eFiction Magazine Halloween Issue by eFiction Press

Editor Doug Lance Managing Editors Essie Holton, Stasey Norstrom Readers Ryan Dorill, Robert Turner, Megan Schwark, Maggie Duncan

eFiction is a monthly fiction publication. The editors accept manuscripts online. To review our guidelines or submit a manuscript, please visit http://eFictionMag.com/Submissions. Correspondence may be sent to Editor@eFictionMag.com. eFiction is available for free in PDF or EPUB format. Subscriptions for the Kindle edition are $1.99 / month and individual issues are $3.99. Visit us online at www.efictionmag. com. ISBN: 978-1-4659-3279-2 ASIN: B004UD88K2 Copyright ÂŠ 2011 eFiction Publishing

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October 2011

Contents Short Stories #Baphomet Marcin Wrona 6 Zoning Patrol P.J. Kaiser 23 Summer of the Beast

Michael Burns 27

Day Seven Leila Gaskin 51 Tell Us Everything

Randy Attwood 62

Spirits of the Corn

D.L. Marriott 84

Voices Jody Williams 90 The Bridge Steven M. Moore 99 Serial Fiction The Dead Beat

Erica Linquist

& Aron Christensen 124 The Bike Mechanic

Aaron M. Wilson 140

Contributors 122

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Book Reviews Any Tomorrow: The Calling by Kevin Fraleigh

Phyllis Duncan

150

Where Should We Put This Body by J.P. Hansen

J.P. Hansen

155

Jane Was Here Essie Holton by Sarah Kernochan

157

The Unwilling Bride by Candy-Ann Little

161

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Essie Holton

October 2011

Letter from the Editor eFiction has been busy behind the scenes the past few months. We’ve always had an online meeting place for authors to come together and share ideas and receive feedback on their work, but never a place for readers. eFiction’s all new website redesign solves that problem. eFictionMag.com now offers a website designed for readers of the magazine to come and share their thoughts on the current (and past) issues of the magazine. You can offer suggestions for future issues, tell us what we are doing right, or what you think we should change. We love getting to know our readers. As you will probably be able to tell from this page-turning, blood-curdling issue, themed issues are back. This month we have picked many Halloween stories for your enjoyment and terror. Not all of our issues will have a theme. November won’t, but December will be a focus on families (an issue I am really looking forward to). So, authors get ready to send us your best. If you want to become more involved in your reading experience, come and meet us. If you want to keep reading, while keeping the mystery alive, that’s cool, too. I don’t always like to ruin the magic either. Essie Holton Managing Editor

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October 2011

#baphomet Marcin Wrona

In the eleventh hour, army bag in hand, Gabe prowled the suburbs. The streets in this patch of gentry heaven had been mostly fields not so long ago, and their names still hinted at a rural past run through a randomizer: Goldenglen Court, Glenroy Circle, Golden Fields Drive. Glenfield Street was the worst of them, in his estimation. It crossed a line. The streets were empty, even in April. Puffs of steam rose from Gabe’s mouth to dissipate slowly in the air. He imagined his ragged breathing as a sort of contrail that could be followed—a solid path spun of weed-smoke and Trident. Gabe had needed to dull some inhibitions tonight to do what had to be done. He was not the sort of boy who knew where to get buddha, but some new friends had come through. He’d tossed the roach back in a park and now felt as though something else was animating his arms and legs, puppeteering him around with attached strings or a hand up an ass clenched tight with the desperate worry that any moment somebody could look

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October 2011

away from a TV, out the window, and know. When a call came, Gabe closed his mouth around a steam cloud, eyes bulging. His heart thundered, and his pocket vibrated just as quickly. A phone. Only a phone. He looked around furtively and pulled it out. Text, from a familiar number: “hows it goin? dont worry, no1 will see u” Gabe closed his eyes and tried to get his breathing under control. Air escaped him in staccato bursts. He counted ten, fifteen breaths, each slower than the last. The streets were empty; he’d feared they wouldn’t be, not at 11, but it was the middle of that two-week confusion between winter and spring when snow still fell at night, and the daytime was only hot enough to melt the patches of it that weren’t under shade. Gabe had passed a jogger earlier, but normal people were indoors with Conan O’Brien or sleeping. It wasn’t snowing tonight, which made things harder because there weren’t any tracks he could follow. “u scared me lol” he fired back, thumb unerring. There was no immediate reply. He moved on, purposelessly, putting his faith in serendipity. A dog gave him shit from behind a tall fence, and the barking sent his heart into new paroxysms. He fought them down, sweat pooling in his scalp and running from

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October 2011

black hair over greasy skin. “Fuck this,” he said. But he wouldn’t quit. Not yet. There were rewards. Gabe turned left and right at random, wending his way over deserted streets, an eye on the hashtag glitter of light in apartment windows off in the distance. He checked his phone; it read 11:36. Twenty-four more minutes and he’d have to wait another month for a second chance. His instructions were very specific. He came across his goal as randomly as he’d searched for it; he turned a corner, and there it was, leaning against the tire of a Civic parked in a gravel driveway, licking its paws. He’d have missed the cat entirely if not for the yellow eyes reflecting back streetlamps; the eyes that now fixed on his. Gabe kneeled down, his movements exaggeratedly slow, asking idiot-noise questions about who was kyoot and widdle. The eyes stayed fixed, and the paw came down. “Come here,” he said, reaching for the ziploc of sardines in his pocket. “I has a tweat for oo.” The cat cocked its head, as though questioning its good fortune, then approached, slowly but with a confidence of step that Gabe envied, until it was at the midway point between the tire and the fish he offered. “That’s it,” he said, beckoning, the canvas drawstring bag in his hand. He looked around furtively. “Come here.”

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It took another step, froze, and hissed when Gabe’s phone began to vibrate. Not now. Sweat began, once again, to pool at Gabe’s temples. His fingers twitched first in one direction, then the other, moving from pocket toward cat, toward pocket, toward cat while the animal, shaken by this new uncertainty, arched its back. Finally, Gabe broke, his hand shooting into his jacket. The cat bounded away, while Gabe’s heart rose in his throat, and his shaking fingers punched all the right keys. “not much time left hurry it up” He snarled, his thumb a blur. “almost fuckin had it then you txted” “whyd you pick up lol” Gabe jammed the phone back into his pocket, took three deep breaths, and looked around. Still no passers-by, but his eyes met smaller yellow ones once again, further away this time. The cat stood in the middle of the street, its little face quizzically askew, and Gabe made new entreaties. He opened the plastic bag and laid pungent fish on the road. He took a few steps back giving the cat some space. It approached gingerly, considering the offer, until Gabe could see its individual whiskers and the black patch running across its grey back. It nosed down among the sardines, took a small bite, and then

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October 2011

a second. Gabe sidled closer, bag in one hand, the other in his pocket. The cat’s head rose momentarily, but it did not back away. It returned, soon enough, to its meal. His confidence growing, Gabe took another step, kneeling down at a spot two arm’s lengths away, almost close enough to reach out and grab ahold of soft fur. The cat finished the sardines, gave a soft mew, and looked up expectantly. Gabe glanced to one side and the other to ensure the street was empty, then nodded. His voice a little wild, he said, “That’s right. I have more. C’mere, cutie. Yeah.” The hand in his pocket sweated, fingers twisting at fabric. The cat approached, confidently now, until it stopped within his reach, ears flattening, nose twitching. His hand shot out clutching a rag soaked with chem lab ether and buried it in the cat’s twitching nose. His heart hammered. Bursts of hot air escaped his mouth and filled his vision with vapor. One chance at this. One only. The cat tried to run, but it didn’t get far before its legs went out from under it. Gabe stuffed the creature into his bag, pulled the drawstring shut, and ran like hell. When he checked his phone again, in the park under the apartment building, it read 11:56. “did it,” he typed.

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October 2011

Within seconds, his phone buzzed again, “grats” *** A familiar icon popped up in his Twitter feed: a cartoon devil, debonair in suit and tie, cute little horns, an immaculate goatee. Gabe’s eyes darted away from the essay he’d been struggling with and locked onto the e-babble. Sevens grats to our newb @lord_gabe. everything’s on track. #baphomet Another tweet, a photo this time, dyed black hair and a pert nose. deicide_doll @Sevens @lord_gabe omg exciting… when’s the ritual? #baphomet He’d been bored one day watching Baphomet Rising, some schlocky horror movie about demonic cults in 10-minute Youtube installments. On a whim, he had punched the #baphomet hashtag into Twitter’s search bar. To his surprise, he found himself eavesdropping on what had seemed, at the time, to be a piece of performance art, a kind of guerilla marketing for some big-haired, growl-and-guitar relic of the 90s. Gabe had gone to bed that night laughing at the implausibility of what he’d seen, at grown-ass adults hidden behind screen names bullshitting about pentacles and ram’s blood. The next morning’s text had changed that, had changed everything. He’d saved the whole exchange in his phone, unnecessarily.

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October 2011

One didn’t forget mornings like this. 905-566-3212: “like what u saw last nite?” “wtf? who is this?” “a friend. followed u on twitter, names sevens. follow back.” “uh no thx.. howd u get this #?” “gonna get creepier lol i hear ud like to fuck chloe? we can make it happen” His heart had stopped, then he continued: “no srsly wtf is this.. ima call the cops in two” “our master sez u wont #baphomet tonite, 9pm.. l8r” Between the space of his bus ride to school and the end of first period bio, every possible scenario had gone through his mind. Mike and them were playing a prank. The decongestant he’d been on was fucking with his head. He was still in bed and would wake up any moment. But how had they found him? How could anyone know what hashtag he was listening in on? He had to report it, he decided. Had to go to the school nurse or call the police or see a shrink or… And what? Have them commit me or put me on Ritalin or some shit? It wasn’t until his spare period during the second lunch period that he finally made a decision one way or another. He was sitting at the loser table by the wall watching Chloe laugh with the

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October 2011

popular girls while Mike and Luke Ching played Magic on their iPhones, when his ringer went off again. 905-566-3212: “dude shes pretty hot” “Who’s that?” Mike had asked. “N-nothing. Just my mom.” “Yeah, sure. My mom texts me all the time. Who you sexting with?” “Not now, dude. Look, I gotta go.” “Everything OK?” “Y-yeah, it’s nothing serious. Later.” *** 3 New Messages. Gabe clicked the blue bar. LukeChing @lord_gabe Hey, can you log into WoW? 10m pug could use a tank. Sevens @deicide_doll @lord_gabe the master says houses align 4-16 #baphomet RaHoorKhuit Just four days until the constellation, then? Praise be. #baphomet Gabe turned to his essay, which trailed off mid-sentence, then looked back at the Twitter feed and sighed. His fingers clacked on the keyboard. lord_gabe @LukeChing ok y not, history not getting done neway

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October 2011

lord_gabe @Sevens, I’ll txt u tomorrow.. off for now In four days, things would change. In four days, he would be a man. *** The cat had been a pain in the ass at first, but his parents were out of town so at least he didn’t have to explain the noises. It had settled down, though, with enough food and now sidled by Gabe’s legs, purring and nuzzling. He dropped a hand absently to the animal’s wet nose and snatched it back as though he’d touched a hot stove burner. “Sorry, kitty. This way it’ll be easier for both of us.” Most of the preparations were complete. The chef’s knife had been buried overnight in his back yard, and he had dug it up earlier, at dusk, as he had been instructed. It now lay beside a bowl of holy water he’d turkey-basted out of the font at St. Andrew’s. Gabe double-checked the confusing instructions to make sure that he had the rest of what he needed. He punched a text into his phone. Twitter seemed unsafe now. The thought of hiding in plain sight had been delicious, for a time, but even so, he’d felt compelled to check each and every tweet he sent to make sure it didn’t give away too much to his few followers. “WTF is widdershins?” There was a lot of it; that word popped up at least six times. “counterclockwise,” came the reply.

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October 2011

“o lol… i like it” “:)” His phone buzzed again, moments later. “u double-check everything?” “yea” “kk… make sure u draw the circle perfectly; its ez, dun worry, but just make sure” 10:35pm. He had the knife, the sacrifice, and the words that he’d not been allowed to practice saying before the appointed time. They were strange words, in no language he could name, the sort of apostrophe salad that popped up in his fantasy novels. “im ready” “go over it again… gotta be perfect” He read the ritual three more times and repeated the words in his head until they were fixed there. 10:58pm. Gabe sat cross-legged on the floor of his room and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the appointed time had come. “Here, kitty.” This was the hard part. Once he had this down, the rest of the ritual would be cake. Gabe picked up the knife and held it awkwardly, eyeing the keen edge. “Why am I doing this?” he asked the cat. “I mean, it’s not like

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October 2011

it’s going to work.” How could it? The whole idea was ridiculous. Still, Sevens had always known too much and at all the right moments. If it was a prank, it was too elaborate by half. And, more than anything, more even than the girl that had been promised him, Gabe wanted to know. The cat brushed against his knee, purring. Gabe’s stomach threatened to leap out his mouth. This is the hard part. This is the hard part. He shut his eyes pressing so hard his eyelids hurt and stuck. A horrible noise, a wet heat on his leg, and tiny claws scraping feebly against his jeans. Gabe opened his eyes now brimming with tears and saw the animal twitching, a ragged wound in its throat. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m – His phone buzzed. He wouldn’t answer, wouldn’t continue. It was too much. It was— Gabe snatched the phone from his desk while the cat bled out onto his carpet. “get a hold of urself” How did he know? How did he always know? Another buzz. “the master is watching make him proud and ull have EVERYTHING” Gabe nodded, blinking away the tears. He snatched up the bowl of holy water and allowed the cat to bleed into it. The red dissipated

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October 2011

at first, then swirled, and finally the water was altogether bloody. He had expected something more: a change of color, maybe, or the bowl bursting into flames. Idiot. Gabe dipped his knife into the bloody water and drew a summoning circle on the carpeted floor. A triangle, first, then three small circles at its tips, and one last circle just large enough to surround the whole diagram. He wrote the words, the strange words, one phrase in each of the smaller circles: Nu’it. Ha’a’adit. Ra-Hoor ‘Khuit. He looked at the circle of blood, walked around it, looked at it again. It had to be perfect, from every angle. It was his only protection, his only guarantee that whatever came through would spare him. His phone buzzed. Gabe snatched it up without thinking. He was done thinking. “its perfect” read the text. He turned to the east wall, to the peeling posters of bands he’d not listened to in years. He stood on one leg, arms outspread. “Therion!” Gabe turned southward toward his computer. There were 17 new messages on Twitter, then 21, then 30, all in the space of a few seconds. #baphomet was busy.

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October 2011

He squatted and thrust his hands upward, joining them. “Therion!” West now toward the window and beside it a to-do list on a whiteboard, pentacles doodled all over. He did not remember putting them there. A strange hum began to rise from behind his back, but the ritual had not told him to turn around. He leaned rightward, left arm curved at his waist, right held straight out from his side. “Babalon!” Finally, he faced north. A closed door led to the hallway outside. Cat’s blood had already spread that far, soaking the carpet. It looked as though something had dragged itself, bleeding, through that thin crack lit with the outside world. The hum was everywhere now. Gabe looked at the door, suddenly unsteady on his feet, but it was too late. He had come too far. He squatted again, arms flat against his sides. “Babalon!” He began to turn, widdershins. Exultations he had not written leapt off the whiteboard. 42 new messages on Twitter, 59, 84. Yellowing posters of Slash and James Hetfield animated, mouths opening and closing, hands strumming guitars. The hum grew louder, and he recognized words in it, words he had never heard before a whim led him to #baphomet. “Abrasax,” Axl Rose chanted. “P’an P’an Vir,” Dave Mustaine harmonized. He spun faster now, widdershins still, stomach churning. It was

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October 2011

happening. It was happening. It was happening. Gabe shouted the rest of the ritual as he spun faster and faster. He shouted about blood and sinew and fire, about sacred suns and united planes. When he finished, the room spun while he stood in place, a finger pointing to the ceiling, another to the floor. His posters united, all singing, “Baphomet, Baphomet.” For a moment, nothing happened. When a mist began to pool in the circle of cat’s blood and holy water, Gabe became suddenly aware of how dizzy he was. “You are bound to me,” he said, stumbling over to his desk. His phone lay there. He did not remember putting it down. One new text message. He had not heard it buzzing. The ritual had not asked him to answer any phones, but the ritual was done now. What was the harm in reading a few congratulations? “YHBT” For a moment, Gabe stood there, uncomprehending. He turned the phone on its side, as though the message would come through more clearly. Then Slash began to laugh and James and the rest of his posters, mechanically, all in sync. Ha ha ha. Ha ha ha. Ha ha ha. “You are bound to me,” Gabe repeated, his voice cracking with adolescence. Mist continued to billow in the center of his room, no longer silver, but red and orange and green. It hurt his eyes to

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October 2011

watch the colors swirl. 174 new messages on Twitter. Gabe’s hand shook. The cursor jerked and twitched across the screen while he pushed at his sweat-slicked mouse. He clicked the blue bar, shaking his head, tears streaming down his face. #baphomet had exploded. A hundred new names and icons, one repeating message. He recognized the last two posters, and in the time it took to read their tweets, 18 new ones hit the queue, waiting for the click of a button. deicide_doll @lord_gabe YOU HAVE BEEN TROLLED. #baphomet RaHoorKhuit @lord_gabe YOU HAVE BEEN TROLLED. #baphomet “You are bound to me!” Gabe shrieked, and his posters laughed even louder wild and horrible, no longer in sync. Slash had collapsed against a wall. He clutched at his stomach and shook, eyes wide below the brim of his top hat. “I am not,” a voice that seemed everywhere around him, androgynous, musical. It was quieter than he had expected. Slash fell silent. He kneeled and then kowtowed, face pressed against the ground. “Deeply amusing. I do so love that ritual. The little teapot is always a hit.” Gabe’s every muscle was painfully rigid. “Therion! Babalon!”

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October 2011

the voice sang. “Spin, spin, spin. Travolta! What won’t you idiots do?” The posters were laughing again. Gabe’s phone buzzed. Ha ha ha. Bzz bzz bzz. Gabe turned to his left, his breath now coming in short gasps. The mist had taken shape. Seven eyes caught his. Seven mouths opened in laughter. Seven legs crossed the useless circle he had drawn in cat’s blood. “It is so nice,” said Baphomet, “to finally meet face to face.”

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October 2011

Zoning Patrol P.J. Kaiser

The wooden stairs stretched out before Monty. The worn surface looked like it had been trod by a million feet. His head tilted at an odd angle, eyes focused on drops of blood, one after another, like a trail of bread crumbs leading up the stairs. Knowing where this would lead, his stomach knotted and a wave of nausea hit him. Monty glanced over his shoulder, wishing his partner would appear, but Willard had called in sick that morning. He took a deep breath and ascended slowly. Each stair creaked— an audible calling card warning the occupants of the third-floor walkup of his approach. He tried to step on the outer part of the tread to minimize the noise. Rounding the top of the stairs, baton in his hand, he rattled the brass knocker. The trail of blood disappeared behind the massive door. “Police! Open up!” No response. Monty knocked again and shoved on the door with his shoulder. The metallic number three on the door rocked from side to side. “Open up! I know you’re in there!”

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The door came unlatched from the inside as Monty was in midpush. He fell headlong into the room. Lifting his head, he saw bones and fleshy, bloody objects scattered around like confetti after a birthday party. In the center of all of this, a cauldron simmered on a giant hot plate and steam wafted through the air. Wispy light emanated from the hotplate and several candles placed on pieces of shabby furniture. A woman, dressed all in black with a pointy nose and ragged black hat, stirred the concoction with a wooden spoon as large as a baseball bat. Her eyes narrowed. Monty scrambled to his feet. He glanced with disgust at the juice of the entrails smeared on his crisp uniform then tried to absorb the scene in the room. “What are you doing here? What’s going on?” “Why, officer, I’m just fixing some lunch. Won’t you join me for some stew?” “No, thanks.” He swallowed hard to keep from retching. “I’m a vegetarian. Listen, if you want to avoid a summons, you’re going to have to move these proceedings elsewhere. This area isn’t zoned for indoor cauldrons. The building’s electrical isn’t wired to support it, and for that matter, the cauldron weighs too much for the underpinnings of the floor. I’m issuing you a citation. If you haven’t relocated your cauldron within 24 hours, you’ll be receiving a judicial summons.”

