt on dark and spongy ground. “It happened right here,” he said, dismounting. She followed, feet sinking into the earth.

“Right here,” he repeated as if in a dream.

Flicking on a hand light he pointed to the trunk of an enormous tree. She gasped at the cracked and yellowed bone protruding from its bark: a human femur?

“A relic of the first crew. these trees devoured them.”

“Then why claim that they died of contaminated food?”

“We needed more surveyors to study these trees.

Finding out how they repair themselves could earn us trillions in gold bullion. But that would be wrong; in fact it would be a crime.”

“What do you mean?” She sidled away, careful not to brush against the trees.

“Anything that harms these beings is wrong. Though life here may seem chaotic, at it's root it is highly organized. In this dark forest I can see one mind like a single organism; a mind that can think for itself, or act and react to defend itself.”

“What is your proof?”

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“These trees chose to consume the first crew here. They understand our conquest of Gaia would destroy their way of life.”

Eva flung up her hands, warding off this vile heretic.

“All creatures are subject to the code of conquest,” she recited. “We humans are the masters of the universe, and that is our final destiny.”

“Oh, don’t believe that propaganda. Join me in loving these benevolent trees. Live here with me, and live forever…”

“Chief­­John­­you've lost your sanity.” Martina stepped from behind a tree and pointed her blaster at his head.

“You can't live by the code, your blood crawling with tree spores. I analyzed the latest sample, and they have been colonizing you. We need to get you back to Tantalus.”

“No,” he said stubbornly. “These marvelous beings have selected me­­” A small branch whipped around Martina's throat; she stumbled backwards, tugging at it, choking.

“Stop it!” Eva shouted, but Martina's body hung limp.

Flinging it away, the branch snapped back and swayed like a snake about to strike. When she aimed her blaster the branch sprang up again and rejoined its kin.

Yes, these trees showed intelligence; they did not want to die. They'd rather kill.

“These trees murder humans," Eva shouted at Orcus, "so we must judge and execute them. That’s what our code of conquest requires.”

“No, they are just defending themselves­­like any feeling being.” He grabbed the pumping node on a tree and ripped it away.

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“What are you doing?"

"These trees are gods.” He tore the node off another, and its low branches rippled together. He patted the gnarly bark of a third­­and his hand sank into it, and then his forearm.

“They’re taking you!”

“I want to go to them. With you­­” “I’ve got a life, John; I serve Central.”

“This is your chance to live forever. Gaia is one beautiful mind, a mind that absorbs whatever it touches..."

“I’ll warn the station.” She jumped on his transpo.

“Too late.” With his free hand he hugged the tree engulfing him. “I can see the trees attacking the station.

The rescue module's already­­” Just a hank of his hair now dangled free, so she tore some off and stuffed it into her pocket: DNA evidence, for Central.

She gunned the transpo upwards on full power, around and around the peeled tree’s trunk. Other trees swiped at her; they tried to entwine her while she stubbornly hurtled upwards, aiming at the pool of pale blue that marked the Gaian dawn. She felt she was bursting from the bottom of a well, escaping from some hideous nightmare. If dawn was breaking on Gaia, though, why was the sky in flames?

The ruins of the station blazed, huge trees flailing at collapsing walls. Almost colliding with a toppling corner, Eva grabbed a red curtain like a flag. She shot away towards the landing dock. Here the steel struts looked intact...

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When a branch snatched the transpo from under her, she fell on her knees on the steel plates. “I won’t join you; this is not my world,” she shouted at the wildly thrashing trees, while ruddy Tantalus shimmered overhead like a bloodshot eye. “Help me!” cried Eva, yearning for her multitudes of fellow clones, all packed together tightly there and on the six, long­settled moons; all living and dying in perfect order according to the code.

Could she survive? She had no water, no tubes. All alone she cowered on the steel plate dock in the burning sun, an insect just out of reach of the mutinous trees.

Then the dock bucked under her, as if trees were pulling the last struts out of their bodies. When she blasted the nearest with her weapon, its crown burst into a fury of flames, singeing off her hair and eyebrows.

Drops of sap exploded all around, rattling down on the dock. She heard a mournful, shuddering cry, and all the other trees bent away from her.

