New Witch Hunt Installment!

There's a new installment of my serial novel, Witch Hunt, up on my main blog!

Check it out here.

-JDT-

Technorati Tags: fiction

Witch Hunt - Ch. 6

The next installment of Witch Hunt is up on my main blog!  Check it out!

-JDT-

Technorati Tags: fiction,writing

Come and Play!

If there are any writers that visit here, I've got a little writer's game going on over at my main blog. Come and join in the fun! You don't have to register to play; just sign in with your email and have at it! All are welcome!

Witch Hunt - Ch. 5

A new chapter in the Witch Hunt saga is available! Go here to read it!

To start at the beginning, go here!

Enjoy!

Inconsiderate Clod

When my mother opened the door, her jaw dropped and her eyes bulged just like she'd been slapped across the face.

There wasn't much to do in the crappy little town where I grew up most of the time.  When we moved out of our established neighborhood into a new development things got even more boring.  There weren't any kids my age around, but my brother Ryan had more luck.  A young couple with a kid just about his age lived on the cross street directly facing our cul-de-sac, and they became buds.  Me, I had to stick with people I knew, or worse still, hang around with the two of them.  Life could be pretty boring.

Since sticking with kids I knew from the old neighborhood wasn't possible very often, I spent more time than I'd liked with Ryan.

My best friend Bill was my salvation from it.  He lived about an hour away, but every summer he came out to visit us.  He'd stay a couple of weeks, and we'd do all sorts of fun things, most of which involved trying to ditch my loud mouth brother and his whiny, pants-pissing friend.  The rest of the time we tried to get spending money for the trek to the little candy store in the older part of town bordering our new subdivision.

Some days, though, there just wasn't anything to do.

Those hot, dusty days we'd spend in our neighborhood were made of bike rides in the blistering desert-like air, finding adventures in ragweed hillsides and romping through the cracked yellow clay exposed by scraping and scaling house lots.  We were kids, and the heat didn't bother us too much.  We had a centrally air conditioned house to retreat to when it was too much.  But that almost never happened.

When the developer laid out the cul-de-sac we lived in, my parents were told the area behind it would be a park.  My dad had big ideas about building a gate leading to that park, so my brother and I could go out there and play.  He thought it'd make their lot more valuable later, since there would never be houses butting up against our yard.

The day they started clearing the yellow seed-topped wild grass and breaking open the ochre clay beneath, he knew he'd been screwed.  The developer wasn't planning on turning that area into anything but another street packed with cookie-cutter tract homes and the single olive sapling dropped square in the middle of the front yards.

Against the side yard of our pie-slice property facing the cross street, a young couple moved in not long after we did.  They were pretty and fit and firm.  He was a tall, bearded guy that always seemed to be working.  I can't remember his name to save my life, but I don't know if I'll ever forget her name: Sue.

She was a vision, all leggy and lean, with perfect curves and sassy brown hair.  She had a smile that made me all awkward and nerdy -- not that I needed any help with that -- and she was nice, to boot.  She'd always say hello to us as we puttered around the neighborhood.  My friend Bill, much more precocious than I, used to say spicy things about her that made me blush and giggle.  He'd say she was "fine", but I guess now that'd be "phine" or something.  He'd make sexual inuendos about her, at the ripe old age of 11 or 12.  I smiled and nodded in agreement even though I had no clue what the hell he was saying half the time.

That particular hot dusty day of yellow dirt and sweat we were in our back yard.  The fences were new enough to still be straight and rigid, but old enough to weather to that dirty brownish-gray.  To ease the cost of the fences, a lot of knotty pressure-treated pine was used, and when the wood dried beneath that solar beating and whipping dry winds blowing in from the delta, it shrank.  Big gaps would open between the fence boards, and knots would drop out leaving perfect peep holes.

Sue and her husband were young, tight-bodied twenty-somethings.  Bill was a precocious boy full of hormones.  I was a sheep following along behind him.  So when he heard her come out of her house and recline in a creaking tattle-tale chaise of vinyl straps and aluminum tubing, his face beamed with a mischievous grin.

"Hey," he said, "let's go see what she's doin'."

I shrugged.  "Probably layin' out.  She does that a lot."

"Layin' out??  She does??  Why didn't you say that before??"

"I guess I didn't think it ..."

"C'mon!"

He was soft-stepping through the dirt, trying to hide the crunching his generic grocery store sneakers made on the cracked clay.  We went past the patch of zucchini, jalapeno peppers and tomatoes my mother insisted on having, and got low and stealthy for the final approach to the fence.

We hunkered down next to him, Ryan being amazingly quiet.  Bill put his eye up to a splintering knothole and squinted through.

"Holy shit, man," he muttered, his face dropping in disbelief.  "Oh my God.  She's out there in a bikini.  Christ, you oughtta see 'er tits!"

Truth was, I had seen them, a couple of times.  At least, as much of them as he was seeing.  I'd seen Sue plenty of times outside in a halter top, or bikini top with cut-offs, puttering in her yard.  I didn't need to look through that knothole to see it again.

But I pushed him aside just the same.

"Lemme see!"

He eased aside to let me look.  I could see some of her, lying in the sun, basted in Coppertone, sunglasses over her eyes.  She looked so serene, so calm.  But I couldn't see much of her prone body, so I quickly lost interest.  But Bill had other ideas.

"Wonder how close I can get to beaning her with this?"

I looked over, suddenly interested.  He was pulling a fist-sized dirt clod up, and hefted it in his hand like a baseball.

I shook my head.  He grinned.  "Don't think I can?"

"No, don't ... she's nice, man.  We have to live here."

He considered.  "Yeah, you're right."  He absently tossed the clod into the air.