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October 2011

In a softer voice, he added, “Listen, all you have to do is rent a space over on Hudson Street. All those buildings are newer, and they’re zoned for home cauldrons. I saw a For Rent sign just this morning on my way into work.” “Thank you, Sonny. I always prefer this building. The wooden floors are easy to clean. But do not worry, I’ll get the movers in this afternoon after I finish my spell—uh, lunch.” Handing the piece of paper to the woman, he backed through the doorway and pulled the door closed. He checked his watch. Just enough time to run home to change his clothes and shower before the next zoning inspection.

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October 2011

Summer of the Beast Michael Burns

The gulch was a labyrinth of nature, winding up the mountain in a haphazard series of turns and switchbacks. At times, the trail cut deep into the mountain, the gulch so narrow that the horses barely squeezed through. Above, the sky became a ribbon of blue, distant and surreal. The walls of the gulch echoed with the sound of horses breathing and grunting and hoofs swishing through the sand occasionally clip-clopping on hard sandstone or granite. After twenty minutes of steep climbing, the gulch widened, the sand bottom giving way to large granite boulders and thick brush. Meeker stopped his horse. “The bodies are up here,” he said. “There’s a natural spring up ahead and that’s where they were camped.” “So you came up here looking for your cattle thinking they might be at the spring?” Palmer asked. “That’s right,” Meeker replied. “In hot weather, they need water. Question of survival.” “Did you find your cattle?” “Nope,” Meeker said. “Maybe that mountain lion scared ‘em off.”

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October 2011

“No sign of them at all?” Rivera asked. “Cow shit and hoof prints but the cattle were long gone.” “How far to the bodies?” Palmer asked. “Just about a quarter mile ahead.” “Lead the way,” Palmer said. “Okay. Just follow me.” He trotted his horse forward. Palmer and Rivera rode close behind him, their adrenaline beginning to flow. They rode between dozens of large boulders with dense chaparral growing everywhere. Above them, the mountain sides were steep and unforgiving. Palmer eyed the terrain warily. Meeker had been right. There was no place to land a helicopter within or near the gulch. Walking in this kind of terrain would have been difficult, if not miserable, in this hot weather. After several minutes of rough going, Meeker stopped his horse and held up his hand. “We’re here,” he said dramatically. “There’s their camp.” He pointed to a blue dome tent about fifty yards ahead of them, barely discernible in the midst of thick brush. Palmer and Rivera quickly dismounted. Saying nothing, Rivera disappeared into the brush. “Where’s he going?” Meeker asked. “To check things out,” Palmer simply said. “He’ll be looking for a sign.” Meeker got off his horse. “I already looked. I didn’t see noth-

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in’,” he spat on the ground. Palmer smiled at the grizzled rancher. “Kino can find things no one else would. We’ll just wait here until he gets back.” “He’s Indian, isn’t he?” Meeker’s question was really a statement. “Kino is half Apache, half Mexican. His father taught him the ways of the Apache when he was just a boy. The old ways. Mostly though, he was raised by his mother.” “What happened to his father?” “Kino says he disappeared ten years ago. Nobody knows what happened for sure.” Meeker spat on the ground again. “Sounds like a lot of bull to me. I can read trail sign as well as any man can. Been trailing cows all my life. I’m telling you, son, ain’t no sign around here anywhere. I would have seen it.” “What about your mountain lion theory?” “Didn’t see any tracks,” Meeker said. “But that don’t mean it wasn’t here. What else could it be?” “No tracks near the bodies?” “They’re on a rock ledge by the spring. Impossible to leave tracks on that. And there’s big boulders nearby. Cat could have jumped down on ‘em then sprung back up into the rocks. See?” “Did you look around much?” “Nope. I will admit that. Once I seen them bodies all tore up, I decided I’d better git down and report it. And that’s just what

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I did. And besides, my horse was acting up. I got the hell out of here real fast.” “Okay, Mr. Meeker. We’ll just have to wait and see. Kino will check out the entire area before we go in. If there are any tracks, he’ll find them. If it was a mountain lion, he’ll know.” They waited in silence. Palmer looked around and noted that the horses were standing relaxed, perhaps glad to have the weight off their backs. The air was still. No wind at all, but something seemed strangely amiss. Palmer suddenly realized it was because it was eerily quiet. Nothing was stirring in the gulch, not even the sound of birds chirping. Strange, he thought. With a spring nearby, the area should have been teeming with life. All life had vanished. Palmer stood there, taking it all in, watching and listening carefully, wondering what it must have been like here when the murders took place. Ten minutes later, Rivera was back, approaching silently from their left flank. His sudden appearance startled Meeker. “Damn, son,” he said. “You scared the shit out me!” “Sorry, sir,” Rivera said. He looked at Palmer. “We can ride in, Matt. I didn’t find anything.” “Nothing?” Palmer asked. “Whoever or whatever killed them didn’t leave a trail, at least within a hundred yards of the bodies. I’ll check farther out while you’re doing your initial examination. We’d better hurry, though.

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October 2011

We don’t have much time. Only a few more hours of sunlight left.” They mounted their horses and rode forward. Step by step, Palmer took in the scene ahead of him. The spring was two feet across, almost completely surrounded by granite boulders. It flowed toward the other end of the ravine. The bodies were clearly visible on a large, rock outcropping about four feet above the spring and twenty yards behind it. As he got closer, Palmer could see blood stains all over the rocks. Even from a distance, he noted that their bodies were broken, legs and arms lying at odd angles to the torsos. High above the scene, eight or nine turkey vultures circled in a holding pattern. They stopped ten yards from the spring and dismounted. Palmer and Rivera immediately unloaded their forensic gear. “Please stay with the horses, Mr. Meeker,” Palmer ordered. “That way you won’t be contaminating any evidence.” “That’s fine with me,” Meeker said. “Kino, check the perimeter three or four hundred yards out. There’s got to be something out there you’ll find. I’ll start taking pictures. Okay?” “Okay, Matt. I’m outta here.” “And Kino, try to find a place where we can land the chopper. We’ll need some help up here.” Rivera removed a canteen from his horse and walked off into the brush.

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“Be careful,” Meeker said. “That cat could be out there. And they can be real quick, know what I mean? He killed once, he’ll kill again.” Rivera turned and shook his head. “It wasn’t a mountain lion, Mr. Meeker.” “What?” Meeker looked perplexed. “Well, then what was it?” “I don’t know. But mountain lions only go after humans when they’re hungry. And then, they drag off their victim and bury part of the remains. There’s no sign of a lion dragging anyone off. And I didn’t find any lion prints.” “Maybe somethin’ scared it off before it could drag anyone away.” Rivera shook his head again. “There was no mountain lion here.” “Well then, what could do that to human beings?” Meeker pointed angrily at the bodies. “I don’t know.” With that, Rivera walked into the brush and was gone. “Well, if that don’t beat all,” Meeker said disgustedly. He began to take the saddles and saddle blankets off the horses. “Gonna rest ‘em,” he said. “They need it.” Palmer took the camera and walked over to a flat boulder and sat down. With the camera resting on a knee, he carefully adjusted to the lens setting he wanted. Satisfied that the camera was set cor-

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rectly, he got up and carefully approached the rock ledge where the bodies lay. He shot thirty-six pictures from a distance and from several different angles. Then, he put the camera on a sling around his neck and took out his notebook and pen. He climbed back up onto the ledge for a closer look. It was time to scrutinize the scene. Standing near the bodies, Palmer gulped hard. They had been ripped to pieces. There were two young men and a young woman, a blonde. He walked toward where she lay. He looked at her carefully, realizing this had once been a vibrant and obviously young woman. Now, she didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even seem human but looked more like a rag doll. As he got closer, the details became finer. She was wearing a long-sleeved cotton shirt and panties, nothing else. He knelt down over her upper torso and made notes of what he saw. Her scalp had been torn away, and her hair hung down on her shoulder and arm. Her hair was long and blonde with mottled splotches of blood running through it. Her right cheek was completely gone, and her left cheek was peeled back so far it covered her ear. All of her front teeth were broken. Palmer wondered what she had looked like when she was alive. Probably very pretty, he judged. Her body had begun to smell, a rotten dead smell, and dozens of flies swarmed around her head. He swatted away the flies, tried to ignore the smell of decaying bodies, and took several close-up pictures of her head.

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He noticed that there was a long tear in the skin of her left arm and three fingers were completely gone from her right hand. He looked around the ledge near her body, but the fingers were nowhere to be seen. Her right arm appeared to be broken just below the elbow. The skin around the fracture was discolored, purple and a very pale yellow. Palmer figured this to be a defense wound. The girl had died fighting. He moved slightly on the balls of his feet so he could examine the rest of her. Her lower body was completely normal with no apparent wounds. Her panties were intact. He looked carefully at her crotch but saw no obvious signs of a rape. Blood had settled in the lower extremities because her legs were lying somewhat downhill, so the skin around her ankles and feet had discolored. Otherwise, she was tan and appeared athletic. Palmer carefully examined the discolored ankles and feet, noted the exact time in his notes, and took a close-up picture of her feet. Then, he went back to his notes and wrote that he thought hypostasis was complete, the discoloration around her feet was not mottled or splotchy, an indication that death had occurred at least twelve hours ago, maybe as long as eighteen hours ago. He stood up and shook his head in disgust. This was a horrendous killing. Who could have done this to her? He took one more picture of her body and moved away from it. He went to the nearest male victim, lying about twelve feet from

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the woman, and knelt down next to his corpse. He was wearing only boxer shorts. His chest had been crushed and both arms were out of their shoulder sockets, though still attached to the body, arms lying above the head at a grotesque angle. Palmer took hold of the manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s right wrist and tried to flex it. It was still rigid. He knew that in a hot climate the process of rigor mortis would start within hours and peak within ten to twelve hours, start to disappear after about twenty-four hours, and the muscles of the corpse becoming flaccid again after thirty to thirtysix hours. Palmer guessed that this man was killed about eighteen hours earlier. Most of his ribs appeared to be broken. His right knee-cap was completely missing, and there was a compound fracture of his upper right thigh. The wounds looked ugly. He took several close-up pictures of this victim then walked over to the other male. The third victim was lying against a boulder on the far edge of the rock, about thirty feet away from the other two. He was also wearing only boxer shorts. Palmer cringed as he approached this one. His head had been bashed in, and his brain was partly out of the skull and lying on the rock. His tongue looked like it had been pulled out of his throat, six inches of it protruding from his flattened face. His neck had a long deep tear, a fatal wound just in itself. His right foot had been severed above the ankle and was lying

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several feet from the manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s leg. Both his arms had been broken, and there was a large deep gash on his back exposing his spinal cord. At least thirty flies were sitting in the wound sucking, eating, and laying eggs. Putrid, Palmer thought. But, he had seen it before. He stepped back from the body and took six pictures in rapid succession. He moved forward and took three close-ups of the manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s head. He stepped back to the edge of the rock ledge and shot several pictures so that all three bodies were seen through the lens. He jumped off the ledge and walked to their tent, set up about thirty yards away from the spring, and he took a dozen pictures of their campsite. He saw nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. They had built a fire pit, and there was cooking gear on the ground near close by. Palmer saw two large backpacks leaning up against a rock. Walking up to the tent, he saw that the flap to the entrance was unzipped. He knelt down next to it and looked inside. There were four sleeping bags spread out on the floor of the tent. His heart began to beat fast. Somewhere nearby there might be another victim! Palmer stood up and surveyed the surrounding terrain. If there was another body lying around here, Kino would have found it. He said he had checked the area for a hundred yards in all directions. So, was this also a kidnapping? Or was the other body somewhere farther out? Or, did a mountain lion drag off a fourth victim? But

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no, Kino said he saw no sign of a lion. The fourth victim had evidently vanished. Perhaps this person had run away and escaped the carnage. Palmer searched around the vicinity of the tent and spring. His eyes scoured the ground for anything that might be pertinent evidence. He found nothing. There was no fourth body. These young people had kept a very clean campsite. There was no trash anywhere. The ground around the camp was not disturbed in any way. Palmer retraced his footsteps and walked all through the campsite again. This time he was even more thorough, sure he must have missed something the first time. He saw nothing that provided a clue. He decided to go through their belongings, hoping to find some ID. He searched through the tent, their backpacks, and all their clothes. After thirty minutes of looking, he found nothing of interest, except some very modern cell phones of a type he hadn’t seen before. But, he couldn’t find any wallets or purses. That’s strange, he thought. None of them were carrying ID. Why? Suddenly, Kino came out of the brush, sweaty and breathing hard. “I’ve got to get some water,” he said. “Be right back,” and he headed off in the direction of the horses. Palmer followed him, now thirsty himself. Meeker had led the horses to the spring, and they were grazing on some brush that grew near the water. The rancher was standing

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with the horses, talking to them as if they were all having a conversation. He had placed the saddles, blankets, and assorted gear on some rocks near the spring. Palmer and Rivera each grabbed a canteen and drank freely, knowing there was a ready supply of water from the spring. They sat down near the saddles. “There was a fourth person here,” Palmer stated. “I know,” Rivera said. “I looked inside the tent.” “Did you see anything out there?” “No. I couldn’t find anything. No sign. No trail. Nothing.” “Are you sure, Kino?” “Yeah, Matt.” Palmer was incredulous. “Something killed them, and it had to leave a trail. A bear, maybe.” “It wasn’t a bear. A bear would leave all kinds of sign.” “It had to be an animal of some kind. Meeker was right about that, Kino. No human could have done this.” “A madman, maybe.” “Kino, one of them had a chest that was completely crushed. Nobody has that kind of strength. It had to be an animal. A large animal!” Kino shook his head. “I would have found signs of a large animal.” Palmer studied his partner’s face. “Kino, did you see those bodies back there?”

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“Yes.” “Whatever killed them had to leave a trail—” “There’s no trail, Matt.” There was finality in Rivera’s voice. They sat there, both thinking. Neither could explain what had happened here. Palmer sighed, exasperated. Then, a squawk and voice came over Palmer’s belt radio. “This is Air Two. This is Air Two calling Unit Seven. Come in Seven. Over.” Palmer pulled the radio out of his belt. “This is Seven,” he replied. “Go ahead.” “Seven, we’re being pulled out. There’s a high speed vehicle chase on Interstate 10 east of Tucson. We’ve been ordered to help out. Do you roger? Over.” “I roger Air Two. It’s gonna be getting dark. We need to get out of here soon. Over.” “Roger Seven. What’s your twenty? Over.” “We’re at the scene. Preliminary investigation. We’ve got a multiple homicide, three victims: two males and a female. A fourth victim is missing. We’re going to need help. We need Search and Rescue up here. ASAP. Over.” “Hold on, Seven. We’ll call dispatch and advise. Be right back.” Palmer looked at Kino but neither said anything. It suddenly seemed that they might be on their own. A minute later, their suspicions were confirmed.

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“Air Two to Seven. Headquarters wants you to stay at the scene. You’ll have to sit tight. Search and Rescue will pull you out in the morning. Over.” “Okay,” Palmer said. “But, call them back and tell them to prepare a full-blown search and rescue effort. The entire team. Dawn tomorrow. You copy?” “Roger. I copy. Good luck, sir. Out.” Palmer switched off the radio and stuck it back in its carrying case. “Looks like we’re spending the night up here, Kino.” “I don’t like it, Matt.” Palmer looked into Kino’s eyes. “Neither do I. Whatever killed those people evidently did it at night. Judging from the condition of the bodies, I think it happened eighteen hours ago. They were all in their underwear. Something surprised them while they were sleeping. Maybe it’s still up here in these mountains.” “We’ve got about forty minutes of good light left, Matt. You want me to continue to look around?” “No, we’d better stay together from here on out. We’ll take blood samples from the bodies and we’ll get hair samples from all the sleeping bags. Then we’ll make camp. We’ll set up near their fire pit. Hopefully whoever or whatever killed them won’t come back tonight.” “We’ll have to stand watch,” Rivera said. He looked around at the mountains that ringed their position. “I don’t think we’ll be

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getting much sleep. You think Mr. Meeker will want to go back to his ranch tonight?” “He’s staying with us. For his own safety. I can’t let him leave now.” “Good thing you let him bring that thirty-thirty. We might need it.” “Yeah.” Palmer suddenly stood up. “We’d better get moving, Kino. We’ve got a lot to do before it gets dark. I’ll break the news to Meeker. Why don’t you get started on the hair samples from the sleeping bags. After I talk to him, I’ll start doing the blood work.” Rivera rose from the rock, a stern look upon his face. “Watch your backside, Matt,” he warned. “Whatever killed them could still be in the area.” Palmer nodded grimly. “I already figured that out, partner.” At dusk, Rivera started a fire while Palmer gathered up cooking utensils and dehydrated food from the victims’ belongings. They were hungry, and Meeker had brought no provisions with him. Cooking the food was simple and quick. All they had to do was boil water over the fire then pour the boiling water into the pouches that held the dried food. They ate slowly and in silence, watching the fire, and listening for anything that sounded out of the ordinary. The food, an ex-

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pensive brand, tasted good, but neither Palmer nor Rivera relished eating it. Meeker had tied all three horses within sight of the fire pit, worried that whatever had killed the young hikers would come back for the horses. He kept his rifle next to his side. As the night settled in around them, Palmer made himself a cup of instant coffee. “I’ll take the first watch,” he said. “And I’ll need your rifle,” he told Meeker. Meeker gave him a direct look. “That’s okay with me, son. Where do we sleep?” “Right out here by the fire. We can’t use their tent or sleeping bags. That would contaminate any possible evidence.” “No problem. Just like bein’ on roundup.” “You’ve slept out many nights,” Rivera commented. “Yep. Never did use a tent. Always on open ground under the stars with just a bedroll. I’ve been out in the rain, snow, freezing weather; why I’ve seen it all. But tonight will be good. It’s gonna be a nice, warm night.” He suddenly looked out into the dark. “I just hope that thing don’t come back here tonight. You sure you didn’t see signs of a lion?” he asked Rivera. Rivera shook his head. “No sign of any large animal, including a mountain lion.” Meeker appeared skeptical. He looked at Rivera scornfully, “How long have you been tracking, son?”

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“My father first taught me to hunt when I was four. He spent many hours teaching me the old ways. It’s something he took very seriously.” “But you ain’t full-blooded Apache, are you?” “No. My mother is Mexican.” “Maybe you missed somethin’ out there.” “I missed nothing,” Rivera said. He looked at Palmer. “At first light, I’ll go out and expand my search, just in case.” “Good idea, Kino,” Palmer said. “Take one more look before Search & Rescue comes in and completely fouls up any trails.” “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.” “Mr. Meeker, in the morning we’ll be airlifted out of here. You’ll have to take your horses back by yourself, if that’s okay with you.” “Yeah, I understand,” Meeker said. “I’ll be leaving at first light. The sooner I get outta here, the better I’ll like it.” “Okay. Then, I’ll stand first watch over by the bodies. If it is an animal, it might come back there for them. Kino, I’ll wake you at one. Fair enough?” “Sounds good, Matt. Just be careful.” Palmer stood up. “Don’t worry about me. You two stay here by the fire so I know where you’re at. Don’t go wandering around. Okay, Mr. Meeker?” He took one last long sip of his coffee and then set the cup down near the fire. He walked over and picked

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up the Winchester. Meeker looked troubled. “What do you mean by that? What about if I have to take a piss?” he asked. “Do it over by the horses,” Palmer replied. “We need to keep a tight perimeter.” “Whatever you say, son. I just hope we don’t run into trouble tonight.” Rivera smiled. “Relax. You’ll be alright with us here.” “Yeah, right! You boys didn’t even bring decent rifles with you. I sure hope that thing don’t come back tonight. Otherwise, we’ll all be in trouble.” Meeker got up and walked over to his saddle, took a bedroll out, and laid it out near the fire. He promptly took off his boots and lay down upon the gray woolen blanket turning his back to both of them. Palmer looked at his partner and shrugged then walked into the darkness toward the ledge where the bodies lay. The moon wasn’t out yet, but his flashlight provided just enough light to see the trail. Still, Palmer walked slowly, making sure of every step. He could smell the bodies before he saw their dim outlines against the rocks. It was the sweet-sour smell of death and human tissue in the initial stages of decay, the process accelerated by the hot weather. He had smelled it dozens of times, but he could never get used to it. Palmer moved away from the ledge walking along the side of the gulch to a spot where he could no longer smell the

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bodies. He climbed up off the floor of the gulch into a group of boulders and found a place that was relatively flat, giving him enough room to sit down and stretch his legs while allowing him to prop his back up against one of the big rocks. Not too bad, he thought. He put the rifle across his lap and got as comfortable as he could. In the distance he could see the glow of the firelight and though he couldn’t see it, he knew the spring was to his right and slightly behind him. Two hours went by, and then the moon rose in the east and soon white moonlight filled the bottom of the gulch casting shadows on the west side of the rocks and bushes. There was no wind, and nothing moved. The gulch was perfectly still, perhaps, Palmer thought, out of respect for the three victims who lay within its midst. Nighttime in the desert. It seemed surreal. Ever so slowly, the moon rose in the sky, the shadows became smaller, and the pale light of the moon became perceptibly brighter. The bushes, rocks, and ground regained some of their lost color. Twinkling stars danced over dark horizons. In the distance... something was making a sound. Palmer abruptly sat up straight; his ears suddenly alert. He thought he heard a thumping sound coming from within the ravine. He couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but he knew it wasn’t too far away, a steady tapping sound, almost like a drum.