Hours passed, or maybe days... Eyes swollen shut, she licked her cracked lips and dreamed of water.

Who at Central would believe her? Paranoid delusions, they'd say... And she'd always been such a loyal worker, always keeping faith with the code...

From far away, she heard a whooshing sound in the sky. Raising her throbbing head she imagined the snub­ nosed Loyalty plunging from a cloud. Down it came, headed towards the dock.

Frantically she waved her rag of red curtain. Did the shuttle dip its wings?

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Oh, she'd make it back to Tantalus, where Central would heal her eyes. Praise the code; she’d be safe once again, in her precious cubicle....

But what was this rock thumping in her belly? Why was her snug uniform straining? What had John Orcus given her?

The rubbery fabric stretched; it cracked, and a bone­ hard branch burst out.

Anna Sykora has been an attorney in New York and a teacher of English in Germany, where she now resides. To date she has placed 131 stories, mostly genre, in the small press; most recently with Rosebud (finalist in the 2014 Mary Shelley competition), Tales of the Talisman and Niteblade. She has also placed 340 poems.

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THE GLASS EYE

by John Buentello and Lawrence Buentello

The glass eye lay glimmering in the grass like the morning star in a dawning sky.

Oren Landi reached down and plucked it into his hand.

He felt its polished surface against his fingers, and an odd heat he attributed to the warming sun.

At first he thought he’d spied a shining coin while walking on the path to the communal village, and his heart beat faster, for acquiring coins was rare for him in these days of difficult labor. The village was small and the farms far apart, and he was without a father to teach him a craft that might prove profitable. Though he was only sixteen, he felt he had passed the age of learning meaningful skills such as those practiced by the guilds.

He’d been earning a sparse living driving wagons through the countryside delivering goods for the farmers, but had no other prospects.

When Oren stared into his palm he realized he wasn’t holding a coin, or anything he’d ever seen before. Staring back at him in solitary gaze was a finely carved glass eye, of white crystal with a pale blue iris in the center; and in the center of the blue pigment a translucent black pupil. It was as if his hand had acquired a cyclopean demeanor and was staring back at him silently.

He was only mildly surprised by the discovery.

He’d heard tales of the ornaments of the rich, of 121

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wealthy people living in far cities, the affectations that made a glass eye preferable over a cloth or hood. Still, the village of Gedwild was far from any city, small, and devoid of wealthy inhabitants. Had a rich man passed through by way of carriage? Had a courier taken a jolt on horseback and lost the ornament in the grass?

Certainly the glass eye was not a coin, and was worthless as currency, but he slipped it into his pocket nonetheless. A talisman was a talisman, and even though it possessed a grotesque appearance, he recognized its artistry and admired the beauty of its craft.

With the glass eye in his pocket and a smile on his lips, he continued on his way toward the village.

“Did you see the strange man by the river?” asked Del as he manhandled a sack of barley into the bed of the wagon.

He paused to catch his breath. He was twelve years old, but big for his age, and often helped Oren when he wasn’t working at his father’s mill. Oren couldn’t pay the boy much for his efforts, but both enjoyed the ride between the barley man and the brewer, a ride that would have been long and tedious for Oren without a companion.

Oren heaved a sack over the barley the boy had just loaded, sweat dripping from his chin. He always kept his long hair tied with a length of sackcloth, but now he pulled it from his head to wipe his face. When he was finished, he leaned against the wagon to retie the cloth.

“What did you say?”

“There’s a stranger that came through the village a 122

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couple of days ago. Old Werri told my father about him.”

Del dusted his palms on his breeches. “Werri believes he’s evil.”

Oren studied Del’s face a moment, wondering if he should laugh, or if the boy was sincere. But the boy’s face betrayed no humor.

“Why does Werri think the man evil?” he asked as he turned toward the remaining sacks of barley lying in the grass. “Seems to me old Werri thinks every stranger is evil, or his horse, or his wife. The man’s probably just some wanderer fishing the river.”

“No,” Del said, his tone rising. The boy raised his arms, a posture Oren had seen many times presaging some wild proclamation of ghosts or wraiths or Lucifer’s hordes.