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What the hell is that? The hair stood up on the back of his neck. The noise continued, and then he heard a horse whinny. Soon, all the horses were whinnying. A dark form moved toward him zigzagging through the bushes below. He jumped to his feet and held the rifle at the ready. He almost cocked the rifle, but then he realized the dark form was Kino Rivera. Palmer jumped down off the boulders. “Something’s spooked the horses,” Kino said. Palmer looked at his watch. It was nearly midnight. “It must have been that thumping sound. Did you hear it?” “That thumping sound was the horses pawing on the ground before they started to whinny. The horses are nervous. They think there’s something out there.” “Let’s get back!” Both of them ran through the gulch as fast as they could. When they reached the campsite, Palmer saw that the fire was completely out but in the moonlight saw that Meeker was trying to calm the horses. All three of the large animals were pulling back on their tie downs, stomping their feet, and breathing hard. “Whoa, boy. Whoa, boy. It’s gonna be alright. Steady now. Whoa, boy.” “Matt, I’m going to look around,” Rivera said. “No!” Palmer responded. “You’re staying right here!” He turned to say something else, but Rivera was already gone.

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Palmer swore silently, feeling very alone. He walked over to Meeker. “They gonna be alright, Mr. Meeker?” he asked. “Yeah, they’re settling down now. They’re just real antsy tonight. Trouble is, they can smell those damned bodies. They can smell things a mile away.” “What do you think upset them?” Palmer asked. “No telling. They either heard somethin’ or smelled somethin’. Most likely they heard somethin’. Whatever it was, it really scared ‘em.” Suddenly, the horses became very quiet. The horses all looked in the same direction, their ears straight up, their eyes staring into the night. Palmer and Meeker stood perfectly still listening. “They hear somethin’,” Meeker said. “There’s somethin’ out there.” He looked in the same direction the horses were staring, his eyes straining to see into the night. Palmer looked that way too, but he saw nothing. He held the rifle pointed slightly up and at the ready, just in case. After a full minute, all they heard was the breathing and slight movements of the horses. The crisis seemed to have passed. “Where’s your partner?” Meeker whispered. “He’s searching the area,” Palmer replied. “Man, oh man. That boy sure has some balls on him. I wouldn’t go out there right now if you paid me a million fuckin’ dollars!” Palmer only frowned. He didn’t like the idea of Kino being out

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there alone. Against what? He almost decided to go after him, but suddenly Kino appeared out of the darkness. “See anything?” Meeker eagerly asked. “No, but I thought I heard something to the south. But, I couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, it’s gone now.” “What did you hear?” Palmer asked. “I’m not sure, Matt. Something...” “Well, what did it sound like?” “A shrieking sound, high pitched, very far away. I can’t be sure what it was. The horses were making so much noise I couldn’t tell.” Palmer looked at the horses. Nothing seemed to be bothering them now. What had they heard? “How good is a horse’s hearing?” he asked Meeker. “When a horse’s ears stand up straight, they’re listening. They can hear things you and I would pay no attention to. They can hear real good! They got good eyesight, too, even in the dark. You know, they mighta seen somethin’.” “Maybe they heard an animal,” Palmer suggested. “A coyote or a bobcat.” Rivera said nothing, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with Palmer’s assessment. “Well, I’ll finish my watch,” Palmer said. “You two try to get some sleep. Whatever it was, it’s gone now. Kino, I’ll wake you in about an hour.” He walked off into the dark and made his way

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back to the boulders near the edge of the gulch. He climbed back up into his perch and held the rifle pointing down toward the floor of the gulch. Palmer wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t afraid, but his adrenaline was pumping, making every one of his senses fully alert. He looked out over the horizon to the south wondering what might be out there, feeling as if it might attack at any moment. His senses were completely and totally alert. Palmer settled back against the rock taking several deep breaths and trying to relax, but it was next to impossible. He thought he saw movement below him, only to realize his eyes were just playing tricks on him in the dark. He held his gaze steady. Nothing was moving down there. He couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sit still, so he got to his feet. He would do the rest of the watch standing up. He looked over toward the southern horizon, listening as intently as possible. He heard nothing, but he felt there was something out there. Was something watching him? Somehow he could feel a savage presence, and he felt like a hunted prey, helpless, waiting for the hunter to come in and make the kill. But, who or what was the hunter?

Excerpt from SUMMER OF THE BEAST by Michael Burns.

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Day Seven Leila Gaskin

Well crap. Hannah stared at the silent radio receiver in her hand while resting her forehead against the damp steel door of the Richmond City Transportation motor pool. She didn’t have time to mourn for the terminally stupid. Nobody did, not anymore. She gave a derisive snort. If Brendan hadn’t wanted to be a hero for Miss Brittney cowering in the corner, whining for her alcohol and cigarettes to cope with this new zombie reality, then Mr. Rock-for-Brains wouldn’t have remembered his uncle’s stash of good stuff to court his post-apocalyptic lay. Hindsight was an unforgiving bitch. God save her from lust and whining. As it now stood, they had shuffling unfriendlies heading their way to what was once a safe place. Now? Brendan was one of the shambling dead. Nobody really knows the ‘how’ of the zombies. Hannah’s sheriff dispatch center had started getting strange calls from the hospitals in the area. People were ‘flipping out’ for no reason and then

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going into convulsions. All the area officers were called in. Within forty-eight hours the city was unrecognizable. The last officer to report in called them zombies. The last of the local news reports call it the ‘Z-flu’. The simple truth was a virus had been born, then mutated to spread via touch and blood. The science didn’t matter anymore. The exponential growth of zombies made them more populous than cockroaches in a condemned hoarder’s house. The new survival rules were simple—a clean shot to the head of the infected. Avoid contact with any blood or fluids. Dead didn’t have the same meaning. Not when the dead walked. The Central Virginia Emergency Broadcast system still blasted its annoying signal, followed by dead air. The signal had originally broadcasted evacuation coordinates in Roanoke. One of the last newscasts said two-thirds of the world’s populations had succumbed to the virus. The ‘immune’ were to make their way to the evacuation coordinates. After forty-eight hours, the information stopped but the signal still trumpeted. Hannah sighed. They needed to keep moving. They’d scavenged for food and weapons. The city was a mess. The easy pickings were gone. The dead were mean as rats and infinitely more dangerous. Where were all the self-respecting NRA members and their weapon stockpiles when you needed them? They’d found more

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than one location where office supplies seemed to be the hoard of choice. What were they supposed to do with office supplies? Staple a zombie to death? The world had gone to shit—fast. The whimpering from the corner, where the not-so-perky Brittney rocked, was really starting to get on Hannah’s last nerve. “Shut it!” Hannah hissed across the room. “I don’t care what you want. I want to live.” Every one of the ragged group was on edge. Hannah, Franco, and Tubbs had helped Virginia and her group out of a dead end on Byrd Street. They’d already met up with Sreedhar and Tory who had the unfortunate Brendan and currently hysterical Brittney in tow. Everyone in the room owed their lives to Hannah’s ingenuity. They all took a step away from the hapless Brittney. “But Brendan said he’d be right back with my stuff.” Brittney sniffled. “You stupid, worthless git.” Hannah stalked over to the sniveling woman. “He didn’t make it past the parking lot. And now his remains are leading them straight back to us.” Hannah dragged Brittney to a standing position, muffling Brittney’s startled shriek with her hand. “I could heave you outside to be their appetizer.” Hannah closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against Brittney’s trembling one. “But I’m not that person—yet.” Hannah released the shaking woman, composing herself. “Listen

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up boys and girls. We’re going to have to get upstairs.” The light glinted off Franco’s polished head. His neck carried tattoos written in Spanish. He raised his hand. “Franco, you don’t have to raise your hand.” “Mi hermana, I wanna live. I raise my hand.” He gave Hannah a grin she knew had slain the ladies in better times, “This building don’t connect to any others.” Hannah gave him the most honest answer she could, “I know,” she shrugged, “we haven’t seen them climb.” She started piling all the supplies they had gathered at the bottom of the stairs. “Grab everything you can and head up.” “I’ll secure the door, windows, and the vents.” Franco said as he piled his belongings by the stairs. Two other men stayed with Franco to speed the process along. Hannah hung back as Virginia led the others to the second floor. She watched the older woman with awe. She hoped she grew up to be exactly like the irascible senior citizen—if she got the chance to get older. Virginia had to be pushing seventy, and here she was charging through zombie territory with her grandson, his roommate, and her good neighbors armed with attitude and her dead husband’s trusty .22 rifle. The older woman’s presence gave Hannah a moment to breathe, something she hadn’t been able to do before they’d joined up. By default, Virginia had become the other half of the sleep-deprived

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brains of the outfit. The catwalk rattled as they clambered upwards. Hannah winced at the noise. The last bulletin that had come over the wire at her desk in the Richmond City sheriff’s office gave information about the symptoms of the infected and the immune. A mutation of the original virus had been discovered before things went incommunicado—a delay in symptoms, up to seven days. By her calculations, they were all at about day seven. The pressure of keeping them all alive was starting to get to her. Hannah desperately needed to tell someone, but she didn’t trust anyone with a firearm. Especially herself. “Boys, don’t be long.” Hannah trusted them to secure the downstairs. She grabbed as much of the pile by the stairs as she possibly could. Hannah’s shoulder protested under the weight of the bags. They were loaded with what weapons and ammo she, Franco, and Tubbs could clear from the city weapons locker, before they had left. As she reached the second level, hands reached down and lifted the gear from her arms. The lack of weight was momentarily disorienting. She looked up to see the VCU engineering student, Sreedhar. He’d been quiet yet efficient through the whole ordeal. Hannah thanked the self-effacing student. “It is us who must thank you for all you do.” he said with a

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slight bow. “Everyone is settled upstairs. I will go down and help the others bring the rest of the supplies.” Hannah stared after the Indian man, marveling at how she could get attached to some people and not care about others. Sreedhar seemed to be sweating a bit more that the rest of them. The building was stifling without the fans circulating the air. Virginia met her at the top of the stairs, pulling the rest of the items from her arms, “You’re pushing yourself too hard. When was the last time you got some sleep?” “You mean the nap that got interrupted by Brittney’s make-out session with the not-so-deceased Brendan?” “I’m amazed they made it through the VCU campus,” Virginia snorted. “I’m pretty sure they got lucky when Sreedhar and Tory found them.” Hannah tilted her head towards the somber psych student sitting against the wall next to Clara and Joe, “How is she doing?” “I think exhausted like the rest of us.” Virginia pulled Hannah away from the rest. “It doesn’t matter how intellectually prepared you think you are, no one is prepared for the survivor’s guilt.” “Survivor’s guilt…” The faces of the dead rose in her mind’s eye. Hannah firmly closed the lid on the box of memories. “Yep, that about sums it up.” Hannah made her decision and extracted the folded piece of paper from her front pocket. The relief of sharing the burden almost overwhelmed her. “Read this. Don’t react

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or say anything to anyone.” Slowly, Virginia took the paper from Hannah’s outstretched hand. Hannah watched the older woman’s eyes widen in horror as she realized the implication. “Seven days?” Virginia closed her eyes. “Will this hell never end? Can’t we even be granted hope?” “Nothing else came through.” Hannah stared over the rail onto the floor of the garage at the array of trucks below them. “Today should be day seven for all of us.” “What did we do to make God so angry with us?” Virginia said softly. “I don’t think God had a damn thing to do with any of this,” Hannah said frankly. Footsteps on the stairs let the women know the rest of the party had arrived on the second floor. Hannah looked at Sreedhar. “Okay, Sreedhar, you’re our engineering brains. What are our options if they get in?” Sreedhar examined his surroundings as he started to make his assessment. “Virginia!” Clara cried out, “I need you!” Virginia and Hannah ran for the corner where Clara knelt over the convulsing form of Brittney. Spittle covered Clara’s face. They could see a bite mark on her cheek as she struggled to hold down Brittney. Brittney was gone. Her pupils were dilated wide-open. The whites of her eyes were shot with brilliant streaks of red.

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Hannah grabbed the SIG Pro from her holster. “Everyone step back.” Clara got up. “Clara, I’m sorry. You’ll have to stay there.” “Oh...” Clara touched the bite mark on her face. Her eyes filled with tears as she looked at her husband of twenty years. “I just wanted to help her.” “I know you did, honey, I know.” Virginia soothed Clara the best she could from a distance. Joe didn’t look left or right as he moved forward to stand in front of his wife. “Clara, the thing I love most about you is your giving heart...” “Oh, Joe...” Clara wept softly into her husband’s chest, her head resting above his heart, her back facing Hannah. “I won’t live without her.” A groan issued from the floor where the former Brittney lay. “Make it quick.” Joe closed his eyes as his arms tightened around his wife. Two consecutive shots did little to drown out banging on the garage door. “Anyone wanna get that?” Franco asked with a quaking voice. Hannah looked at the bodies, swearing violently. Brittney had chosen to get sick and die all over their food supply. “Well folks, I think we need a change in strategy.” The ragged rhythm on the steel doors was growing steadier. The heels of her palms pressed on her temples did little to alleviate the throbbing. The veil of exhaustion

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clouded Hannah’s thoughts and sight. “I’m done thinking.” Virginia looked at the younger woman. She recognized the exhaustion in her face and took charge, “We can’t wait this out, not without food. Franco, you and the boys find a way to cover up the back of one of the dump trucks. Make it as safe as possible.” “Yes’m.” Franco didn’t ask questions. The cab of the truck would only hold three, maybe four people. “Tory, I need you to sit with Hannah for a few minutes.” Tory made no effort to move. “I’m not feeling well, Miss Virginia.” Her voice was thready, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to go anywhere near anyone but the dead.” Tory lifted her head. Her eyes were blood shot and dilated. Her movements became uncoordinated. The group watched the virus claim its next victim. Tory’s mouth opened and shut, “D-d-d...” Hannah didn’t let Tory finish her last word. Franco, Tubbs, Chuck, and Tony jumped at the gunshot. Virginia and Hannah looked down to the garage floor where Sreedhar worked alongside the others. Sreedhar and Tory had been around all of them. Sreedhar’s movements were becoming more sluggish and uncoordinated by the second. “We’ve all been infected.” Virginia whispered. “I’ll take care of it.” Hannah’s words hung heavy in the air. They were supposed to be the survivors. Her voice echoed across

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October 2011

the space. Keeping her voice down didn’t seem to have a purpose anymore. “Sreedhar.” Franco, Stubbs, Tony, and Chuck turned to look at Sreedhar. Franco whispered, “Oh shit.” It summed up everyone’s feelings. They all scrambled back from him as Sreedhar made a grab for the nearest person, who happened to be Virginia’s grandson Chuck. Hannah scrambled down the stairs. Sreedhar changed tactics, lunging toward the bottom of the stairs as Hannah hit the bottom tread. Sreedhar’s mouth clamped down on her leg, his teeth sawing through her khaki trousers, his hands grabbing, pulling, and scratching. Hannah couldn’t get a clean shot where she wouldn’t shoot herself. She scrambled to get away. The virus-driven hands were tenacious. Hannah felt the pain of teeth on flesh. The smell of cordite and blood filled the air. Smatterings of Sreedhar’s brain flecked her face. Mixed blood poured over Hannah’s foot. The pain barely registered as Sreedhar’s body gave its final twitch. “Well crap,” Hannah’s eyes welled. “Bye,” Virginia whispered. She pulled the trigger.

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October 2011

Tell Us Everything Randy Attwood

Cricket carefully backed her crummy car, which needed a motor mount bolt replaced, down her cousin’s driveway. She was driving extra cautiously these days because her license was suspended and she had two weeks to go on her probation before she could pay the bastards another $90 to get reinstated, which was beyond bullshit because that last DUI was totally fucking unfair. She hit the breaks when she heard Samantha’s voice on the car radio. “Cricket, can you hear me broadcasting? I told you I was. And I’m going to start telling truths, Cricket, truths about our family and you and everyone. How will you all like that? The highs today are expected to reach the mid 90s. In sports, the Royals lost their tenth straight.” Jesus, Cricket worried, maybe I’m the one who’s nuts. She flipped away a strand of brown hair that had fallen over her nose, which—being a little upturned but too pudgy—she did not consider one of the best features on her otherwise pretty, if a bit lopsided, face. She had gone to her cousin’s house because her aunt, Samantha’s mother, begged her to check on the little fruitcake who was, this time, really in serious need of mental health crisis inter-

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October 2011

vention. But Samantha wouldn’t unlock the door and just yelled that she was busy broadcasting. Truths about the family? What truths? “The citizens of Peculiar will be interested to know that their postmistress is fucking two carriers and ON government time and ON government property!” Samantha was starting her truth telling. Cricket left the car and ran back to pound on Samantha’s locked front door. “Sami! You let me in right now. Stop this!” “Go away!” Samantha yelled back at her. “Or I’ll start telling truths about you next.” This brought Cricket up short. Samantha knew many not-sopleasant things about Cricket, and it was better that the world did not know any of them. Nothing criminal, well, not too criminal and the statute of limitation had passed on the things she had done back in her teenage wild days. Not really done, just involved in, sort of. She was going to be late for work and that would make Joe mumble-grumble even more than usual. Back in the car, there was Samantha’s voice still on the radio: “The names of the carriers the postmistress of Peculiar is sliming are Larry and Bill and they are BOTH married. One of them got her pregnant and she aborted the baby. How do those good Christians out in Peculiar feel about THAT? The lows tonight will be in the 60s as a cool front moves through, and we can turn off

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October 2011

our air-conditioning. The stock market was up on a positive earnings report from Apple and closed at 9350.” Cricket knew one carrier was boinking her aunt but not two and certainly not about any abortion. She was surprised her aunt would have told Samantha about that. She turned to a different radio frequency, but Samantha’s voice was still on the radio. She switched from FM to AM and it was there, too. This is just crazy. Maybe Samantha’s mental illness is catching and I’m a nut case, too. And me, the most normal person in my whole, lunatic family. Cricket had only five minutes to get to work, so she drove off. When she reached the end of the second block, she realized that the radio was back to normal. Samantha’s voice was gone, replaced by that gay weatherman trying to be witty with the sports talk host who was asking him if he ever fantasized about playing football and would he rather be the center or the quarterback. “Oh, the center.” Temporary insanity. That’s it. Just a little bit of temporary insanity. Happens to people all the time, she figured, and drove on to work at the bar. As she pulled up, she saw the front door open and Joe step out to look up and down the street for her. She honked as she passed, waved, and turned to park in the back of the bar where the sickly-sweet smell of garbage from the next door Chinese slop shop’s dumpster greeted her, as it did every morning and made her feel like she was going to throw up. Or, shit, maybe I’m pregnant.

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October 2011

“Hi, Joe,” she drew out the one-syllable name so that it sounded like a girl in a bikini yelling “Yoo-Hoo” to a stud surfer. Joe’s beer belly made him anything but a surfer stud. “Your drawer was $20 short.” “That can’t be,” Cricket protested. “I’ve been extra careful. I want to do a drawer count at end of shift, like they do everywhere else, and not rely on the night bartender to count my drawer.” Her replacement was always about 30 minutes late, which made Cricket late to go pick up her little girl, and Cricket didn’t trust her about anything, let alone to count her daily take. It was as if she hadn’t spoken. “Well, try to be more careful. And you need to make an effort to be nicer to people. The daytime ring has been going down ever since I hired you,” he said as he left. The front door closed. With her boss gone, Cricket screamed at him: “That’s because all the old fart regulars who come into this dive are dying off! And the ones who are still alive don’t tip for shit! Don’t force me to go get a higher paying job, Joe!” Her cell phone started ringing and she saw it was Samantha’s aunt, Postmistress of Peculiar. “She wouldn’t let me in the door,” Cricket reported. “She says she broadcasting.” “Broadcasting?” “As in over the radio.”

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October 2011

“Good Lord, maybe I should call the police and have them break in.” “They wouldn’t. Thinking you are broadcasting over the radio doesn’t represent a threat to her or anyone else,” Cricket said and thought, well, unless you knew she was telling the world about your affairs. But I probably really didn’t hear that, Cricket thought. She told her aunt she’d go by Samantha’s again after her shift. She went to the cash register, which was surrounded with bar necessary detritus which included a small transistor radio to be turned on when the Royals weren’t televised, which, given how badly they were doing, was quite often. She switched it on and the normal station was playing. Whew, Cricket thought, it WAS just temporary insanity. All the stress I’m under. Cricket also worried about her little girl’s threeyear birthday party coming up and Cricket’s own mother telling her she didn’t know if she could make it! What kind of grandmother was that? At least she didn’t have to invite Samantha now. That’s something positive from her flipping out. She got out the rags and Pine-Sol to start cleaning the mess of a bar that rat-bastard of a night bartender had left for her. Later that morning, Elmer-the-farmer arrived. Elmer wasn’t a farmer and wasn’t named Elmer, but he introduced himself as Elmer after he chose to wear bib overalls when he retired from his job as one of the early computer nerds for a big company. He

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October 2011

would have a double shot of cheap bar gin (one cube of ice), down it in a gulp and either leave right away or have another one and then leave right away. He always graced her with a 50-cent tip. He was halfway through the first slug when Fred, a small package deliveryman, also retired and enjoying whatever kind of life Social Security provided, sat down and waited for Cricket to bring him his bourbon and soda. He turned to Elmer and said, “Elmer, the damndest thing happened. Something’s wrong with my radio at the house. All I get all over the dial, AM or FM, is some girl yapping her head off about the craziest things. I could hear her on the car radio, too, until I was just a few blocks away, and then the normal stations came on.” “Call the FCC. Some idiot got a transmitter and juiced it up so it blocks out all the other stations, but its range is really limited.” Cricket’s mouth was still open. Well, at least it meant she, herself, had not gone temporarily insane. “She’s doing some kind of a sex-gossip, report show. I didn’t catch the whole thing but something about mail carriers fucking their postmistress. And then she reads stuff out of the newspaper, but she said the Royals lost their tenth straight yesterday and they lost their ninth straight yesterday, although they’ll probably lose their tenth straight today. Oh, and Elmer, you’ve got Apple stock. She said it reported unexpected earnings.” Elmer dropped his glass. And with some gin still in it. Cricket

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October 2011

came with a towel. Elmer indeed had Apple stock and Apple connections. He also happened to know that Apple was set to announce, in just a few minutes, an unexpected hike in its earnings report, and it would probably set the market on fire. He had bought in at opening bell when the Dow was at 9100. “Do you happen to remember what she said the Dow closed at?” “Yeah, because it seemed awfully high: 9350.” “You live over around the Med Center, don’t you?” “Yeah, God damn students take up all the street parking. Future little blood suckers.” Cricket remembered that Fred lived near Samantha. “Gotta go,” Elmer said, and Cricket noticed he had failed to leave his measly two-quarter tip. “Fred, it must be Samantha.” Cricket said. “What?” “Samantha, my cousin. Remember I told you she lived near you. She’s gone round the bend and thinks she’s broadcasting over the radio.” “But evidently she is!” He took off his Royals cap to rub his mop of sweaty, matted-down, white hair. “I know, but I don’t know how. She doesn’t know squat about electronics.” “Maybe some friend set her up. I mean with all those smarty

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October 2011

pants medical students around that area there are bound to be some really whacky ones. You think our health care system sucks now? Wait till these little geniuses graduate.” “You want to do me a favor and go back and listen to what’s she’s saying. Maybe take notes.” “Sure, I ain’t got nothin’ to do.” He left, and thus, Samantha’s crap had cost Cricket another customer who would have had two more drinks. Maybe more because she had worn a top that showed a lot of cleavage. Still, if Samantha was really telling truths about the family, Cricket needed to know what they were, especially if the nut cake was mouthing truths about Cricket. She’d have to bust in the door. Elmer reached the neighborhood near the Medical Center, and sure enough, a woman’s voice was suddenly coming in through his car speakers. He pulled to the curb and noticed several other cars had parked, drivers still in their cars. This included a Medical Center security vehicle; its officer behind the wheel. “In local news, the director of the hospital is a closet gay but not so much in the closet that he hasn’t hired his secret lover to be his executive assistant. The lesbian love nests in the interstitial floors of the hospital continue unabated. Researchers are still breaking the legs of poor beagle puppies to experiment on bone healing systems. Dioxide-ridden rats are stored in common freezers on floors in the research building within easy reach of any person

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October 2011

wandering in off the street. The psych chair self-enriched his own endowment account so he could get a tax deduction and then used the fund to buy his new Mercedes, the red one.” Elmer had no idea if any of this Medical Center gossip was true or not, but it all certainly passed the double P test: Possible and Plausible. “In national news, former Vice President Cheney remains in control of a secret Pentagon cabal ready to execute a coup d’état if President Obama fails to attack Iran before it can produce fissile material, which it already has anyway. My aunt isn’t going to her granddaughter’s third birthday party because her fat ass is deep in a real estate scam so she can raise money to pay off a $30,000 credit card debt her husband doesn’t know about. Garmin announced it is buying GE. And now, a musical interlude....” Elmer was stunned. Garmin buying GE? That couldn’t be true. But, if it was, the GPS company’s stock, now at historic lows, would soar. Investors had been wondering if the company would use its extraordinary cash assets to do something dramatic. But buy GE? It was plausible, but he didn’t think it was possible. Yet the voice sounded so sure and accurate about everything else. He looked at his watch. The market wouldn’t close for another hour. He’d better get into Garmin, and he used his cell phone to make the buy. Fred was still scribbling when he turned down the radio’s volume on the awful heavy metal racket she was using as a “musical

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October 2011

interlude.” Heavy metal interlude. Boy, there’s an oxymoron, he thought. He had no trouble believing any of the revelations she had spouted about the Medical Center. Christ, the place had its hands in every public, private, commercial, philanthropic, and economic development money pot that existed. And money rots just like power corrupts. And that bit about Cheney. That was probably true. No wonder the fascist bastard still had that smirk on his face. But was she right that the Royals would lose their tenth straight? He supplemented his Social Security with a few gambling bets. Well, tried to supplement. Might as well put a hundred on the Royals to lose tonight, he decided, and fired up his computer and started accessing the betting website he used when Samantha came back on the air. He scrambled to turn up the volume and grab a pen. “...And now, tips for the wise: Drug buyers best avoid 3842 Bell. Sting operation going on there. Best avoid the shrimp at China Gardens; it’s gone bad. Cops will be running radar later today along Broadway down the hill toward Union Station, you know, where the bastards get you since gravity’s got you anyway. Oh, and they’ll be checking for illegal left hand turners at 45th and Main so they can snare more poor out-of-town visitors. Boys in Blue busy today. DUI checkpoint starts at 11 p.m. at 55th and Ward Parkway. And this just in: Cricket is pregnant. Enough for today. Tune in tomorrow!” Fred decided he’d bet the house: $500 on the Royals losing.

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October 2011

Elmer, Fred, and Cricket were not the only persons who had taken notice of Samantha’s broadcasts. The Medical Center’s security officer and a couple of residents who worked at the hospital had called their friends, and the institution’s grapevine went about its quick and efficient business. The security officer then called a drug enforcement friend on the local police force and asked if they had a sting operation under at 3842 Bell. “Hell, how did you know that? Is it that obvious from the street?” The security officer explained. “That’s nuts. She’s probably a doper, too.” The security officer told him about the other police information he’d heard on the radio. “Damn. She must have a source inside the department. Happens all the time.” One of the neighbors within listening range had grown up in Peculiar. He called a couple of friends, and the word spread faster (by an order of several magnitudes) than the United States Postal Service could deliver express mail. The wives of the three Bills who worked out of the Peculiar post office went on the rampage. Fortunately for the Bills, they could point to one of the others. Poor Larry. There was only one of him. When he got home, he found his clothes piled up on the front lawn and his grandfather’s bamboo fly rods in splinters along with the graphite shards of the Daiwa rod he had purchased just last week. Bitch! The FBI heard about the broadcast news of Dick Cheney the same way it heard about everything: mysteriously. A highest level,

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October 2011

information-for-your-eyes-only memo went to the Director. Soon after it arrived, the Director took it to The President of the United States who shook his head. “Impossible,” he said but thought: Maybe that explains that asshole’s smirk. “Let’s investigate this source,” Obama ordered. Elmer watched the Dow close at 9350 and saw the news about Garmin buying GE and smiled the smile that can only come when one knows one is going to make a lot of money without one drop of sweat falling from one’s brow. Fred rushed back to the bar to tell Cricket all that Samantha had revealed over the radio. Cricket’s day had not picked up, and he was the only customer. After he rattled off the list of remarkable news, he said, “Oh, and you’re pregnant.” Cricket, never one to take more than two or three synaptic nanoseconds of thought before action, said: “Well, we can test that piece of news out right now. You’re in charge. I’ll be right back.” She went to the drugstore next door, bought a testing kit, returned, and went to the john. Fred held his breath. If she was pregnant, that must mean his bet was a sure thing. But would she be honest with him? Cricket, in the bathroom and never one to hide her emotions, yelled “God Damnit!” Fred echoed an internal “Whoopee!” The next morning, Fred woke up late because he had listened

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October 2011

to the game on the west coast. The Royals had finally lost in the 12th inning. Nerve-wracking. If the Royals had won that game, he swore he’d never wear one of their caps again. He went outside to get his paper before it was stolen and saw more traffic than ever before. Usually, students would start arriving to grab free street parking, but this morning all the spots were taken and all of the drivers were still in their cars. What the hell? Fred wondered and went back inside to make coffee, read the paper, confirm that the Royals did lose and he wasn’t dreaming, and turned on the radio to see if Cricket’s crazy cousin was broadcasting again. Elmer cruised the neighborhood looking for a place to park, but all the street parking was taken up with all the cars’ drivers sitting in them. Some cars were full of people, all of them wearing thin ties. Many vehicles were unmarked police cars—marked, though, because they had spotlights and were dark navy Crown Victorias. Then, Elmer saw a white cargo van with an antenna on its roof; he recognized this as a directional finder. Someone had the equipment to identify where the strange radio signal was coming from. Triangulation. Much earlier that morning, Samantha’s mother, the Postmistress, had had no need of triangulation to find Samantha’s home. All the town gossip being about its postmistress, she was the last person in Peculiar to hear it. Larry woke her up at 4 a.m. pounding on her door. He was drunk and asking if he could move in and told her

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October 2011

what her daughter had been saying on some radio show. “No!” the Postmistress said and closed the door on the man who was now blubbering something about committing hari-kari with fishing rod, bamboo splinters. She put on her clothes, grabbed her keys, jumped in the car, and started the two-hour drive. When she pounded on Samantha’s door, there was no response. She looked around for something to break down the door, but unlike her niece, Cricket, the Postmistress actually allowed two seconds of brain synaptic activity (equal to two billion nanoseconds of Cricket’s brain input to decision reaction time) to occur. She’d call the cops and tell them her daughter was mentally ill and may endanger herself and perhaps already had committed suicide. A squad car arrived and the policeman, after conferring with the Postmistress, who found him very cute, walked up the steps to Samantha’s front door. The Postmistress stationed herself at the bottom of the porch steps and, admiring the policeman’s butt, watched as he knocked on the door and the door opened. “Are you all right?” The policeman asked Samantha. “Your mother is worried about you.” “I’m perfectly fine. My mother and I are estranged. I do not want to see her. I do not want to talk to her. I want her off this property, which has a ‘No Trespassing, Violators will be Prosecuted’ sign posted right there,” Samantha answered and pointed. She looked normal, the policeman thought. Because these days

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October 2011

he had gotten used to seeing spiked purple and green hair, metal doohickeys pierced around the rims of ears, foreheads, noses and lips, of which hers were usually painted black. He concluded there were many crowds these days out of which she would not stand; therefore, she was “normal.” “Do you have some I.D. so I can verify you have reached legal age and are not still a responsibility of your mother?” “Sure.” As Samantha fetched her driver’s license the officer could see into her front room, which was relatively neat. Sitting on a desk was one of those old time radio broadcast microphones you saw in photos of Edward R. Morrow. Looking at the driver’s license he shook his head in regret at how the face of such a pretty girl with blond hair in the picture had turned into the creature before him. And she was 27. “Thank you. You’ve changed your appearance quite a bit. Good idea to go the driver’s license bureau and have a new picture taken.” “Thank you, officer. Excellent advice. Now, would you please tell that woman to get off my property?” “Ma’am,” the officer informed the Postmistress, “You’re going to have to leave.” Samantha returned to her breakfast of milk and Cocoa Puffs. Soon she would put the nipple rings in place, which seemed to sort of close the circuit on all her metal piercings and allowed her to

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October 2011

receive the signals that contained the truths she needed to tell the world. The Postmistress sat in her car not knowing quite what to do. It did not surprise her when a great many other cars started parking; she knew the medical school students used the streets. But what surprised her was that none of the drivers exited their cars. And, indeed, that day medical students would have to find someplace else to park. Samantha sat at the desk and turned the microphone on: “Here it comes, ladies and gentlemen, whores and pimps, drug users and pushers, adulterers and cuckolds, administrators and peons, cheaters and suckers, moochers and chumps…” The FCC truck found it couldn’t triangulate because it was stuck in traffic. It had one fix on the signal but needed a second from a different position. Cricket was stuck in traffic right behind a white paneled truck and was really pissed at her boyfriend, Eddie, who hadn’t said anything when she told him she was pregnant. He just hung up the phone. That God-damned-good-looking, though-uncaring, wannabe artist bastard, who made her jealous because he came from a much better dysfunctional family system than her own. How’d he like a little child support taken out of his pitiful little pizza delivery paycheck? Elmer had noticed Fred’s car and pulled into his driveway and

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October 2011

listened from there. The Postmistress looked dumbfounded at her own car radio blaring her crazy daughter’s voice: “Don’t have your surgery done in suite 107 at the Med Center today. Staph germs growing like crazy in there. Somebody better check on that patient in 388 right now because she’s in the bathroom with a blade and having another go at her wrist. Ugly painting donated yesterday to the thrift store on 39th, but something pretty nice underneath that painting. Stephen Kappes is a member of the Cheney cabal. He’s ordered me shut down. Obama wants me found, too. Barack, I think you understand now how few people you can really trust and how important truth telling is. Here it comes: Obama, keep your butt out of Texas and Oklahoma. Sniper guns are being positioned for potential visits as I speak. Cricket, don’t get an abortion. That little kid’s going to be a genius. And you’re going to get a text message from David, as crazy as that sounds. But pay attention to it. It’s really important, Cricket. Little drone bomb coming Waristan’s way. Bin Laden escapes again. Sara, Jimmy still masturbates looking at a nude picture of his ex-wife. The Royals halt their skid at 10. Big meteor headed right towards Earth. Be here in 51 years, 2 months, three days and four hours, local time.” Cricket had left her car in the middle of the street and ran towards Samantha’s house. David, Iris’s father, had been dead two

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October 2011

years. The FBI director, listening by hookup from one the agent’s cars, ordered the lead agent: “You have enough men. Break into every house on those blocks. Find her! Do it and do it now!” Fred was putting down another big bet, but this time that the Royals would win, when the front door of his house crashed open and two men in suits and thin ties ran in with their Glocks drawn. “If you’re burglars, there’s nothing here worth stealing. If you’re authorities, you’d better have a warrant, because if you don’t, I’m going to sue your asses off.” A great many carpenters and locksmiths would make good money doing repairs on all the doors ruined that day in the fourblock area. All would be paid in cash by an odd, little, nondescript man who called himself Mr. Smith, who also gave cash awards to homeowners who signed a special release. Fred balked until Mr. Smith mentioned that unfortunate mistakes could occur with Social Security payments. The pair that broke down Samantha’s door found her sitting at her neat desk talking into an old fashioned radio microphone. They grabbed the microphone off the table. When they found its cable was hooked into nothing, they yelled, demanding Samantha tell them where the equipment was. Sami just smiled at them. Cricket reached Samantha’s house in time to see her cousin

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October 2011

being led away by a group of men. Other men pushed her away when she tried to stop them. “Where are you taking her?” Cricket screamed at them. The Postmistress was storming up the driveway to yell: “Keep her locked up for a good, long time!” They would. Cricket and her aunt looked at each other. “We better go buy that painting at the thrift store,” they said to each other. The thought had struck other listeners, too, but most of them were being hampered by agents breaking through their front doors. The streets still gridlocked, Cricket and the Postmistress ran to the thrift store, Cricket explaining that Samantha’s broadcast had limited range and maybe the thrift store was out of range, and even if it was in range maybe they didn’t have a radio on. They were relieved to see the store empty except for a woman behind the counter working on a crossword puzzle. Dozens of crummy paintings hung on the walls behind disgusting racks of old clothing, but Cricket noticed one demented try at abstract expressionism leaning against the wall behind the counter. “I like that,” she said even though she wouldn’t hang it in an outhouse. “Is that new?” The woman looked up from her crossword, glanced at the painting and said, “Donated yesterday. You really like that ugly thing?” “How much,” the Postmistress spoke up.

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October 2011

“Five bucks. Some art student will buy it for that and gesso it over. Cheaper than new canvas.” “Sold,” Cricket and the Postmistress said at the same time. Leaving the thrift store, they saw Cricket’s car being towed off; so they walked back to the Postmistress’s auto. As they walked, Cricket’s cell phone rang. “If you’re going to be late, you could at least call me,” Joe said. “I can explain,” Cricket said. “Don’t bother. You’re fired.” Cricket sat on the curb and cried and took the painting in her hands and started tearing it apart to see what treasure might be hidden there. She really needed a treasure now in her life. Her cell phone played a tune meaning she had a new text message: “Cricket, hon, this is Dave. Iris’s got a major problem that must be looked after RIGHT NOW. Get her to the emergency room and tell them she has a hernia that’s about to strangulate. Just repeat those words: a hernia that’s about to strangulate. I love you. Sorry for all the mess I caused.” Cricket felt she was about to go catatonic. Dave, Iris’s father, killed himself two years ago. She speed-dialed her other aunt’s number. “Rose. Listen. I’m not nuts. You must do what I tell you. Take Iris, now, to the emergency room and tell them she has a hernia that’s about to strangulate.”

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October 2011

“Cricket, are you...” “DO IT OR IRIS WILL DIE!” Cricket yelled. “Okay.” “Well, look at that,” the Postmistress had resumed her search of the painting and pulled off the brown paper from the back of the frame to reveal tightly bound packets of money, the first bill showing on the top of each being $100. “Fuck you, Joe,” Cricket rejoiced. Her cell phone played a tune meaning she had a live one on the other end, unless Dave wanted to speak from the grave as well. “Cricket,” she heard Eddie say. “I’ve been thinking. Let’s get married. What do you think?” “I don’t need to do any thinking. Okay. Our kid’s going to be a genius, by the way.” “Pick you up after work?” “I’ve been fired.” “How about I pick you up right away? I’ve been fired, too.” “That would be really, really great because my car got towed, and I’ve got to get to the hospital to check on Iris.” “What’s happened to Iris?” “She has a hernia that’s about to strangulate. I’ll explain later. Please get here as soon as you can. Oh, and we’re rich; well, rich enough for a while.”