“Old Werri rode out to the river to speak to him, no doubt to reckon him out for the constable. The King’s men hate vagrants.”

“That sounds very much like Werri,” Oren said, pulling up another sack. “Always in someone else’s business.”

“True enough. But this time, when he came upon the man, he was overcome by a spell.”

“A spell?” Oren said, tossing the sack into the wagon.

Yes, this was a more interesting story. Werri was a large man, with a chest as broad as a barrel, and thick, heavy arms. In his youth he’d been a good smithy, strong as a mill wheel, and wasn’t likely to be frightened by a vagrant.

Oren asked, “What kind of spell?”

Del lowered his arms and quieted his tone. “An evil eye.”

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to Oren, subtly, like the uneasy realization of a foreboding coincidence.

“But not just by the gesture of his hand,” Del continued.

“He cast the spell from a dead eye.”

“A dead eye?” Oren’s hand slipped down to the pocket holding the glass eye.

“Werri came upon him as the man was washing his arms in the river, his back to him. Old Werri does enjoy stalking up behind people. My father told me he was a masterful hunter years ago. He called out to the man, demanding to know his business in the village.” Del tapped his finger against his temple, near his eye. “The man turned away from the water and glared at Werri with his good eye. But it was the other eye, or the socket where once there was an eye, that stole Werri’s breath. Old Werri swore to my father that a demonic mist filled the socket and gave him evil tidings.”

Oren considered reaching into his pocket and bringing up the eye for the boy to see, but something stayed his hand. A chill convulsed his back, and though the close appearance of the one­eyed stranger and the glass eye struck him as ominous, he refused to agitate the boy any further. His hand moved away from his pocket.

“Werri’s a superstitious fool,” Oren said, managing a weak laugh.

“I saw Werri leaving the mill,” Del said, shaking his head. “His face was pale with fright.”

“That’s enough of old Werri’s tales,” Oren said decisively. “Let’s finish loading so we can make it back from Durbin’s before dark.”

Del shrugged and bent toward the remaining sacks.

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“I’d rather go down to the river,” he said, “and see the one­eyed man for myself.”

“Don’t be so curious about strangers,” Oren said as he hurled another sack onto the wagon.

Oren glanced up at the crescent moon slowly rising above the tops of the trees.

He and Del had spent the rest of the day driving to Durbin’s house and unloading the barley, and Del couldn’t help repeating the story of the one­eyed stranger. Durbin was so pleased by the story, and the intrigue the two fostered from it, that he fed them a good meal in his house just to keep the conversation going. Oren welcomed the food, but remained reticent during the talking. Something about the story made him uneasy.

Durbin, belching over his ale and wiping his hands over his belly, invited them to spend the night rather than drive the road in the dark, but Oren didn’t wish to stay any longer. He knew the road and insisted the horses also knew their way, in light or darkness. At least the moon cast a silver light on the trees and the road that split their company like a gloomy river.

The story of the stranger occupied his thoughts as he held the reins. Del slept soundly in the bed of the wagon, evidently weary from telling the story so many times, so he was alone with his thoughts. Occasionally a sparrow fluttered in the leaves, or an owl would issue a haunting note, which only aggravated the inexplicable dread he felt.

Once, while Durbin was counting sacks of barley, Oren 125

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began to pull the glass eye from his pocket, feeling an overwhelming desire to see it again, but for some reason he felt he shouldn’t expose it to the light of day. Talk of evil omens and spells convinced him to keep the eye’s existence to himself.

On a whim, Oren pulled on the reins and quietly stopped the horses. He glanced back at the sleeping boy, who hadn’t stirred, then stared ahead into the darkness.

While the insects chattered inquisitively, he reached into his pocket and, with a heavy breath, pulled out the glass eye and held it up to the moonlight. He gazed at the crystal at arm’s length, waiting for some doom to befall him. But no doom came.

The moonlight shone brightly on the eye’s curvature, reflecting the light coolly. No, this wasn’t an artifact of evil, merely a one­eyed man’s ornament and nothing more. He closed his hand around the crystal, relieved, and also feeling a little foolish. But then, he’d been hearing tales of the supernatural all afternoon, why shouldn’t he have felt uneasy?