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October 2011

Spirits of the Corn D. L. Marriott

I can hear the wind rustling through the field. The sound of the cornstalks rubbing against each other always gave me the creeps. Despite being a farmer all my life, I’ve always felt trepidation at what might be hiding in the corn. Tales of ghosts roaming between the rows were favorites of the older kids when I grew up, and somehow they left an indelible mark on my mind. The guys down at the feed mill think it’s a hoot that a corn farmer could be nervous about what spirits might haunt his field. It doesn’t matter that I know there’s no such thing as ghosts. It’s a reaction down deep in my gut that doesn’t care what my brain says. Speaking of the corn, why can I hear it so clearly? Did I doze off on the porch? I slowly open my eyes, squinting in the darkness. The only light is some spilling from the kitchen window and the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling of the front porch. What the heck happened? I’m standing out in the corn field. How did I get here? I don’t remember. Wait. Now I remember, I was in the field chasing some crows away. Dang scarecrow I put out there doesn’t seem to help at all. So I was chasing the crows. Then again, I’m not sure. Maybe I fell and hit my head or something.

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October 2011

I find my absence of memory so frightening that I can’t seem to move a muscle. I’m facing the farm house I have lived in all my life. This farm belonged to my pop, and my grandpop before that. Unfortunately, I don’t have anyone to pass it down to, so after three generations it will no longer be the Reynolds farm. This saddens me, but there’s nothing to be done about it. Standing here gazing at my home, I take notice that it could use a good coat of paint. I should make sure to get that done before winter sets in. My musing is interrupted by the sound of a pick-up rattling up the drive. I recognize the blue, dented truck as it pulls into the pool of light from the porch. It belongs to the Jacob brothers. I don’t particularly like Mike and Alan Jacob they just seem to be trouble. They’re the type to get into fights when they have a few too many down at Ray’s Tap. Both of them are big, burly guys. Everyone knows not to mess with them. I don’t know what they want, but I know that I’m not moving from my spot hidden in the corn. Standing perfectly, I watch them make their way to my front door. Their mangy German Shepherd following behind. “Hey Mike. How’re we gettin in? Are we gonna have to break a window or somethin’?” “Heck no. I know old man Reynolds never locked the place.” What’s going on? How do they know I never lock my doors? What are they doing? I watch as they stroll nonchalantly into my

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October 2011

home. I always knew these two were no good. Just figures they would break into neighbors’ homes. What should I do? I contemplate my options, which aren’t many. They’re too big for me to go after them. Besides, they out number me. My car keys are in the house, so I can’t drive anywhere. I live miles from the next farm, so walking won’t do me much good. The only thing I can think to do is stay right where I am and keep an eye on them so I can call the sheriff as soon as they leave. I watch as they go from room to room in my home turning on lights as they go. It doesn’t take long before they come back out carrying my television and my microwave oven. Dang nab it, they’re stealing my stuff! The creak and bang as they lower the tailgate on the pick-up makes me cringe. Their voices carry easily to my hiding place. “There’s lots of stuff we can sell over in Raleigh.” “Yeah, who woulda thought the old guy would have some of this stuff. I think this is really goin’ to pay off!” I watch silently, my anger growing as they make several trips carrying out my belongings. I can’t believe the gall of these two. They don’t seem worried at all that I might return and catch them. Just wait until the sheriff arrests them and they find out I witnessed the whole thing. I watch as the lights in the windows go out one by one. Before I know it, they’re back out in my drive. “Finish loading this stuff up, Al. We’ll come back tomorrow.” “Good. I don’t like it here. This place gives me the heebie

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October 2011

jeebies.” “You afraid of ghosts or somethin’?” “Ya know, Reynolds himself told everyone he was afraid of ghosts in the corn.” I’m fuming. It’s not enough they’re robbing me blind. They plan on coming back tomorrow? Well just wait until they see what I have in store for them. Me and the sheriff will be here waiting for them when they come back. I watch as their dog wanders over to the edge of the corn. His ears perk and he looks my way. I hear a growl building in his throat. Shhh, go away, you don’t see anything. Good dog. Go away. I watch nervously as the Jacob brothers make their way toward the edge of the corn. They’re looking in my direction but don’t seem to see me yet. The light from my porch doesn’t reach this far out. My stomach’s in knots. If they find me, will they beat me? Will they shoot me with the shotgun they stole from my hall closet? “Hey, Sargent. Whatcha see boy?” “What is it Mike? What’s he all worked up about?” “Dunno. I don’t see nothin’. It’s too dark out there.” “Maybe it’s that scarecrow Reynolds put out there. Heck, it kind of freaks me out.” I’ve been holding my breath. I want to duck down, but I’m afraid that if I move they might see me. What they might do if they find me scares me. I have to stay as still as I can. They pull the dog away and head toward the truck. I can breathe.

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October 2011

“So Mike, whatcha goin’ to do once you sell all this stuff?” “Not sure. There’s another house a few miles from here that I thought was interesting. Maybe we’ll make a regular business outta this, an investment like.” My mind races at how comfortable they seem to be at this. How many houses have they broken into anyway? I haven’t heard of any rash of robberies. At least not around here. Maybe they’ve been going elsewhere up until now. “Hey, Mike?” “Yeah, Al?” “Can we knock down that darn, blasted scarecrow, though? I swear it scares the heck outta me.” Well at least that scarecrow’s scaring something. I really wish they’d leave. My back’s stiff from not moving for so long. And the sound of Mike chuckling at his stupid brother is really irritating me. “Ha! That thing’s really buggin’ you, huh?” “Yeah, it feels like it’s looking right at me.” If I weren’t trying to be quiet, I’d laugh. A grown man, thinking a scarecrow is staring at him. Wait... I break my gaze from the two men and glance down without moving my head. I recognize my tattered shirt. No, it can’t be... “Sure Al, we can take it down. Reynolds had no family, I bought the whole estate. We can do whatever we want with it.”

#eFiction

October 2011

#eFiction

October 2011

Voices

Jody Williams

“Good morning, Mr. Peyton. Please have a seat,” Henry Mills muttered as he gestured half-heartedly at the seat in front of his desk. “I trust you had an uneventful week?” Donald Peyton gave the psychiatrist an indignant glance. It was the same question that began every session, and, following the guidelines of tradition, Peyton responded with the same answer that he always did. “No, Dr. Mills, the voices are still there.” Mills scribbled some notes in a folder, then put down his pen and leaned back in his leather chair. This was another bit of repetition the psychiatrist never failed to ignore. Peyton wondered if it was the same routine Mills followed with all his patients; was there a different style of body language that suited each patient individually? Whatever the case, Peyton knew that Mills did not seem to care much about the problems he was dealing with—the voices. “So, you are still hearing the voices,” Mills said, the statement voiced more for his benefit than Peyton’s. “I’ve prescribed every type of antipsychotic drug that can legally be prescribed, and yet

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you still, to this very day, after two years of therapy, claim you hear voices.” “Yes,” Peyton replied. Mills chuckled and leaned forward in his chair, staring his patient in the eyes, “Mr. Peyton, you are driving me to insanity. I am at the end of my rope. I know of no other alternatives that will be of any assistance to you, and to top it off, you are behind in your payments for treatment; I’m afraid this will be our last session together.” “Dr. Mills, I assure you—” “No, Mr. Peyton, you have done nothing in the past two years other than ‘assure me’. You have shown me no evidence that convinces me your condition actually exists! Brain scans show no abnormalities and there are no chemical imbalances. Mr. Peyton, there is nothing wrong with you!” “But…,” Peyton stammered. “Look, Peyton,” the doctor said, grabbing the folder off his desk as he rose to his feet, “you claim you only hear the voices within the confines of your own home. Why is that?” Peyton opened his mouth to respond, but Mills continued on. “Your wife took your children and left because you presume to hear these voices. She lived in the house as well, but according to you, she never heard the voices. You’ve also lost your job because of these mysterious voices.”

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October 2011

“Doctor, I know the voices are real. Please believe me,” Peyton was on the verge of tears. “Listen to this,” the doctor pulled a sheet of paper from the folder, “This is a transcript from one of our first sessions together. I want you to hear the absurdity of it all, and then try to place yourself in my shoes. You tell me what other choice I have.” Mills began reading the transcript aloud. Mills: Are the voices clear? Do you understand every word they are saying? Peyton: Yes, they are quite clear. Mills: Does each voice say the same thing? In other words, is there a distinct voice for one subject and another voice for a different subject? Peyton: No, it’s like they all speak as one. It seems as though there are hundreds, maybe thousands of dissimilar voices, but they are all in unison. They all…I don’t know…mesh I guess. It reminds me of a large choir singing, you know? Mills: And you only hear the voices at night? Peyton: No, I hear them constantly at home… it’s just, well, at night they seem louder; stronger, somehow. Mills: Where do you think the voices are coming from? Is it possible that they might be coming from a television or a radio? Peyton: Ha! I knew you were going to ask me that. If you think

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October 2011

about it, it does seem logical—and the television is the first place I considered but, no, that’s not where they’re coming from. Actually, I haven’t been able to pinpoint an exact location of origin, but the drains in my kitchen and bathroom seem to amplify the voices. Mills: What do the voices say? Peyton: Well, they’re kind of soothing. Like if I happened to have had a bad day, they will say, ‘it’s alright. Things will work out the way they should.’ And when my wife Meg left, they would say things like, ‘she was not worth the effort,’ and, ‘we are still here for you.’ Mills: Have they ever told you to do anything specific? Peyton: No, not that I can recall. Mills: Would you ever follow their instructions if they did tell you to do something specific? Peyton: I don’t know. I guess. If it seemed like the right thing to do, I suppose I might consider it. Maybe like, taking the advice of a friend? Mills: Do you consider the voices to be friendly, or are you afraid of them? Peyton: No, I’m not afraid of them, and they’re not necessarily bothersome. Like I said, they’re soothing. Actually, I just want to know if I’m going crazy. Mills: Well, Mr. Peyton, we try not to use the work ‘crazy’ in this line of work. To me, that word describes a person that is com-

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October 2011

pletely incurable of any mental illness. “So there you have it Mr. Peyton. I’ve done everything I possibly can for you. Hell, we’ve even gone over your home with a fine-toothed comb to rule out your delusion that the government was, in some way, involved. And what did we find there after turning over every piece of furniture and rifling through every cabinet? You remember, don’t you? Dust bunnies, mouse turds, and cockroaches; nothing more.” The doctor turned his back to Peyton and stared out his office window. He stood for a moment, listening to Peyton sniffle. Mills shrugged. “Actually, Peyton,” the doctor continued, “I’ve lied to you. Putting all professional ethics aside, I have come to the conclusion that you are indeed a crazy bastard. You are a pathetic little man with no life. This, in turn, leads to a realization of which the only reason you are here is because I am the only person you have to talk to.” Peyton cleared his throat. “To be honest with you, Doctor,” he wiped away the tears that finally came, “I’ve lied to you also.” “The whole thing has been a lie,” Mills continued staring out the window. “No. It hasn’t. Everything I’ve told you has been truthful. I lied when I told you that the voices had never told me to do a specific thing.” Peyton grined at his reflection in the window. “No. They

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October 2011

told me to kill you.” The grin started to fade as Mills turned to face Peyton, and the look on his face would probably have turned to that of surprise had the bullet not gotten there first. The window behind Mills shattered as the bullet exited the good doctor’s head. Crimson shards of glass and brain matter rained three stories to the street below.

In complete darkness, Peyton sat on the edge of his bathtub gently caressing the sides of a razor blade between his thumb and index finger. “Did you do it?” the voices asked. “Yes. You were right. He wasn’t my friend. He deserved what he got for the things he said. Just like Meg and the kids got what they deserved.” “Are you ready to join us, to be a part of us?” “Yes, I think so. I think it is time. The doctor was right about that. I have no one else.” “You have us, Peyton.” The voices calmly said. “I’m ready,” Peyton stood and began to disrobe, tossing his garments on the floor. He bent to turn on the water in the bathtub. “No water, Peyton. We’ll clean up after you.” Peyton lowered himself into the tub. The porcelain was cold

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October 2011

against his exposed skin. In the darkness he was able to visualize the razor he held between his fingers. What he saw was a key; a key that would open a door to a better place. Peyton inserted the “key” and slowly, methodically, dragged the corner of the blade from the inside of each elbow to the fold in each wrist. “We love you, Peyton,” the voices sang. Peyton began to shiver. “I’m cold. It’s so cold.” “Close your eyes. You’ll be a part of us soon, and there, you will be warm.” Peyton could feel his eyelids becoming heavier. The voices became stronger and louder, filling his head and dominating all other thoughts. WE WANT YOU. WE NEED YOU. WE LOVE YOU. WE WANT YOU. WE NEED YOU.WE LOVE YOU. Peyton closed his eyes languidly and slid into unconsciousness, comforted by the thought that he was finally traveling to a place of serenity; a place where he was wanted, needed, and most of all—loved. The voices descended upon him.

The police arrived at Peyton’s home within the hour of the

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October 2011

doctor’s death. A circus of law enforcement officials converged on the house, completely surrounding it. Officer Stanley Wilson was selected to lead a four man “sweep and secure” team which would enter the house and try to flush the suspect out of hiding. Wilson gave the customary we–have-a-warrant greeting at the door. When it became obvious that Peyton was not going to respond, he drew his weapon and kicked in the door. Wilson motioned for the two members of his team to cover the living room and kitchen to the right of the entrance and for the third officer to follow him down the hallway. Wilson and the third member of his team passed an open door to what was obviously a bedroom. Wilson pointed at the bedroom, and the other officer entered. Wilson continued along the hallway until he came to a closed door. He carefully placed his ear to the door and listened. It was faint, and unintelligible, but he could definitely hear voices. With his ear still to the door, he slowly turned the doorknob. It was locked. Wilson backed up, took a deep breath, and threw himself, with all the force he could muster, against the door. The door burst open, almost flying off the hinges. The bathtub was in Wilson’s direct line of sight and light from the hallway partially illuminated the person sitting in it. “Freeze!” Wilson yelled as the figure in the bathtub began rapidly moving. Wilson fumbled for the light switch while watching

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October 2011

the dark figure lower itself deeper into the tub. Wilson found the switch and light flooded the bathroom. “Holy mother of God,” Wilson muttered, choking back the bile rising in his throat as Peyton screamed in a thousand different voices. “Wilson, what the hell is going on in here?” The three other cops were crowding the door to the bathroom to determine what all the commotion was about. “Jesus,” Wilson answered, wiping sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt, “they were everywhere.” “Who was everywhere?” The cop said staring at Wilson’s pale face. “We’ve searched the whole house and can’t find Peyton anywhere.” “Roaches. The biggest goddamn roaches I’ve ever seen. They all went down the bathtub drain. I managed to get a few though, see?” Wilson pointed to the bathtub where mashed roaches lay in a pool of blood. “I’ll be damned,” the cop said. “I didn’t know roaches bled.” “That’s not all they do,” Wilson said, still shaking. “They also scream.”

#eFiction

October 2011

The Bridge Steven M. Moore

Bobby downshifted his classic ‘Vette with just a tap on the brakes to take the curve. Another covered bridge, he thought. I really love ’em. Fall was always his favorite time—even now, though his life was a mess. Indian summer in Ohio doesn’t happen every year. This year, it was spectacular. He drove over the bridge, savoring every second. The afternoon sunlight created patterns on the finish of the sports car as the eldritch glow filtered through the side timbers and roof. The throb of the engine played reverberant percussion in support of the stiff breeze’s whistle and the river’s incessant babble. Halfway across, the vortex hit him. Tornado? But there was no sound of splintering wood or fading daylight. Nevertheless, he felt his stomach was in a washer’s spin cycle. He closed his eyes. He was back in Mosul just before the IED hit. In the turret, he was the first to hear the explosion and feel the heat and pressure wave. The shrapnel tore into him. The vehicle rolled onto its side. He blacked out. The car crawled through the bridge as he returned as its driver.

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October 2011

He dripped with perspiration as if he was in the 120-degree heat of Iraq and not in a pleasant Ohio Indian summer afternoon. Shaking his head to clear away the dizziness, he continued to enjoy the fall colors. He thanked the Lord, whoever He or She might be, that he was home. Older and wiser, wounded in body and spirit, but he was home. Closer than Iraq, anyway. A muscular PFC had survived, pulled him out, and watched as the Humvee’s interior filled with flames, crisping the remainder of his men beyond recognition. Bobby woke up in the ICU. The field hospital had been a nightmare. His first reaction was to try to scratch—that was how he discovered that he had lost a hand. The physical pain seemed minor, though, compared to the mental anguish. The old job was waiting for him in his Chicago firm when he left Walter Reed. The company had even given him extra time to find a new apartment and settle in. The boss had been in ‘Nam; he valued war heroes like Captain Robert Branson. He still didn’t have an apartment. It seemed irrelevant after losing Cindy. Never one to be uxorious, he still thought her leaving cruel and unfair. You do your patriotic duty and your wife decides to skip out. Go figure. The short vacation with the ‘Vette seemed more important for his mental health. Some bridge! It made me feel like I was going back in time.

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He stopped, made a three-point, and re-crossed the bridge. It didn’t provide the same rush this time. It also seemed older. Instead of taking the state routes back to I-90, he took the other fork and headed east, looking for gas. That’s when he noticed the GPS unit was missing. The ‘67 coupe had no installed GPS, of course. He had purchased the Garmin unit in a Best Buy in the Chicago suburbs just for the trip. Did it fly out when I made that fast turn? He convinced himself it was under one of the seats or in the back well somewhere. I’ll look for it when I stop for the night.

Bobby stopped for gas in a little town that looked like something from the sixties. Not 1867, like the covered bridge, but certainly not 2008. He was enjoying the nostalgia fix as he pumped gas in front of the general store. As he reached inside for the pouch containing his wallet, he noticed that the ‘Vette’s paint job looked like new, and the door handles were no longer corroded around the edges. What the hell? He was beyond nostalgia as he went to pay. Inside he took the driving gloves off his hands to pay for the gas, grasping the wallet with his right hand and finding the credit card with his left. The woman studied the artificial hand for only a moment and then smiled at him.

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October 2011

“That’s quite a prosthetic,” she said, taking the card. “Those Army doctors are getting pretty damn good. Welcome back, soldier. ‘Nam’s a hell hole.” ‘Nam? “Excuse me?” “Sorry. I just assumed you’re back from the war. My boy died there.” “Don’t you think I’m a little young—?” She cut him short, throwing the card at him. It bounced off his chest. He bent to pick it up. “Either you pay cash or I’m calling the police. That doesn’t even look real!” He studied the card. It looked fine to him. Nevertheless, he gave her the cash. To be on the safe side, he handed her old looking bills and not a new ten or twenty that, even to him, looked like play money. “I don’t want to know how you got that car. But if it’s not registered to you, you’d better leave town fast.” He shrugged and left the store.

Two teenagers were admiring his car. “Hey, mister, nice wheels! It must be only a few weeks old.” “What are you smoking? It’s a classic. I rebuilt it myself. It still needs some work.” Then he remembered the paint job and

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October 2011

handles. Or not? “I ran out of money before I went overseas and put it in storage.” “Looks like a 67 ‘Vette coupe to me.” “Bet you lost that in Vietnam,” interrupted the other boy, pointing to Bobby’s prosthetic. “Uncle Ted, my dad’s brother, lost a leg in the rice paddies, and Uncle Bart, my mother’s brother, they say he died in the tunnels looking for Viet Cong. What’d you do there?” “I commanded a Humvee,” Bobby answered. The kid’s face was blank. Why are all these people mixing up wars? “Tyler and Benny, let’s go!” Bobby shaded his eyes and looked across the street to where a woman with the good looks to match her sweet voice waved at the boys. “You’ve got cows waiting for you.” “Aunt Paula,” explained the second boy. “Tyler and me are helping her out mornings. After school we help out our aunt, too. Uncle Ted’s a little slow. He’s just getting used to his fake leg.” “Tell him I wish him luck,” said Bobby.