Oren even thought of returning the ornament to the one­eyed man by the river, if it was indeed his, and old Werri’s superstitions be damned. He still had both eyes, and perfect vision, so why not commit a good deed that might prove a blessing for him?

He opened his hand, the glass eye sparkling like a jewel in the moonlight. Seeing it glimmer so beautifully, a strange impulse overcame him, and he slowly raised the crystal to his face, and then held it directly before his own eye, meaning to see how the white light of the moon might be changed through the glass.

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If all sound hadn’t frozen in his throat, he would have surely wakened the boy—what he saw through the hazy color of the false pupil caused him to forget all thoughts of returning the eye to the stranger.

Now he knew he possessed something much more valuable than a coin, even a gold coin.

Oren slipped the glass eye back into his pocket, rolled the reins over the horses’ backs and felt the wagon begin to move again.

He had difficulty concentrating on the road with the memory of all he’d seen burning in his mind. The previous year he had seen a merchant open a bag of silver coins to pay Durbin for several skins of ale, and that was as much money as he’d ever seen in his life. But the vision of the eye showed him barrels of coins heaped in ancient halls full of gorgeous tapestries and stringed instruments, silver trays bearing jewels like shining fruit, purple robes draped on tables and waiting for a man to wear over his shoulders. How wonderful it would be to walk into those halls and claim it all for his own! He would buy horses of his own, live in a palace, and never know a hungry day again.

And like a whisper barely heard, the vision of the eye told him that this treasure might be his, if only he used the eye to guide his way...

Once Oren had left off Del at the mill, he returned the horses and the wagon to the barley man and walked the rest of the way to the small house that had once been his father’s.

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Then he lay in the darkness of the house, surrounded by the few possessions that had belonged to his mother and father, now rendered invisible by the blackness, as invisible as the spirits of his parents.

He lay on the ground, his arms beneath his head, and wondered if what he’d seen through the glass eye was only a delusion, a waking dream. He hadn’t looked through the eye again, and perhaps feared to try. The treasure he’d seen was certainly as great as the King’s, though hidden in a secret place he knew could only be found through the second sight provided by the crystal.

How he knew this, he didn’t know, except that his perceptions must have come from some magic contained in the crystal. But how might he use the glass eye to find such a treasure? Was the vision enough? Or must he also have some special knowledge of its properties to use it properly?

As he lay in darkness, he came to realize that the one­ eyed man must have been using the glass eye to guide his way to the treasure. This explained why he remained camped by the river; he was surely scouring the road for what he’d lost, and must be wary of anyone who questioned his purpose there.

Several times Oren began to reach for the eye, desirous to see the glimmering treasure again, and each time he refrained.

His father’s memory refused to let him commit to owning the crystal.

Eris Landi had been a pious, honest man in life, a simple farmer with the heart of a philosopher. When Oren was very young, his father implored him to always remain 128

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honest and forthright, and declared, “Remember, Oren, no temptation is worth the price of your soul.”

Oren loved the man very much, and had always tried to obey his words. Eris Landi’s words were all he had left of his father.

Despite all the treasures promised by the glass eye’s vision, he knew he couldn’t keep the eye. No treasure was worth finding disgrace in his father’s eyes. Still—when he remembered that glorious vision, a hill of gold and silver coins, of jewels worth a kingdom— Oren was a poor young man, from a poor family, and he knew this poverty had contributed to the early deaths of his mother and father. After his father’s death, his mother had sold most of the farmland to make their way, though she, too, died before her time. If they had had access to such a fortune, wouldn’t they still be with him today? A fortune in gold could delay death for many years for a man.

Eventually sleep found him, but not before he knew what he must do the following day.

Oren didn’t know where the stranger had camped on the river, and he was afraid to ask Werri, lest the man discourage him from visiting, or pry into his reasons for seeking out the man in the first place. So he slipped down to the river bank and began walking alongside the water, hoping to eventually find the stranger’s camp.

In his pocket he carried the glass eye.

The previous night, in his dreams, he’d traveled down a road and to a valley filled with ivory houses adorned in 129

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fine silks and tapestries, and bearing chest after chest of gold and jewels. He’d dipped his hands into the piles of treasure, feeling the cold glory of the coins and the smooth beauty of the gems. Surely this was only a dream, but when he woke, his mind still turning with the dazzling images, he felt this treasure must be real, and located somewhere just beyond his knowledge.

But the long walk to the river cleared his mind of dreams and replaced them with his father’s words.

By the time he found the stranger’s camp the sun had risen to its noon perch, burning down on him painfully.

He stood at a distance observing the unoccupied camp, pulling the cloth from his hair to wipe the sweat from his eyes and retying it, before moving forward.

A fire ring still smoldered from a night’s burning, and an unfurled bedroll lay by the stones; several small leather sacks lay in the grass, as well as a water skin.

Oren heard a crackling noise, and gazed into the undergrowth where a small dray mule stood waiting. The stranger must surely be nearby— This camp seemed unlikely to belong to a man of enduring evil. Perhaps Oren had been wrong—perhaps the glass eye and the man had nothing in common. Yet, he felt certain they must. The stranger must know the secret of the glass eye’s vision. If Oren knew that secret, what might he then do with the crystal?

The sound of a snapping twig caused Oren to turn sharply.

A ruddy­skinned man of slight stature walked toward him, as if appearing from the air, his bearded face half­ concealed by the hood of a cloak. The man walked slowly, 130

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crackling the brush under his boots, a freshly cut staff in his hand keeping time with his pace.

Though Oren was startled, he wasn’t afraid. He was well­muscled from his labors, and stood a head taller than the stranger, who was not at all imposing.

But Oren’s gaze did fall almost immediately to the man’s face, expecting to see the gaping socket from which issued Werri’s perceived evil.

But the man wore a soft black patch over his left eye, or perhaps over the place where an eye used to be; without exposing the disfigurement, the stranger seemed just a man, older than Oren’s father would be in this year, and slightly decrepit, who watched Oren with a clear blue right eye.

The stranger said nothing as he laid down his staff, walked to the fire ring, even as Oren stepped away from it, and carefully sat in the grass. Without turning his head he drew a long, thin blade from the bag tied to his waist and began absently stirring the embers.

“Are you the one I’ve been waiting for?” the stranger asked in a voice turned to paper in his throat by age. He continued stabbing at the embers, as if searching for some message left in their ash.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Oren said, wishing he’d brought a blade of his own. Still, he thought he could wrest the weapon from the smaller man if he must.

“You are the one I’ve been waiting for,” the man said, turning his head and grinning. His face bore no humor, but a disturbing malice displayed in a hideous smile. “Do you have the eye with you, son?”

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Oren knew he’d made a mistake coming to the river.

Why had he come? Why hadn’t he heeded the warning in Del’s story?

“Who are you?” he said, trying to determine what to do.

“I am Felar of Riine,” the stranger said. Puffs of blue smoke began rising from the embers where he stirred them. “But can that mean anything to you? As much as any vision you have seen?”

“What vision?”

“No use lying to me, boy,” Felar said. His free hand circled the fire ring slowly, and the blue smoke intensified, billowing thickly and rising above the man’s head.

Oren watched the smoke as if in a daze, seeing shapes within its folding undulations, faces, too, dark blue and frightening. Or was it only his imagination?

“How do you know I’ve seen visions?” Oren said.

“You’re the one who found the eye.”

“Yes, I found the eye,” Oren said, now realizing that he was terribly intimidated by the older man. “But I only came to return it to you, if it was truly you who lost it.”

Felar laughed dryly.

“A good Samaritan,” he said. “Motivated only by the need to return a poor man’s trinket. How very saintly of you, given the promise of the visions you’ve seen. Or was it something else that motivated you to find me?”

“I only came to return the eye. I see that you’ve replaced it with a patch, but you may have it now to place it where it belongs.”

“I wonder if you feel that it actually belongs on your person, and for your use alone.”

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“No, I only came to return your property, I swear.”

But was that true? In his heart the argument had raged, of whether to abide by his father’s teachings, or to subtly learn the secret of the eye. Had his own greed been his true motivation?

Something else lay in the stranger’s conversation, something dark and imposing.

The blue smoke rose higher, and within its swirls the faces of eyeless spirits.