Bobby slid into the car and drove down the main drag but stopped when he saw a glitzy diner. Visions of homemade apple pie danced in his head, dispelling the mystery back at the general store. Maybe an early dinner is in order. The place pretended to be ultramodern. The pink door was

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October 2011

an enlarged yonic symbol and the windows were stained glass flamingoes. Inside, chrome fixtures and pink cushions provided the dominant decor. He found a booth, ordered coffee, and began to study the menu. When the server, a woman old enough to be his mother, returned to take his order, he went traditional, choosing a grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of vegetable beef soup, the soup du jour. As he waited, he spotted a forlorn newspaper in the next booth. He retrieved it, started reading, and then stopped breathing upon noticing the date. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Bobby looked up. “That was a fast trip, Aunt Paula. Either you’re a great milkmaid or there’s only one cow.” “I let the boys take their time with the chores. I work here. I come on at 4.” She jerked a thumb at Bobby’s server. “When Diane gets off. You must have a lot of greenbacks to afford a car like that.” Bobby looked at the car and then back at the newspaper. “Tell me, what year is it?” “1967,” she said, matching his whisper. “You should know if you bought that car.” She sat down in the booth across from Bobby. “You OK?” She stretched out her right hand and touched his left. It was a timid yet comforting gesture. He knew she had seen the prosthetic. The gesture’s origin was not because she thought he was crazy.

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October 2011

Not yet, anyway. “Just feeling dazed,” he said. “I’ve heard some of you return with that post stress thing.” She withdrew the hand. “I’d welcome my Bart home in any shape if he’d come back.” “One of the boys said your husband died. I’m sorry.” “I’m coping.” For a moment, her look seemed bleak and focused on something far away. Then she seemed to snap back to the diner. “What was it like there?” “My there is not your there.” He handed her the paper. “It says 1967, you say 1967, and I bet Diane says 1967. I say it’s 2008.” He raised his right hand. “I lost this in Mosul, Iraq. I wasn’t in ‘Nam. They don’t even have the technology to make this prosthetic in 1967.” He took off his class ring and handed it to her. “What’s it say?” She cleared her throat. “2001.” “That’s right. Class of 2001. I enlisted right after 9/11.” She stood. She was only a few inches shorter than his fiveeleven and very easy on the eyes. At that moment, though, she was angry. “You’re some kind of scam artist, aren’t you? Coming from wherever, preying on good, honest country folk. No wonder you can afford that car. You might be one of those big city pimps for all I know.” She left the table, walked the length of the diner’s sit-down

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counter, and then disappeared into a back room.

Diane brought his food. “I don’t know what you said, but you sure got Paula upset.” The older woman scowled. “I know her well enough that she had a good reason.” Divorced or just a philandering or missing husband? Diane’s misandrist personality sent off all kinds of alarms. He still decided to take a chance on her. “Diane, what year is it?” She stared at him. “Just shut up and eat. I’m tired and I’m not in a joking mood.” She also hustled away. Bobby continued to read the newspaper. Diane’s comment made him consider the possibility that someone was joking with him. However, the newspaper seemed consistent with the history he could remember. It was only a few months before the Tet Offensive. After he finished a few pages and most of the soup, he noticed the print smudges on his napkin. How many years has it been since I’ve seen such bad newspaper ink? When he couldn’t think of an answer, he felt the first signs of acid reflux.

The town had a library. Within he found the same paper that was in the diner. There was no internet connection. Oh, yeah, no

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internet. He prowled around a bit, especially in the magazine section. He could find nothing later than 1967. Is my ‘Vette a time machine? He left when dusk’s shadows told him he’d better find lodging here or return to the interstate in order to find it. There was a Motel 6 on the way out of town. He spun a U and turned in to get a room. It was a basic room with rotary dial phone and a small TV with a picture tube. He decided against turning on the news. He fell asleep trying to rationalize what was going on. The phone woke him. “Mr. Branson, this is Paula Williams, the boys’ aunt—we met at the diner. I’m sorry to bother you. I know it’s late but I need your help.” Bobby looked at his watch. 10:25 pm. Yes, a late hour, but not for a soldier on night patrol. “What can I do for you?” Her answer wasn’t what he expected. “I think I killed a man.” “An intruder?” “I think so.” “You’re not sure?” “Just—hell, could you just help me?” There was stress in her voice, the kind that would be in an Iraqi woman’s voice as she asked him to look for missing family. Not something you get used to. “I thought more about our chat at the restaurant.” Less stress—she was back in control. “You do seem like a nice guy.”

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October 2011

“People that call me a scam artist and a pimp usually don’t think I’m nice. Why don’t you call the cops?” “They’d take too long.” She gave him directions to her farm. “Please hurry.” How did she know I was here? he asked himself as he put on his shoes and ran to the car. What’s your agenda, lady? He opened his glove compartment. Like the GPS unit, the new Glock was gone. But I’m back in the U.S.A. There shouldn’t be any need for a gun, right? He slammed the compartment shut and started the engine. How crazy is this?

Her directions to the farm were excellent. It helped that the whole barnyard was lit up with spotlights. He parked by a water tank that served as the base of a small windmill and started towards the house. “In here.” The voice came from the open barn door. He changed course and paused when he reached the door. Inside Paula stood by a body. In front of six stalls, two empty and the others containing two horses and two cows, she looked like a caricature of a Minuteman as she leaned on the rifle. “He was on the tractor,” she said, indicating the machine hooked up to a plow. “I came out when I heard his crazy laughter.” Bobby approached her with caution. A woman that knows how

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to shoot a gun like that could be dangerous. He glanced at the body. It was face down, an old style grain scythe beside it. He flipped it over and Paula put her hand to her mouth. Parts of the body, especially the face, were sagging—just slate gray flesh hanging off bone. A maggot crawled out of a nostril. The fingernails and toenails were dirty as if the creature used both to dig itself out of a grave. The genitalia were shrunken and shriveled. There was no blood, just a hole in the belly that should be oozing. There was a mixture of odors in the still air, including the stench of vomit. Probably hers. “Do you know him?” “He’s—it’s my husband. It came at me with that scythe, laughing all the time. I thought it was going to kill me.” Bobby crouched and briefly examined the corpse. He had seen many in Iraq—enemies, civilians, and comrades. This one was in good shape. No cadaveric releases from a newly dead body; just the unidentifiable odors and the vomit stench. “I’m no CSI, but I think this man’s been dead for a while.” He picked up the left arm and let it fall. “He’s way past rigor mortis. You say he looks like your husband?” “It is my husband. But that can’t be, can it?” Bobby glanced out the barn door towards his ‘Vette. “What can and can’t be seems all mixed up right now. I feel like we’re in an episode of The Twilight Zone.”

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“Bart liked that show. Too bad they discontinued it. I liked Mr. Serling. He went to school here, you know.” “In Ohio?” “Yes, Antioch College.” She looked away from him back to the corpse. “Did I kill him?” “I’m not sure you killed anything. Did he sound like your husband?” “Not at all. Bart never sounded like that. He wasn’t the best tempered fellow, but he never sounded like this thing.” “I think you should go in and lie down. Come on.” He leaned the rifle against a tractor wheel, put his arm around her, and led her to the house. “Stretch out on the sofa. I’m going to use my scam artist and pimp talents to bury hubby or whatever that thing is. Do you understand?” “I really regret saying that. You’re really nice. Strange, but nice.” “Lady, your strange trumps my strange. Try to calm down while I go do the deed.” “What if it’s my husband? Can they charge me with murder?” He knew what she meant by “they”—the authorities, the MPs, whatever they’re called in this neck of the woods. “No. They’ll never know. Your husband died in ‘Nam. You buried him, right?” “No. He was MIA. Assumed and declared dead. A tunnel rat.” He studied her with concern. “You’ll be OK. The police don’t

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need to get involved. That thing out there is not your husband.” When Bobby returned to the barn, that thing was gone. So was the gun.

He dashed back inside. Paula dozed on the couch. He shook her. “Do you have another gun?” “I have an old Colt Bart sometimes carried. The northeast corner of our property is stony. You sometimes run into a copperhead or two. While they don’t do any harm unless they feel threatened, Bart hated them and would blow them away if he had the chance. He was a good shot.” “Just show me the gun.” She got up and led him to the study. The gun was in the bottom right drawer of an old oak desk. She handed it to him with a box of bullets. “What’s going on, Bobby?” “Your… it’s gone. And your rifle.” She turned pale. “You were going to bury it!” “I didn’t get the chance. Now, let’s go and lock every door and window you can think of.” He followed her around the house and felt better when they finished. This night is giving me the creeps. Some vacation!

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They went into the kitchen and she made coffee. It was a cut above the coffee from the diner. “We can’t stay here barricaded in my house,” she said. “Tell me about Bart. You said he was an angry man.” “He was handsome and I loved him, but he thought other men were after me and I paid too much attention to them.” “Did you?” She smiled at him. “I know how to flirt and I like a compliment or two. Sometimes I’d wink at a fellow just to get Bart stirred up.” She poured herself more coffee. “I never meant anything by it and the make-up sex was always great.” “Why did he go to ‘Nam and leave you alone if he was so jealous? That’s not something I would do.” “His patriotism won over his jealousy. I kept all his letters. I could read between the lines that he was lonely and worried that someone would steal me. Men are so stupid. I can flirt but I’d never leave my husband. Men think because they do it that women will do the same.” She lapsed into silence, lost in her memories.

Paula was a redhead while Cindy was a brunette. In heels, Cindy was taller than Bobby, something that made them both un-

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comfortable on the dance floor. Paula was much shorter, but the women’s personalities were similar. Except for that one little thing: “I’d never leave my husband.” He didn’t know about other wars, but a lot of men and women serving in Iraq or Afghanistan came back to find their families gone. The deployments overseas seemed endless. Long distance relationships are difficult, even with the internet and Skype and all the modern stuff to stay in contact. Those face-to-face words, the hugs and kisses, the sharing of happiness and pain—they mean so much. Electronic gadgets are a poor substitute. Then there’s the stress, knowing you’re in harm’s way and knowing they know you are. Cindy visited him once in Walter Reed. He knew when he saw her that something was wrong. He didn’t hate her. He just felt emptiness. “I’d never leave my husband.”

“Will the boys come here first?” “Oh my God! They’ll pop over here early this morning.” “Well, maybe the daylight will just make the zombie disappear.” She smiled and then realized he was serious. “I don’t think this is like Dracula. I don’t believe in that stuff. Maybe the zombie has something to do with you thinking it’s 2008.”

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“It was 2008, although it seems strange to use the past tense for something in the future. Before I crossed that damn bridge, I swear it was 2008. You saw the ring.” “Anyone can make a ring that says 2001. You’ve got to do better than that to convince me.” He took out his wallet and handed her a bill. “A new ten dollar bill. That’s proof.” “It looks like play money to me. Now I think you’re just a bad counterfeiter.” She said it with a smile, though. “Got anything else?” He held up the prosthetic. “Try to find one of these.” He opened and closed the artificial hand, moving the fingers independently and rotating the wrist. “Stop that! It’s like a robot’s hand.” “In my time there are robots. Very complicated ones. They’ll replace many of the autoworkers here in the Midwest. They’ll also do surgery and put cell phones together.” Sadness filled her eyes. She thinks I’m a nut. “Good for them. But you haven’t given me one shred of evidence you’re really from 2008.” The GPS, he thought but then paused. The GPS wouldn’t work. No satellites. If it’s truly 1967, we haven’t even gone to the moon yet! Nonetheless, some things still survived the trip back in time. The money, for example, and his prosthetic. That made the situa-

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tion even stranger. At that moment, they both heard the clump-clump-clump of boots coming from the other side of the kitchen.

“What’s there?” asked Bobby, pointing to the wooden door. “Cellar stairs. I have all my canned goods down there. Other stuff.” “Someone is down there and they’re coming up.” He loaded the Colt as fast as he could. He had just finished when the door was destroyed. Some wood splinters even reached them. The body from the barn let out a triumphant Uzi-like cackle that caused Bobby’s nape hairs to stand at attention. Paula threw the coffee pot at the creature, leaving it dripping. They overturned the table and then crouched behind. The scalding coffee was not a hindrance. The only effect was that the corpse smelled better. He peeked just in time to see the thing point the rifle. Bobby was faster and began to fire round after round into the zombie. It only reacted by jerking a little as each bullet tore through it. When Bobby stopped to reload, it fired the rifle. Reload and shoot, reload and shoot, as if the squirrel gun was its last defense at the Little Big Horn.

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Paula sobbed. “I don’t believe this. Am I having a nightmare?” Bobby looked around the edge of the table, ready to fire again. The creature, obviously frustrated that the metal dinette set stopped his bullets, had thrown the rifle aside. Now it was right on top of them. It reached down, pinned his two arms, and jerked him to his feet. He dropped the Colt. Paula tried to recover it. Bobby kneed the creature in the groin. The squishy resistance was like kneeing oatmeal. Paula struck the creature alongside its cheek using the Colt like a hammer. The creature released Bobby’s right arm long enough for him to grab it by the throat with the prosthetic. He clamped down. The neck didn’t break—it just disintegrated, shredding into strips of rotting flesh. When the head came off and rolled towards Paula, she shot the eyes out. The zombie twitched for a few moments and then was still. “Looks like you practiced on those copperheads too,” commented Bobby, shaking the gray gook off the prosthetic. “Tin cans. I can’t kill something living.” “Good thing, then, that this guy was already dead.” He folded her into his arms. “You OK?” “We both have cuts from the splinters,” she said, looking into his face. “I guess we’d better patch ourselves up.” He was dripping in sweat and breathing as if he had just finished a marathon. The Indian summer and the fear had taken their

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toll. He was also sure that decaying flesh still coated him in places. “I need a shower first.” He wasn’t surprised when she joined him. She wasn’t surprised that he didn’t return to Chicago.

A few days later, Bobby changed his life forever. He moved out of the motel and in with Paula, ostensibly to be her handyman. That was the official story. There was no question about resigning from his Chicago job. IT didn’t exist as a profession in 1967, at least not in the same way as 2008. He knew nothing about big mainframes, punch cards, and memory media that looked like something Al Oerter might throw while competing with the gods from Mt. Olympus. He had always been good with his hands and could keep the tractor running just as well as his ‘Vette. He even learned to milk, with his left hand, of course. The workdays were long, even in winter when evening stole the daylight. Yet he thrived. So did Paula. That was why she surprised him one morning as he devoured her biscuits, bacon, and eggs over easy. “I think we should try an experiment,” she said. He swallowed. Most of the time women were a mystery. He had always thought they were a different species. It was a wonder-

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ful thing. “What kind of experiment?” “Bobby, you work hard and you’re great in bed, but can I count on you?” “What do you mean?” he asked, studying her over the edge of his coffee mug. This gal really knows coffee! “I’m not much of a scientist.” “You seem to be. You often talk about all those gizmos and gadgets we’ll have in the future.” She poured more coffee for the two of them. “What happens when we’re older and the chemistry disappears? I’m afraid you’ll get antsy, grow tired of me, and take off.” “You said once that you wouldn’t leave your man. I’m the same way, Paula. Cindy left me, not the other way ‘round.” “I know. But things change. You need to do the experiment.” She stood and came around the table, which he’d repaired the best he could, and wrapped her arms around him. “Don’t worry. I’ll go with you.” “Where?” “Back to the future.” “I’m not Michael J. Fox. I don’t know how to get back.” “I don’t know who this Mr. Fox is, but you should at least try. Just reverse the process.” “I tried that. It doesn’t work.”

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“Maybe you need me to be there?” He hesitated. Could it be? Caution is in order. “Are you looking forward to being in the future? It might not happen.” “I’m happy with my lot here. You’ve made me happy. But I want you to be happy too.” “I’m ambivalent. I was in a bad place coming back from Iraq like I did and losing my wife.” “I know. You have nightmares. It must have been terrible. But, don’t you see, we may both belong in the future.” “Or, we may both belong in the past.” “That’s why we’ll try the experiment.”

They went the long way around and came up on the other side of the covered bridge. “Well, Frau Einstein, let the experiment begin.” They leaned together and kissed. Then he shifted into first and the car crawled towards the bridge. He controlled the speed to mimic the pace he remembered from his first pass across. “Are we in 2008?” she asked on the other side. He looked in the glove compartment. No Glock. He stopped, got out, and checked the paint job and door handles. They were not restored to their old 2008 condition. “Hard to tell for sure, but I don’t think so.” He slipped in behind the wheel again. “Let’s

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go to the general store. They sell newspapers.” “None left this time of day. Try the diner.” There were papers in the stands outside the diner. They all had the same date, five days before Thanksgiving, 1967. “You’re stuck,” Paula whispered. “You OK with that?” “As long as I’m with you, I don’t care,” he whispered back. “I just wish I could remember future data for horse races or the stock market. I don’t even remember when the dot-com bust began.” “What’s that?” she asked. “It doesn’t matter. Maybe in this version of the world, none of that will happen.” “You think we’re off into another reality and that’s why you can’t get back? I like that theory, Herr Einstein.” “Why?” “It means I’ll have you for a very long time.”

Years later, Bobby was watching his favorite Sunday talk show, a reward for doing the morning chores and taking Paula to church. He spun the usual dogma a little differently, reasoning that if the Lord rested the whole day on Sunday, he could relax at least the rest of the day. Most chores could wait until Monday anyway. He divided his time equally between Fox News, MSNBC and a few other news shows. He figured by watching them all he could

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find the truth amidst all their political rants. Perception and reality often seemed confused. He now wore glasses. Even with new ones, he could barely make out the names scrolling down the screen. Every Sunday he paid particular attention to This Week’s “In Memoriam.” He swallowed air this time when he saw one particular name: Captain Robert Branson, Chicago, Illinois, 27. He glanced at Paula in the kitchen. She was loading the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher. The kids would be coming over for Sunday dinner. Sometimes life gives us a second chance. We’ve each had ours.’

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Contributors Marcin Wrona is a Polish-born Canadian author, a multiple immigrant, a mustachio-twirling financier, and many other things besides. He lives and works in Toronto.To learn more or to interact with him through the Twitters and facebooks of the world, please visit www.marcinwrona.ca. P.J. Kaiser stays at home in Hoboken, New Jersey with her two young children and finds time to write – generally in thirty-second increments. She writes mostly flash fiction and serial stories in a variety of genres. P.J.’s stories have been published at Escape Into Life, Flashes in the Dark, Best of Friday Flash, Volume 1, 12 Days 2009, 12 Days 2010, Dog Days of Summer 2010, and Nothing but Flowers: Tales of Post-Apocalyptic Love. She can be found hanging around at her blog “Inspired by Real Life.” Randy Attwood grew up on the grounds of Larned State Hospital where is father worked as the dentist for that mental hospital. He attended the University of Kansas during the tumultuous 1960s. The first half of his adult career was in newspaper journalism where he won numerous writing awards and was twice honored with the investigative reporting award by the KU’s William Allen White School of Journalism. The second half of his career was as Director of University Relations for The University of Kansas

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Medical Center before he transitioned to retirement as the media relations officer for The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art in Kansas City. He lives in Kansas City where he is busy promoting his fiction and creating new works. DL Marriott is a married mother of three. One day she hopes to be able to quit her job and write full-time. She writes short stories, personal essays, poems and fiction novels. She published her first short story Borrowing in the February issue of The Sun Magazine. She also co-authored Where Do I Begin - One Woman’s Story, a joint project by 32 authors to provide books for underprivileged children. This year she released a novelette Finding Hope as an e-book on Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble.com. Her first full length novel ‘Souljourner’ is due out later this year. Jody Williams lives in New Mexico with his beautiful wife. He is an Air Force veteran and served during Desert Storm/Shield. After leaving the military he has worked in pest control, as a Teaching Technician, and currently as a Radiation Technician. He reads all genres and writes for enjoyment. The inspiration for “Voices” came about while completing an extermination job underneath an old house with hundreds of cockroaches clamoring for the only exit that Jody was blocking while lying on his stomach.

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The Dead Beat

Erica Linquist & Aron Christensen Episode 2—Death Do Us Part

Sam Trent chomped away on an unlit cigarette as he paged through reports. He pulled out a lighter and thumbed the wheel. Arphallo Sirus looked at his partner over the top of his computer. “Nobody smokes anymore, Sam. I know you’ve been dead a while, but you know that stuff is bad for you, right?” “Puppets don’t age. They don’t get sick,” Sam said. He twirled the lighter between long, pale fingers. “And they don’t get lung cancer.” “Well, I’m still alive and I do. Don’t even think about lighting up.” Sam held up his hands in defeat and slipped the lighter back into his pocket. “You know, back when I was alive, the hippies always used to say that you needed to be pure in body and soul to be a host.” “Things change,” Arphallo said. “Now we know that it doesn’t really matter what’s wrong with the host. Hosting freezes even terminal cancer.” “Don’t get me wrong, Arph. That purity stuff was bullshit even—”

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Sam was cut short by the sudden and noisy arrival of another cop, a woman with short black hair and wild, bloodshot hazel eyes. Arphallo had seen her around the precinct a few times, but could not remember her name. Something with a Y? “Trent, you need to help us,” she announced loudly, slapping a red folder down on Sam’s desk. She scowled at him as though somehow insulted. “God, that’s a weird face on you.” Sam flicked the cigarette away. “Thanks, Sam. You’ve put on weight.” Arphallo was confused. “Sam? What’s this?” “Arph, this is Detective Samantha Lefevre,” Sam told him. “She’s from homicide.” No Y. A hot blush prickled Arphallo’s cheeks. “Sam and Sam? That’s confusing.” Sam smiled at Samantha. “Only slightly. She was named after me. Weren’t you, little Sam?” Detective Lefevre was not amused. Neither was the taller, slightly overweight man who came jogging and panting up behind her. His shirt was rumpled under a hideous red-and-green checkered tie. Arphallo recognized him and stood. “Detective Hastings,” he greeted the newcomer. “What brings you down here?” “Has Sammy filled you in?” Hastings asked. “No,” Samantha said acidly. “Trent’s been wasting my time.”

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Hastings just nodded, unruffled by her temper. He flipped open the red folder on Sam’s desk. Paperclipped to the left side was a photograph of a muscular man slumped over a couch covered in blood and printed daffodils. “We’ve got a murder-kidnapping. Happened early this morning,” Hastings said. “The dead man is Max Easter, age forty-six, killed by blunt-force trauma to the face and chest. We’re still not sure how, but we’re pretty sure who did it. Easter lived with his girlfriend, Thetis Sanders. She didn’t show up for work that morning and we’ve been unable to contact her. Neighbors reported a man who made repeated visits to the house and argued with both Easter and Sanders.” “Sounds like a good start, Hastings,” Sam said. “Do you have a sketch?” “More than a sketch. We’ve got a positive ID. The guy’s name is Dexter West,” said Samantha. She rocked up on the balls of her feet and leaned over Sam’s desk. Arphallo wondered if she was going to fall. “But here’s the problem: West is just a host. He’s contracted his skin out to a ghost, a Mister Anuban Sanders.” “Sanders?” Arphallo asked. “Any relation to Thetis Sanders?” “Her husband. Anuban died three years ago in a car wreck.” Sam flipped through the folder on his desk. “We’ll need to talk to the lawyer who drew up the contract.” Detective Hastings nodded, tugging at his ugly tie. “He’s in

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the next room right now. We need your help with the ghost, Trent. The wife has been missing for almost twelve hours. Every minute reduces the chances that we’ll find her alive.” Sam and Arphallo followed the homicide detectives down a short hallway at a brisk trot. The walls of the next room were plastered with overflowing bulletin boards, full of missing person notices, seasonal advice and precinct reminders. A man waited for them on a worn leather couch, holding a cup of coffee. When the police entered, he stood and offered a firm handshake. “Julian Carver,” the man introduced himself. “Miss Lefevre asked me to bring in Dexter West’s contract.” “Yeah, after I had to call the judge and get a warrant,” Samantha snapped. “Easy, Sammy,” said Detective Hastings. “He’s just doing his job, just like us. He can’t go around giving out that kind of information.” “Just so,” said the lawyer. Carver picked up a pristine white folder from a nearby coffee table and held it out to the gathered cops. Arphallo took it and began leafing through the content. It was a pretty standard contract, each clause stamped and sealed in black wax. Dexter West’s signature was on the last page, written carefully in dark, rust-colored blood.

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“What can you tell us about the contract?” Sam asked Carver. “Anything strange about it? Odd terms or payments?” “Yes, in fact,” the lawyer said with a bobbing nod. His hair was slick and very shiny. “Dexter West is pretty much your standard career puppet. But the ghost, Anuban Sanders, was a problem customer from day one.” “How so?” “Sanders had pretty steep demands. Full-time possession, including resuming his job and a physical relationship with his wife, Thetis,” Carver said. “He wanted everything back that he had in life. As you can imagine, that kind of hosting is expensive.” “But not impossible, even with limited resources,” Arphallo said. “Is this all legit?” “Sealed at midnight over Sanders’ grave.” Carver nodded. “It took a lot of time to find West and negotiate a price, but Sanders finally got what he wanted.” Sam paced across the threadbare rug. “So Sanders comes back and wants his life back. Wants his wife back.” “But it’s been three years,” said Samantha. She raked her fingers through her short black hair and then pulled a notebook from the back pocket of her jeans. “I’ve got the neighbor’s statement here. She said she heard Sanders shouting at his wife for betraying his memory. How could you forget me? I never forgot you.” “That’s a direct quote. So Sanders comes back after three years

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and fights through the black tape to get himself body, but his wife’s moved on. She’s with another man,” Hastings said. He whistled. “Tough break for any man, living or dead.” “So he goes apeshit on the new guy, kills him and takes off with the wife,” Samantha said. She huffed in frustration. “Fine, great! But now what? Sirus, you got anything useful for us from the contract?” Arphallo blinked, a little startled that she was suddenly talking to him. He thought for a moment. “Not from the terms of the contract, no. Like Carver said, it’s all pretty routine.” Arphallo sat down next to the lawyer and opened the folder again. “But I can find Dexter West, his body and the ghost that inhabits it.” He opened his black jacket, pulled a folded case of leather and unzipped it. It was full of tiny, delicate implements, each snuggly secure in a loop of elastic. Arphallo chose a long, thin glass needle and flipped to the final page of the contract. He scratched Dexter West’s bloody signature and held the needle up to the light. Tiny paper fibers glowed on the glass, backlit by the fluorescents, but there they were: flakes of West’s blood. There wasn’t even a drop of blood on the needle, but it would be enough, just barely. “I need a map of the city,” Arphallo said. Detective Hastings nodded and hurried from the room. He returned a moment later with a laminated map, the sort that was on the wall of every office on every story of the precinct building.

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Arphallo laid it across the table. He took a polished dish, no larger than the palm of a child’s hand, from his little leather case. Carefully, Arphallo set a cone of incense on it and set it smoking with a yellow plastic lighter. Murky blue smoke curled into the air. Samantha waved a hand in front of her face. “What the fuck is that stuff?” she asked. “Ram’s blood and cobalt,” Sam told her. “Now shush.” Samantha stuck out her tongue at her namesake, but said nothing else. Arphallo held the glass needle over the incense, close enough to bathe the blood in smoke but not so close as to set the delicate fibers of paper aflame. After a moment, Arphallo blew out the incense and removed it from the dish. Next, he chose a glass vial of water and worked the stopper free. “Sam?” he asked. His partner nodded and took the water. With a conscious effort, Sam took a deep breath and then exhaled into the vial. The water inside turned black as ink. Sam handed it back to Arphallo, who emptied the water into the polished dish. “Okay, here we go,” Arphallo said. He dropped the needle into the black water. It bobbed for a moment, spun in a few wobbly circles and then righted itself, pointing up to Arphallo’s left. “What the fuck is that?” Samantha asked again.

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“It’s a sort of compass,” said Arphallo. “It will point to West’s – to Sanders’ – location on the map.” He slid the dish to his left, watching the needle as it swiveled flat and then flipped to the right. A little further and up just a bit… The needle spun once more and then sank, vanishing into black water. Sam looked over Arphallo’s shoulder. “That’s down by the river. Shoreline Road, somewhere in the 1600 block,” Sam said. “Anuban used to work out there, before he died,” Carver supplied. “I’ve got the address and I’m sure he would be familiar with it.” “That was all drainage before I died. What’s there now?” Sam asked. “Storage and hauling, mostly. Rental and storage space for stuff coming up the river,” answered Detective Hastings. “Lots of dark, empty buildings and not a lot of people.” “We can give him the fucking tour when we get there.” Samantha scrawled the address in her notebook. “Trent, Sirus, you come along to handle the ghost. Any arguments? I didn’t think so. Let’s get our asses in gear.” Arphallo pocketed his instruments and followed the twitchy homicide detective out into the hall, toward the elevator. Sam and Hastings hurried after their younger partners.

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*** They turned off the sirens and lights a few blocks away. Sam drove while Arphallo unrolled a thick envelope of white velvet across his lap. Sam glanced over. Nestled in the velvet were five stakes of polished white oak, each with a single knobby finger bone bound to the wood with neatly coiled copper wire. “Those aren’t going to do us much good,” Sam said. “They’re not going to kick Sanders out of his body.” “I know.” Arphallo shrugged. He was a little insulted that his partner didn’t know him better than that. “But I’ve got an idea. Maybe we won’t need it, but…” Sam whistled at him and Arphallo looked up. The wide road was lined with trucks, picking up boxes and tarped-over crates. A hastily parked station wagon sat at the bottom of an empty loading ramp. The doors hung open, but the overhead light was dark, having long since drained the battery. Just ahead, they pulled the black police van up to a quiet stop and slid the doors open. Hastings and Samantha jumped out, already girded in emblazoned flak jackets and carrying guns and flashlights in hand. Four similarly outfitted men poured out of the van behind them. Arphallo pulled the stakes from their white velvet and quietly followed Sam over to the other detectives. “Okay, spread out and cover the exits,” Hastings ordered.

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“Sammy and I will go in the front. Trent and Sirus, you’re with us.” “Wait,” Arphallo said. “There’s no time,” Samantha hissed. “We’ve got to get in there!” “I know. Please, just a few seconds.” Arphallo found a crack in the sidewalk, green with invading grass and moss. With an effort, he drove one of the wooden stakes deep into the small crevice, and then held out stakes to the other four cops, the ones Hastings had told to go cover the exits. “Each of you take one of these,” he said. “Drive it into the ground before you go inside.” One of them took a stake, eyebrows raised at the bone lashed to the wood. “What if there’s no ground – no dirt, I mean – to put it in?” “It has to be in earth,” Arphallo told him simply. He distributed the remaining stakes and nodded to Samantha. She shook her head. “What the fuck was that?” “You ask that a lot,” Sam answered her. “Later, Sammy. As you said, we’re running low on time.” “Fine.” Samantha gestured and the other cops fanned out to surround the building. Sam, Hastings and Arphallo followed her up the ramp. The rolling cargo door stood closed, but the personnel door was unlocked. Hastings turned the handle slowly and shouldered the door open.

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It was dim inside. The only light came from a handful of buzzing gray-green fluorescent tubes in the high ceiling. The warehouse was a maze of stacked boxes, clipboards hanging from the corner of each pallet with a list of contents and inspector signatures. But it was – Arphallo had to think a moment – Sunday. There was no one in sight. Hastings held a finger to his lips. Arphallo cocked his head, listening. A small, high-pitched sound echoed through the warehouse. He struggled to make it out. Sam pointed down to the left. He led them through the maze of pallets, towards the sound. Arphallo could hear it better now. A voice… No, two voices: a woman crying and a man pleading. “Baby, don’t do this,” said the male voice. “I love you, Thetis. I came back from the Dark for you. But it’s okay. It’s all going to be okay. We’ll be together. You’ll see.” It had the raw, mechanical sound of something said so many times that it was becoming nonsense; gibberish syllables that held no all comfort. The woman just sobbed. Samantha Lefevre sprinted around the last tower of boxes, gun gripped in both hands. “Anuban Sanders, you’re under arrest!” she announced loudly. “What the fuck is this?” Sanders shouted. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Max Easter and the kidnapping of Thetis Sanders!”

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Hastings leapt out behind his partner. Arphallo took a step to follow Hastings, but Sam grabbed his elbow and pointed to the other direction. They dashed together around the other side of the crate towers and came up behind Sanders. His puppet body was tall and thin, with a hawkish nose and sharp jaw. Sanders towered over a middle-aged woman in a sweatstained nightgown. She lay with her face pressed into the gray concrete floor, whimpering and weeping. A pair of fuzzy blue handcuffs bound Thetis Sanders’ hands behind her. Sanders grabbed his wife by the throat and hauled her up to her feet. The host’s long fingers almost encircled her thin throat. “Go away!” Sanders shouted at Detective Lefevre. “I just want to be with my wife!” “You died,” Sam said. “She moved on.” Sanders whirled to stare at Sam, dragging Thetis with him. Behind Sanders, Hastings and Samantha were closing in, slowly and silently. Sanders tightened his fingers around his wife’s throat. “Do you know how much it hurts?” he asked, voice strained with rage and pain. “I loved her and she… she just forgot me!” “She didn’t forget you, Anuban,” said Sam. “She mourned. But life goes on.” Anuban’s hands shook with fury, but his wide eyes filled with black tears that streaked his cheeks like spilled ink. Samantha was close now, almost close enough to grab Sanders. “I came back. I came back for you, my love,” he said. He kissed

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Thetis’s lips. They were turning a terrible purple color. “And now you won’t move on. We’re going back into the Dark, together…” Sanders clenched and Thetis choked. She jerked in his grip, trying to shove her husband away. The fuzzy handcuffs rattled around her wrists. Samantha lunged at Sanders. He whirled and lashed out with his free hand. The back-handed blow cracked loudly across Samantha’s jaw. She staggered back. Hastings shouted in alarm and leveled his gun at Sanders. Lives were at stake. He could shoot the host, killing Dexter West for the crimes of the ghost in his skin. Sanders wrapped his other hand around Thetis’ throat. Her struggles grew weaker. “This isn’t my body,” Sanders told Hastings. “Unless you’ve got silver in those bullets, I won’t even feel if you shoot me, not if I don’t want to. Even if you do, she’ll be gone, and so will I. It will be done before you can stop me. I’ll find her in the Darkness. We’ll be together forever…” “Wait!” Arphallo shouted. He raised his open hands. “You won’t find her.” Sanders seemed to see the exorcist for the first time. “What?” “You can’t kill her. If you do, you’ll never see her again. There’s a soul trap around this building. If you kill Thetis now, you’ll never find her. She’ll be stuck.” “You’re lying. You can’t do that!” “I can. You can feel it, can’t you? It’s cold, Anuban, like ice all

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around you. Like you’re stuck in the ice,” Arphallo said. He lowered his hands and held them out to Sanders. “Do this now and Thetis will be gone. But you don’t want that, do you? You came back out of the Dark because you love her. You would do anything for her. So let her go.” Sanders faltered. His grip on Thetis loosened, but he did not release her. The woman’s eyes had fallen shut and her face was a frozen-looking pale blue. Her legs crumpled under her, pulling Sanders off balance. Hastings jumped at Sanders. This time, he didn’t react fast enough. Or maybe he just didn’t want to fight. Samantha was on her feet again. Hastings wrestled Sanders to the ground as she grabbed a pair of handcuffs from her belt. Sam rushed to Thetis’s side and pressed two fingers under her jaw, then leaned close to listen to her breath. Arphallo turned on his heels and sprinted for the door. He had to break the circle. If she died now, she truly would be trapped. *** The other cops met Arphallo outside a few minutes later, just as the ambulance pulled up to the curb. Paramedics jumped out the back, carrying a stretcher between them, and rushed up the ramp towards the warehouse. Samantha stood to one side until

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they passed, then shoved Sanders into the back of the van. Arphallo stopped Detective Hastings on the way out. “Where is he going now?” Arphallo asked, pointing to Sanders. “He’ll stay with us. We’ll hold him in one of the station’s silver cells until his court date. Sanders broke living laws, not dead ones. Thanks for your help with this one, Exorcist Sirus.” Hastings looked at Arphallo for a long moment, fiddling with his bright tie. “Would it really have worked? The wood and the bones and all of that? Would you have stopped Thetis from passing into the Darkness?” “Yes,” Arphallo said. Hastings looked like he wanted to ask another question, but Sam came down the ramp and clapped a hand on Arphallo’s shoulder. “Come on, Arph,” he said. “Let’s get back to the office. My shift is just about up and it’s time to give this body back.” Arphallo nodded. Together, they went back to the car.

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The Bike Mechanic Aaron M. Wilson Part Two

Seward didn’t say anything for a few minutes. Instead, he felt the

need to bang on something. He walked around the counter to his workstation and picked up a bent wheel rim and a truing mallet. Seward took a couple of swings at the rim; thwacks and twangs rang though the otherwise silent shop. In between his hammer swings, he could hear Inez trying to tell him something, but the ringing in his ears blocked everything out. Until he thought he had heard her say something about Al and a railroad. He let his shoulders sag, and he put the mallet away. “Come again?” Seward turned around. “What was that about Al?” “He told me that you were part of a railroad.” Seward snorted. “Can you…I don’t know.” If she had been blond, she would have flipped her hair off her shoulder and pouted. She wasn’t. So she demanded, “Make me disappear?” “Disappear? Disappear. Did you even bother to read my activism manifesto?” Seward raised his hand. “Don’t. I know you didn’t. Abby’s characters might have cut and run, but I sided with Henry David Thoreau. Civil disobedience without a face is nothing more

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than a pointless criminal act.” “Thoreau never said that.” “You’re right. He didn’t, but I did.” Seward pulled a small leather box out from under the register. He opened it and paused. “If no one takes credit for an act of extreme activism, it becomes a random act of violence.” Inez shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Is that why you stuck around and got arrested? I just thought you were sloppy.” “Sloppy?” Inez took a couple of aggressive steps forward. “Yeah, sloppy.” “I took responsibility. Taking responsibility is not sloppy.” Seward didn’t back down. Instead, he let Inez invade his personal space. She was close enough that he could feel the heat from her body. “Thoreau spent time in jail for tax evasion. He stood up for what he believed in. He followed through.” “The laws are different now. The acts are different.” “I disagree.” “You can disagree all you want, but I’m not going to jail.” Inez stepped back. She turned her back to Seward. “Al told me that you might not want to help me, so he gave me a few other names, but he said to try you first.” Inez pulled out a wad of bills. “If you need money…” “Put your money away.” “So you’ll help?”

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“Yeah, I’ll help.” Seward stared to line up index cards on the display case. “But not until you tell me more about Al.” Inez picked up one of the cards. “What are these?” “The railroad.” “What do you want to know about Al?” “How is he?” “Not good. I had to get special permission to visit him in the hospital.” “Let me guess…” “He has lung cancer, but he couldn’t stop talking about the good old days.” “Well, they weren’t so good.” “You should go see him. I could tell you where he’s staying. I know that’s not how it works, but you should go see him. He seemed lonely.” “We’re all lonely, and you’re right, it’s not how it works.” Seward took the card back and placed it on the counter. “Are you ready?” “Yes.” “You’re sure.” Seward looked into her eyes and saw a fierce quality that he could admire. “You only get one chance at this. If you answer any of the questions incorrectly, or I feel that you’d put the railroad at risk, I’ll stop immediately. You’ll be on your own.” “I’m ready.”

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Seward flipped over the first card. *** It had been a long time since Seward had used the railroad

cards. He read the question on the card to himself a couple of times. He felt the answers flood back. It had been a simpler time when he’d written a plan for smuggling eco-fugitives, but most of the rules still applied. He wondered if the next station was even intact. Susan could have moved. She might be more out of practice than he was, and she might turn Inez down. Any number of things could go wrong. However, Seward had built a fragile system for a reason. He didn’t want anyone to get hurt. Seward had only built the railroad at Helen’s request. Seward had loved her, and she had gone along with his crazy stunts because she’d loved him. They’d planed a life together, but he’d needed to prove his values to a bunch of freshmen. He had let himself be arrested, and well, that was that. He put the card down. “Fuck the test. Just talk to me.” He brushed the cards into a pile, straightened them by tapping them on the counter, and sealed them back in the leather box. The test seemed distant and unreal, a hippie’s dream. He liked to think of himself as a businessman now, someone who thought through things with reason and logic and didn’t act on his passions. “Why did you run?” Inez looked around. “Can we sit?”