“I see you admiring the power of the spirits,” Felar said.

“The spirits of the smoke know many things, and tell me many things. And so does the eye. I would know everything about the man who carries it so dearly. Where he’s gone, who he’s spoken to, what he’s seen. And what he wishes for. But all these things are beside the point.”

The stranger rose to his feet, the thin blade held to his side.

“You shouldn’t feel bad about your human weakness,” he said. “Everyone who has come before you has fallen prey to the same sin. Greed, for what could be attained, if only the vision they beheld could be understood.”

“You wanted me to find the eye,” Oren said. “You wanted me to see the vision it held. You wanted me to come to you. Why?” “You are a simple boy. What do you know of the desires of men of power? Or of their pleasures?”

“Why? Why did you want me to find it?”

“Because I am a collector of things,” Felar said, taking a step toward Oren. He bent, retrieved one of the leather sacks and held it lovingly. “Of rare magic, which cannot be made from ordinary things. For a man of vision, of 133

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very special vision, he must have just the right elements for maintaining his power of second sight. My own eye served as the first sacrifice, though I soon discovered that the spirits must be constantly satisfied. But I must go far afield to gather these things, since it might prove hazardous to be discovered collecting in Riine.”

Felar dropped the sack and whisked away his hood.

Then he gently pulled on the soft black patch over his face until it fell away.

Oren saw the black pit that lay beneath, the same horrid socket beheld by Werri, and his eyes widened as he spied the thin mist flowing within it.

He hurriedly reached into his pocket and brought the glass eye into the sunlight. Then he pitched it from his trembling hand toward Felar’s boots.

“Take it,” Oren said, “I don’t want it. It belongs to you.”

Felar kicked at the crystal with the toe of his boot.

“I wouldn’t dare think of parting you from your beloved treasure,” he said, moving closer. “But all the treasure you could ever hope to see is only yours for a price.”

“I have no money.”

“I shall take my payment in trade, foolish boy.”

As the blue smoke spiraled wickedly behind Felar, the stranger raised the thin blade in his hand and began walking toward Oren.

Oren turned and began to run along the bank, certain he could outdistance the stranger.

But the hideous blue smoke rose up and quickly enveloped him, choking him, blinding him. He coughed violently as he tried to run, but he fell over rocks and dropped to his knees. The bright sunlight was stolen by 134

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the smoke, replaced only by a blinding shroud of mist.

Dizzy, he couldn’t rise to his feet, could scarcely move his body.

Oren felt the stranger’s hand on his shoulder, and then the blade pressing against his neck.

“I’ll take payment now,” Felar said, then laughed.

Mercifully, Oren fell into a blackness that allowed no thought or sense.

“What can I do?”

Oren stared at the big man helplessly before taking another drink from the tall cup of ale Werri had given him.

Werri sat on the edge of the table gazing down on him with a worried expression, his fingers rubbing deeply on his chin. Oren had come to Werri’s house, half his face covered by the cloth with which he tied his hair, afraid and desperate.

“This is the devil’s work,” Werri finally said, shaking his head. “Or a man working at the devil’s heed. I thought he was only evil, not demonic. But surely this man toils in league with the worst of hell’s progeny.”

When Oren woke on the river bank, as from a fevered sleep, he struggled to find his senses amongst the touch of the wind, the sound of the rushing water, and the curious chirps of the birds in the trees. He sat up, feeling no pain, but holding his hands to his face; something seemed not quite right in his mind, his senses. Fragments of a dream slipped from his memory, the ugly face of a one­eyed man, and words spoken in the voice of Felar. I will give 135

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you a treasure you will always see, but never touch, I will give you the gift of life and death— As the dream faded Oren realized that something had changed. When he gazed up over the trees at the setting sun he saw its brilliance perfectly clearly from his right eye, but from his left he only saw a kaleidoscopic whirl of images, the same images he’d seen when staring through the glass eye, of chests of gold coins, of emeralds and rubies, of high towers and high stone keeps.

He sat gasping and turning his head, before stumbling to his feet and staggering to the edge of the river. He bent down and saw his reflection in the moving stream, his own pale face, and a left eye that was no longer his own eye. The glass eye lay in his left eye socket like a sapphire firmly affixed on a ring, shining brightly. He touched the crystal, hoping to remove it from his eye, but in horror realized he no longer had his own left eye, that the glass eye was sealed to his flesh as if by magic.

Oren sat for a long time gazing at his reflection, terrified by what Felar had done to him, but his terror rose in his throat and burst painfully into the air when he realized what was happening.

He’d seen the fish moving below the surface of the water where the river ran shallow, and now, after seeing them swimming perfectly well, he watched as fish after fish rose to the surface, floating, dead. What is this, he’d thought, why is this happening?

He moved away from the water and stared up into the trees, and whenever he beheld a sparrow or lark, the same bird fluttered from the branches, lifeless. Even those birds flying through the air plummeted to earth after he 136

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caught sight of them—a fish, a bird, an insect, all living creatures died as he gazed upon them, as if his vision were the cause of their deaths. And then he thought—it’s the eye.

He quickly pulled the cloth from his hair and tied it over the left side of his face, casting the glass eye into darkness. The visions faded, though they still danced in his sight like shadows, but now the birds remained alive, now the means to kill them lay muted. Felar had given him a treasure, or at least the vision of a treasure he would always have, but a treasure that also gave him the power of life and death over every living creature he beheld. The act of seeing his own reflection did not kill him, so perhaps he couldn’t kill another man—but perhaps its magic wouldn’t transfer through reflections, or perhaps Felar’s magic prevented Oren from killing himself.

But Felar was gone, his camp obliterated. The dray mule’s tracks led off down the road.

Oren fled down the road in the opposite direction, uncertain of what to do, until he thought of Werri and ran all the way to the man’s house. Werri was a friend of his father’s, and might be sympathetic, though Oren had been a fool for seeking out the stranger. He told the big man of his encounter with Felar, crying out when Werri began reaching for the cloth over the glass eye. He feared exposing the eye would kill the man.

Now he drank more ale, his head spinning, his heart beating ferociously.

“What am I to do?” Oren asked again, hoping the elder man would know.

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“I wish you’d never found the eye,” Werri said. “But sometimes a man falls into a trap. I should have done more to run him off these lands, but I feared his magic.”

“He’s cursed me,” Oren said, tears streaming from his right eye; no tears fell from his left. “And I’ve shamed my father’s memory.”

“Your father would forgive you, and punish the man who harmed you.”

“Felar has cursed me with this eye, it’s as much a part of me as my right eye. And he’s gone off with my left.”

“Surely he’ll use his spells to curse another.”

Oren lowered his head, wishing he knew a prayer strong enough to free him from his curse.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said, raising his head.

“What can I do?”

Werri rose from the table and laid a strong hand on Oren’s shoulder.

“Take heart, boy,” he said, “and ask yourself what your father would have you do.”

Oren thought a moment, thought of his father’s piety, but also of the man’s sense of justice. He wouldn’t let Felar escape the consequences of his evil acts. Nor would he let Oren suffer with the curse cast upon him. He would take action to make things right, to save his son, no matter the consequences of doing so.

But Oren’s father was long dead, and only Oren remained.

Oren sat for a long time remembering his father. Werri was wise to make Oren consider his father’s wishes.

Certainly the memory of his father was the only force that could chase the fear from his mind, and replace it with 138

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wrath. And when the fear tried to displace that wrath, his father’s memory beat it down again into the childish place from where it had sprung.

“I must find Felar,” Oren said finally.

“Yes.” “I must make this right. Will you help me?”

Werri nodded, smiling grimly.

“He’ll have gotten a few miles down the road,” the big man said. “We might be able to reach him by dawn.”

“Then hitch the horses and we’ll go.”

Werri turned to go, but stopped in the doorway and asked, “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

“Yes,” Oren said, thinking of his father. “It’s what my father would tell me to do.”

After Werri left the house, Oren searched the room until he found a good, sharp knife.

Yes, I know what my father would tell me to do, he thought.

Felar had turned off the road and had made another camp a few miles downriver.

Oren found him standing by the dray mule, securing the bags he had removed while the mule rested. The stranger hadn’t been camped long, for he hadn’t finished bringing tinder to the fire ring that lay half formed by his feet. Felar didn’t hear him as he walked silently over the grass. Though Oren’s heart beat fiercely, he kept walking until he was only a few feet away.