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“Sure.” Seward motioned for her to come around the counter. He had three barstools behind the counter. He got up on one. “I’m just so used to standing all day that I forget that I have these.” “I…” Inez paused while she moved a seat closer. “I…the bomb that I used should have only taken out the plant’s pumps. No big deal right. But something happened, and it razed the building.” “Shit.” “I’ll be charged and tried as a domestic terrorist, a.k.a, Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols. You know the Oklahoma City bombers who took out the Federal building.” “Sure, I could see the charges being steep, but you didn’t kill anyone, did you?” Inez sucked on her lower lip. “Did you?” “The bomb killed five people.” Seward’s mouth hung open. He knew that sometimes people got hurt when activists went too far. He’d known the risks. It was why he’d always hit small operations at night because he’d known they wouldn’t have a third shift. Inez began to sob. Her body shook. Hugging herself tightly, rivers of dark mascara ran down the sides of her nose. She started to gasp as if hyperventilating. Seward asked himself why evolution had hardwired him with a sympathy gene for desperate women that triggered an irrational

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savior complex. He counted all of the destruction he’d caused over the years, and somehow he’d managed to only ever cripple machines. Even though he was thinking that he should call the cops and turn her in – perhaps they’d finally stop watching him – his body was up and moving. He found himself hugging her tightly to him. “Don’t worry.” Seward murmured. “We’ll get you safely away.” *** Seward held Inez until she had calmed down. When he finally

let go, he told her that she needed to get some rest, and that there was a cot in the back room. And like anyone else trying to recover from shock, he found comfort in routine. He had opened the shop just in time for the morning meeting of The Greenway Coalition, a group of concerned bike enthusiasts that helped keep the city’s longest stretch of bike path clean and safe. They also petitioned the city council on a regular basis and were responsible for the construction of a hundred new miles of converted railway and side-of-street bike paths. The Greenway Coalition had made Seward’s Custom Cycle Repair & Junk Yard one of their home bases. Seward was a member. The shop was only a block away from one of The Greenway’s on-off ramps in the Uptown area. It was also located across the street from a couple of coffee joints and a hipster bowling ally and

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restaurant that was popular with the single-speed and fixed-gear crowds. The synergy of the neighborhood worked. Seward noted that their ride was going to be light today. There were only three cyclists sifting through parts. When the ride was this light, he’d typically close the shop and join in. He had Inez to worry about, but he needed to clear his head, and he felt like a ride. He wrote a quick note for Inez and taped it where she would find it, on the handlebars of her Big Dummy. “I’ll ride along today.” Jason, a single-speed fanatic that rode a self-constructed grasshopper green road bike with white tires and handle grips said, “Great, we’re really short today.” He looked around the shop. “What are you going to take out?” “My chopper.” Seward pointed to a tomato red cruiser with tires that were big enough to support a small motorcycle. The frame was elongated and based on Kustom Kruisers’ Sick Daddy, but with the modifications that Seward had added, it looked more like Tetsuo’s low-rider motorcycle from the animated film Akira. “Cool.” Jason asked, “Do you think that you’ll be able to keep up on that monster?” “I just added new cruiser hubs that store some energy though friction, and then they release it when I stop pedaling. They’ll keep me going about twenty miles an hour, so the question is, can you keep up?”

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“You’re cheating. Where’s the fun it that?” “Hey, these babies will have more average people commuting to work on bikes this year and next. They’re worth it.” Seward pushed his bike to the door. “Besides not everyone can be as cool and hip as you.” “What do you mean by that?” Then, the rider of an elite road bike, dressed in all the proper clothes piped in and said, “Jason, you’re kind of an ass.” *** Seward fell in behind the others after they hit the Greenway.

He might have talked up his riding skills, but he knew that he was a slower rider. They were going to average twelve to eighteen miles-per-hour, while he hung back between seven and ten. When he saw Jason look over his shoulder, Seward waved him on. He hadn’t joined them on the ride to keep up; he had wanted some time away from Inez and the shop to think. Something about Inez didn’t seem right and he couldn’t put his finger on it yet. For a few minutes, Seward just enjoyed the ride. The Greenway was busy this morning. There were families, in-line skaters, commuters, joggers, and walkers; name a mode of fossil-fuel-free transportation, and it could be found on the Greenway. Seeing all those people using human power to move around gave Seward hope.

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There was one couple on a tandem bike having difficulty deciding who was in charge. If they were smart about it, they would quickly determine that the person in front should make decisions about turning and speed. The trick to a two-person ride was communication. If they were going to turn, the lead position should find a way to signal the person in the back or they could topple. The same thing went for stopping and starting; it took coordination and practice, which this couple obviously didn’t posses. After Seward passed the couple on the tandem bike, he relaxed a little more and turned his thoughts to Inez. Damn women, he thought. If a guy would have walked in and asked for the same kind of help, I would have told him to fuck off; but a dark haired woman is another story. Before he knew it, Seward was pulling to a stop at the Hiawatha Bike Trail Overpass, next to Jason and the others. “Seward,” Jason said, “We’re going on to Minnehaha Falls before we turn around.” “Sure. I have to re-open the shop, so I’ll catch up with you guys tomorrow morning.” “I knew you’d cut it short.” “I have a business to run.” “Sure. Excuses.” “Jason, you’re an ass.” Seward shifted his weight and started to back up.

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“Whatever.” “Bye,” Seward waved, and he sat on his chopper watching the others ride off for a few minutes before turning around to ride back to the shop. The sun was still low in the sky, so as Seward rode west he decided to lose the sunglasses. As he approached the Bryant Ave exit ramp near his shop, his shoulders tightened up. Inez. On the ride back, he had committed to helping her, and when he was done, he had decided to go see Al in the hospital – rules or no rules. Still, he had a bad feeling that helping Inez was taking him down a path that he did want to go down, a path that he had thought he’d gotten off of years ago. As he pulled out the keys to unlock the door to his shop, he noticed a white van parked on the eastbound side of West Lake Street. The logo on the side indicated a plumbing service that he’d never seen before today. However, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked for a plumber. Had this business with Inez made him jumpy, or was his paranoia of covert government operatives shifting in to a higher gear? Cautiously, Seward flipped the shop sign to OPEN and parked his chopper. Then, he Googled “Jed’s Emergency Plumbing.”

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Book Reviews Any Tomorrow: The Calling by Kevin Fraleigh Reviewed by Phyllis Anne Duncan An ancient goddess lost in limbo and her human, immortal lover will move heaven and literally earth to reunite. A young German, Jewish physics student who has visions discovers portals open between an infinite number of universes and becomes the foil for the reunion of said goddess and lover, which will cause the inevitable destruction of the universe. Whew. Any Tomorrow: The Calling is a complex and convoluted first book in a trilogy that marries ancient mythology and modern, theoretical astrophysics. And it’s a good balance of both. Author Kevin Fraleigh, a retired USAF imagery intelligence analyst, has a knack for explaining the physics so you have no trouble understanding. He has a sense and mastery of history also, which is aptly demonstrated in part one. The book opens with young Gustav Linder, a university student who is Jewish in Germany at a time where that’s a death sentence. On a holiday trip with another Jewish student, Linder goes to a dig site in what is now Iraq. There, Linder “sees” what occurred on the site in the ancient past. A powerful, sadistic goddess, Ereshkigal,

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“…evil incarnate,” ruled the land. She wants to tear down the barrier between heaven and earth, where the sacrifice of all living beings is a present to her master. Then, she meets a giant of a human soldier, Akminbarhotep, with whom she falls in some sort of perverse love. Her priesthood, however, have seen a prophecy, and they can no longer support her plans. They remove the source of her power, an ark-like object called the usumgal. Without her power-source, she is doomed to linger between worlds, unable to come to earth or return to the underworld. Akminbarhotep, the priesthood know, will hunt them down to find the usumgal and return his lover to the earth she wants to destroy, so they curse him with immortality and bury him alive. He stays buried almost 3,000 years until two hapless deserters from Napoleon’s army open his tomb. This extreme vision overcomes Linder, and he faints. He is roused by a Sturmbannfuhrer, an SS man, whom he recognizes as Ereshkigal’s lover from his vision. We then learn that the soldier Akminbarhotep has served in many armies since he was freed from his tomb. Now Sturmbannfuhrer Guderien, he has followed Linder’s theories and believes he is the person who can restore Ereshkigal. He offers Linder a tempting future—become one of Guderien’s men, receive the full protection of the SS, even though he is Jewish, and

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continue his research. Linder knows what his fate will be if he doesn’t accept, so he does. He returns to his studies and is on the verge of completing his dissertation—which will set the world of 1930’s physics on its head. Not only are there other universes like ours, but you can pass between them, if you know what to look for—a shimmer in the corner of your eye. Despite the fact Linder is protected by Guderien, Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler notices his work and wants him for his multiethnic think-tank of intellectuals. From his loft apartment, Linder sees the SS men arriving, but he also sees a shimmer nearby. When the SS men arrive, they find the apartment empty. Linder decides he will only be safe in America, like Dr. Einstein, and once he arrives there he goes directly to Einstein, who reads his dissertation and understands the implications. Through Einstein, Linder is recruited by a secret Army division for a “Manhattan Project” for travel between universes. The years pass, and the project makes slow progress in developing a portal. Eventually, in the 1990’s when Linder is eighty years old, the government project becomes privatized. Linder and his associates become employees of WarKaTech. They come to Vienna , Virginia to meet CEO Robert Bernardo and receive accolades for their years of hard work. To Linder’s shock, Bernardo is none other than Sturmbannfuhrer Guderien, who is none other than Akminbarhotep. (And, yes, there

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is a moment of confusion about which universe this takes place in. This is a book where you’ll back-track constantly to keep everything straight.) Bernardo holds no ill-will toward Linder and again wants him to be part of what Linder knows will bring Ereshkigal back to reality. Linder finds another shimmer and steps into yet another universe. And that’s just part one. Although Ereshkigal is between worlds, she can communicate with people, and so calls a legion of followers who will find the usumgal. In part two we see a graphic example of what Ereshkigal can do to people. She speaks to a teen, Henry Turner, and her words turn him into her hunter, her seed-bearer. Henry becomes a stonecold killer at the age of fourteen, when, at Ereshkigal’s command, he pushes his nanny from a moving car. Parts one and three (where Ereshkigal actually succeeds in destroying an earth in one universe) of this book are tightly written and engrossing. Part two is too long and too violent, even for my tastes, and I’m rarely disturbed. Henry’s orgy of incest and murder and rape, often occurring simultaneously, to accomplish his mission of seeding Ereshkigal’s return is overdone and gratuitous. Henry’s psychosis and purpose are quite clear at the beginning of part two. The rest is just gross-out. Fraleigh also has a tendency to introduce characters with elab-

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orate descriptions, so much so you’re certain they’re characters essential to the story. Then, they’re killed or die just pages later. That’s a little frustrating as a reader—you get to a know characters, empathize with them, then they’re gone, and you’re not really sure why they were there in the first place. Nevertheless, Fraleigh has imaginatively intertwined the myth and the reality, the past and the present. Any Tomorrow: The Calling is a well-wrought book, with that single flaw of over-doing the gratuitous violence. I look forward to the rest of the trilogy.

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Where Should We Put This Body: Last Exit in N.J. by C.E. Grundler Reviewed by J.P. Hansen This book begins with a vivid description of Hazel Moran steering a boat out into the ocean on a grim mission. She, her father, and a close family friend are disposing of a body: what is left of a man Hazel killed while he was attacking her. Grundler gets it all right. Her detailed description of the sea at night adds texture and gravitas to the scene, she reveals the backstory slowly but carefully, slipping in details at the best moments, and Hazelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s character is quickly set. She is tough, self-reliant, good with knives, and good with motors. It turns out that Hazel is in trouble because some people involved in drug running want to locate her cousin and best friend Micah, but Micah is not to be found. It is all quite complicated and neither Hazel, nor we, the readers, know the full scope of the situation until the end. Grundler does this by intertwining two different narratives: the main way involving Hazel and a second one involving Hammon and his sidekick Annabel. Hammon is a physically scarred young man who has had to live through countless surgeries in an attempt to use pins and plates to put him back together after a horrible accident. He only makes matters worse by trying to kill himself

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several times, which affects the workings of his brain. Unlike Hazel’s character, which is developed in a typical linear manner, Hammon’s character is full of secrets, some of which we don’t learn until the end of the book. And when each one is revealed, all the action in the rest of the book, which had seemed clear up to that point, becomes reassessed and seen in a different, convincing light. Hammon’s character is not the only one developed through this sort of reversal. But I don’t want to give too much away by discussing each one. This is an impressive book. Grundler handles plot deftly, develops characters with skill, and possesses a writing style that allows her to give a full texture to the scenes she describes. This is especially true of descriptions of boats and trucks. Hazel is a character more at ease around machines than people, and it comes through in terms of what she focuses on. As far as formatting, spelling, and grammar go, I found no distracting errors. Grundler has another book coming out in this series soon. I will certainly read it.

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Jane Was Here by Sarah Kernochan reviewed by Essie Holton

It seems that every time I read a new book I’m saying, “Wow, this was the best book that I’ve read in a LONG time.” Jane Was Here was no different. I read it just after finishing up with Night Machines by Kia Heavey, and I was a little apprehensive because I didn’t think I’d be able to get into a new book and new characters after getting to know Heavey’s characters so well. (I generally have that problem after reading a really good, well written book.) Jane Was Here did not give me this problem. When I began reading, I didn’t understand the shape the story was taking, and I got a little annoyed. But I soon came to know the characters, even if I felt that, at first, they were thrown at me in quick succession. I had to keep flipping back to remember who some of the characters were. After figuring out which characters were important, I was able to start truly enjoying this book. This book is so well worked together that I can’t say too much about it without giving away some serious plot points. A young woman shows up in a small town with no real memory of it, but she knows that she once lived there. She walks down the street and to a house. Knocking on the door, she tells the man

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Brett renting the house that she lives there. Brett is perplexed, but allows the woman in. Immediately, he is drawn to her, wants to comfort her, wants to protect her. His feelings for this woman are stronger than his feelings for his own son Collin who is with him for the summer. Brett and his son are spending the summer in this small town on a whim. Brett doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know why he picked this town, but he cannot bring himself to leave. Over the course of the summer, he allows his son to spend all of his free time with a girl he met at the motel in town. His intentions were to use the summer to forge a relationship with Collin but falters at every attempt. Jane soon takes over his whole existence. As Jane works to recover her memory, her recent past begins to catch up with her. Her family sends out a private detective to look for her. As she tries to dodge the PI, Jane is forced to tell Brett about her past. ***This next paragraph will be a bit spoiler-ish*** Jane finally confides in Brett that her family had her institutionalized for autism when she was a young child. She claims that she was born knowing that she wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t in the right life and that these were not her parents; so, she did everything in her power to get them to not love her or bond with her. Eventually, she was placed in an institution. As a parent of a child with autism, I was a bit un-pleased with this explanation. Perhaps Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m over reacting, but it seems that autism

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is a trigger word and blanket explanation and excuse. Everyone uses it for everything. Brett’s son, Collin, is also a bit of an odd ball, and I was drawn to thinking that he was meant to also be autistic. I find that autism is over used in all forms of media, and it perpetuates a stereotype that I wish would die. This book was incredibly well written and edited. The one thing that I found that got under my skin, perhaps a bit too much, was a misquoted song. An excerpt from Smashing Pumpkins, “Bullet with Butterfly Wings”, was misquoted. We all know that the song goes, “Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage”. This bothered me so much because I was able to type “despite” into a Google search bar and the rest was auto-completed for me. Easy to check, bothersome to miss. I had a hard time really liking or connecting with the characters in the book because their faults were so prominent. I didn’t dislike them, I cared where the story went, but there wasn’t any one character that I said, “Oh, I want her to be okay” or “I want everything to work out for him”. The characters were what they were and they all deserved whatever it was that was coming to them. Somehow, you knew while you were reading, there was no stopping where this story was going, no matter what choices the characters made. I feel that I’m not doing the characters or story justice because I don’t want to give anything away. Reading the book was like mak-

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ing a mosaic. Each piece was important and without the proper placement, the story just wouldn’t have come out right. The reader is left to discover each piece when the time is right. Sarah Kernochan writes a well woven tale of a woman who cannot explain her past and how her past is shaping the future of a small town. Now that you have read the review, if you want to read the book, you are in luck! eFiction is giving away a signed, hardcover copy of Jane Was Here at the end of the month. If you want to be registered to win, all you have to do is join the new website at http://www.efictionmag.com and post in the “Readers” section. Your post can be about anything eFiction related, or in response to anyone else’s comment. Just try to have fun!

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The Unwilling Bride by Candy-Ann Little reviewed by Essie Holton

Historial fiction...my first thought--ugh. I hate to say that historical fiction isn’t my thing, because I’ve learned a lot about myself and my reading preferences in the recent past. (If you remember, I claimed that fantasy wasn’t my thing, but I’ve found that it can be.) That being said, historical fiction generally isn’t my thing. Getting into this book took quite some time and work. The main character drove me crazy with her over use of the words ‘tis, ‘twas, ‘twill, ‘twould, and the like. I realize that our language has changed over time, but it seemed a bit much when I was reading. The characters also didn’t always use the Old English words. Sometimes, they ‘forgot’ and simply said ‘it is’. Caitlin is a young woman of marrying age. She hasn’t yet found a suitor but quickly finds herself being forced into an arranged marriage with her ‘enemy’, an Englishman. Because of Caitlin’s Irish heritage and birth, and her brother’s death at the hands of the English, Caitlin finds the idea of marrying Dillon Cade most distasteful. Caitlin’s parents remain adamant, and the wedding goes on as planned. Caitlin and Dillon agree to an ‘in name only’ marriage. The agreement occurs only after a botched escape out of a bedroom

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window and weeks of pleading with her parents and Mr. Cade. After the wedding, Caitlin is horrible to Dillon, even after she learns the reason for the rushed, forced marriage. Caitlin’s family is being forced back to Ireland where they are considered traitors. Going back to Ireland isn’t safe for anyone in the family, but Caitlin is the only child her parents can keep safe. Her brother Brogan must go with his parents. Caitlin insists that she would be better off in Ireland with her family, but it is clear from her worry that she knows better than to think that she would be safe had she gone with them. Caitlin changes drastically throughout the book, and it is a welcome transformation. She begins as a snotty, bratty, rich kid who never does anything that she is supposed to. She isn’t a ‘proper’ lady and is always picking fights with Dillon. The changes that are seen in Caitlin happen slowly and sometimes she even shows regression when she is under a great deal of stress, as we all would regress at times. Dillon Cade is a perfect gentleman and seems to be the perfect man, but he has his faults as well. He is just better at keeping these things hidden, something Caitlin learns from. There are a lot of characters introduced throughout this book, but keeping track of who was who and who did what wasn’t too difficult. Aside from the romance (or non-romance as some may see it) the story has political overtones from the days of Thomas

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Jefferson and James Madison. I also thought this would throw me off from enjoying the story line, but honestly, the story was enhanced by seemingly real history (I didn’t look up all of the facts), and the real-life, historical characters. My biggest complaint about this book was (aside from the constant use of ‘tis, ‘twould, ‘twas, and ‘twill) was the mistakes I found littered throughout the book. Not just commas (which drive me crazy) but misspelled words, typos, and missing letters. Commas were, of course, the biggest offender, but missing periods were also on my list. This isn’t atypical for some indie novels (and I’ve seen my share of mistakes in traditionally pubbed books, too) but if you want to sell, sell a lot, and reach a LOT of readers, having your novel professionally proofed is a must. (After writing my review, I was told, by the author, that many of these mistakes had been fixed.) Every time Caitlin hurt Dillon, mouthed off to him, or called him a name, I hurt inside. Dillon married Caitlin to protect her, and he genuinely fell in love with her despite her bad attitude and poor manners. He loved her unconditionally and she threw it back in his face constantly. My heart broke for Dillon and later for Caitlin. I do love a good romance. I’ll admit it. The Unwilling Bride didn’t seem like it was going to deliver, but it did. I felt the jolts of fear, loss, and struggle through my body while reading; I felt the paralyzing hopelessness when things didn’t work out; I felt the

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joy for the characters’ happiness—no matter how temporary—and the pain of their suffering. Another admission, I cried at the end. Not for Caitlin and Dillon but for two minor characters, two very minor characters. Not a bad pick for you romance fans out there. This is a moving story.

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167

October 2011