But soon Felar sensed his presence, and turned quickly, his hand falling to his sash where he kept the long knife.

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Oren stood watching the man, and when Felar realized who he was facing a faint smile came to his lips. His hand moved away from the knife, and he laughed dryly.

“I applaud you, boy,” Felar said. “You’re the only man I’ve ever enchanted who had the gall to track me.”

Oren took another step toward the stranger.

“You travel slowly,” he said. “It wasn’t much effort to find you.”

“I have business yet in these lands.”

Oren felt a terrible suspicion stir in his gut.

“What business?”

“I am expecting another visitor,” Felar said. “Another foolish boy, though younger than you. Surely he’s found the trinket I left for him at his father’s mill. And surely he is just as curious, and greedy, as you.”

“You’ll not harm Del!” Oren said. “I won’t let you!”

He took another step, and this time Felar’s hand fell to one of the leather bags tied to his waist.

“One more step and I’ll cast the magic of this pouch upon your head!”

Oren stood still, breathing heavily.

“I don’t have to take another step to stop you,” he said.

Oren’s hand reached up for the cloth covering the left side of his face.

Felar, perhaps surmising Oren’s intention, laughed wickedly.

“You’re a fool!” he said, still laughing. “Do you think I would let my own powers destroy me? You can’t kill me by the powers of the glass eye.”

“No,” Oren said, “I don’t believe you would be so careless. Not where your magic is concerned. It’s not the 140

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glass eye I mean to show you.”

Oren pulled the cloth from his face and let if fall to the grass.

Felar’s eye widened as he beheld the bloody and empty left socket in Oren’s face. The glass eye was gone, and in its place only a terrible wound darkened by dried blood.

Oren reached into his pocket and brought the glass eye into the sunlight, now flecked by blood and gore. He flung the ornament at the stranger’s boots.

“Take back your cursed charm,” he said. “And give me payment for what you’ve taken from me.”

Felar glanced at the eye, stepping away from it as if it were a venomous snake. He studied Oren closely, his hand still hovering over his sash.

“I’ll pay you nothing,” he said, his smile changing to a sneer. “I admire your will to cut the eye from your face, but I’ll give you nothing for returning it to me.”

“I don’t want payment for the eye you gave,” Oren said.

“I want payment for the eye you stole.”

He began walking toward the stranger again.

“I’ll see you dead, you impudent fool!” Felar said, his hand moving to open the leather bag at his waist.

But the stranger’s hand never opened the sack, for as Oren fixed Felar's attention, the big man Werri had crept up behind him and wrapped his great arms around him.

Felar struggled to reach his magic, but struggled in vain; Werri’s strong arms held him in their prison.

“If I’d had the courage to run you off these lands before,” Werri said as he squeezed the man viciously, “you would not have committed your crime. I don’t intend to make the same mistake again.”

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Felar cursed vilely, writhing like a snake.

“I do not have a father to protect me from evil men like you,” Oren said, stepping before the stranger. “But I have the memory of his words to guide me. And as he was pious and lawful, he would expect me to obey the laws of God and man.”

Felar ceased struggling, the smile returning to his lips.

“What do you want?” he asked. “Gold? Jewels? I could give you both treasure beyond your dreams if you free me!”

Oren stared into the man’s single eye with his own eye, sensing the frightened shades of a hundred collected souls. He wondered if his own soul was captured in that evil place, but didn’t really wish to know.

“I mean to stop you from ever doing this to another man,” Oren said, pulling the knife from his belt, the same knife he’d used to carve the glass eye from his face.

“You mean to kill me!”

“No,” Oren said, holding the blade before himself. “My father wouldn’t want me to kill another, not for the sake of a wound. He would want me to exact a just punishment.”

Felar’s head pressed against Werri’s great chest as he watched the blade move slowly toward his face, his mouth twisting in horror.

“An eye for an eye,” Oren said.

Story collaborations between brothers Lawrence and John Buentello have appeared in Ares Magazine, 4 Star Stories, Over My Dead Body, and many other places, including previous editions of Encounters.

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