Somehow it sailed over the fence.  His eyes bulged in horror as we watched it sail over the tops of the dog-earred boards.

We hunkered down and covered our ears, waiting for the cry of pain.

There was none.

Bill looked at me, and I stared back.  He shrugged, and put his eye to the peephole again.

Sue was sleeping peacefully on her chaise.  The spattered remnant of the projectile was sprayed over the concrete of their patio like spin art.  He looked back at me and shrugged again.

Ryan giggled wildly.  We both looked simultaneously.

Four or five dirt clods, all bigger than the one Bill threw, were arching fast over the fence like a miniature meteor shower.

"NO! ..."  The voice was Bill's blended with mine.

It was too late.

There were the sounds of dirt clods dying in explosions of scattering clay and crumbling earth.  One after the other they crashed.  Bill didn't wait to see what else would happen; he lunged for Ryan.  But the butterball was quick enough and just out of reach, so he scrabbled out of the way.  We couldn't react fast enough to stop another volley from lobbing over the fence.  We tried to shout whispers through gritted teeth at him, but he laughed his hideous, evil cackle and ran toward the house, sending yet another sortie of missiles across.

We bolted then, giving up on trying to stop the idiot maniac.  We dove through the sliding glass door and slammed it shut behind us, hopefully sealing Ryan outside to die in the baking heat.  We stumbled toward our room when my mother's stern shout of "Stop!" froze us.

"What is going on?" she demanded, hands on hips in her "I'm pissed and want answers" stance.  She'd been in the kitchen beside the slider we used for our escape.  It was a miracle she hadn't seen the entire event unfold, but she seemed ignorant enough.

"Nothing ... we're just ... havin' fun," Bill said calmly.  I was always astounded by the ease and smoothness of his parent handling.  His silken tongue always soothed them and left us out of trouble.  Well, usually anyway.

"Well, quit running through the house.  You're tracking dirt!"  My mother wasn't slurring her words yet, so I knew the binge hadn't started.

"Okay, mom, we will," I said, and we walked as fast as we could down that long hallway toward our room.

It was impossibly long that day ... miraculously long.  So long that just as we passed the entry way of chocolate brown ceramic tiles and dark-stained double doors, the doorbell rang.

My mother was still at the end of the hall when it chimed.  Both Bill and I jumped at the sound and froze.  Mom was able to make the trip to answer the door in about six steps, and we didn't have the brains to run out that same slider when she passed us.

So she opened that door, and her face dropped in shock.  Just like she'd been slapped.

Sue was standing at the door.  She held her arms out away from her sides slight, barefoot and bikini-clad.  But there was no joy in seeing her sleek tanned body for us this time.

She was covered in tiny little dirt chunks, shrapnel and remains of the large ones that flew over the fence and erupted all over her patio when they hit.  The dry, crumbling dirt mixed with her suntan oil and became a sludgy goo that ran down her legs, her stomach, her arms ...

... and her face.

She stood there, fingers combing dirt from her hair, pulled up and held in a barrett.  She looked dead in my mother's eye.

"Sue!  Oh my God ..."

"Will you please tell your kids to stop throwing dirt in our yard?  Please?"

Bill and I made a hasty retreat for the bedroom.  We should have gone out that slider in the back of the house, because it wasn't pleasant after my mom closed that door.

-JDT-

Technorati Tags: fiction, kids, life

Wow! A GLOWING Review!

All right, bloglodytes/blogizens/buds and supporters -- I need to share this with you because ... well, because.  Time for me to strut a li'l bit, y'all.  :)

As some of you may know, and all of you will now know, I have a page on an artists community.  The web space is called deviantART, located at, logically enough, http://deviartart.com/.  So, about three years ago (maybe a shade under), I started falling back in love with drawing.  It was a wondrous thing to behold.  I'd set my art aside for decades at a time, and whenever I reconnect with it, it's magical to me.  It's sort of like intimacy with my wife.  Doesn't happen a lot, but when it does ... fireworks, y'know?  (TMI.  Sorry.)

Anyway, all the same pieces of fiction I post here on my blog, I also post there.  (Among other places, like my Wiki spaces, one of which is here.)  And, I actually have a couple of regulars there.  Doesn't sound like a big deal, when over here on WP I've got  Sherri, and Raga, and Bryce, and my beloved one, and a bunch of people (apparently) that are lurkers, reading but not commenting.  And then there's Ian, and UnderCanopy, too.  So I love my readers here, and a tiny smattering of them over there shouldn't matter so much as the close ones I've met here, I guess, but I care.  Mostly because ... well, because I love my readers.  I do.  Anyone that reads my writing has an automatic in-road to my heart, and I'm schmaltzy like that.

Recently, I'd been cruising around on dA, looking at the pages of the folks who've visited my page.  I have a really, really low page count, though, so whenever someone stops by I try to send them a thank you note for stopping by.  The problem with dA is that it's primarily for visual artists: people who can draw, paint, take and/or manipulate photos ... things like that.  So visitors are able to stop by, see some of your gallery and decide whether they want to see more of you.  If they like your stuff a lot, they can "watch" you -- that's the dA equivalent of "friending" someone on MySpace, just so you know.  You'll be notified whenever the artists posts new art, etc.

I was visiting the visitors of my page, and I came across someone who's a writer, and by reading the comments on their work, it led me to other pages.  Pretty soon, I found one from a lady that's a pretty doggone good writer.  I've not met many on dA, sadly, but she was ... well, she's pretty doggone good.  I started reading one of her stories, which was serialized just as my Ghost Hunters story was, and I was immediately hooked.  I read the entire piece last night.  And I've never done that before with a dA writer ... ever.

So I left her a comment.  Before I knew it, she was commenting back to me, telling me thanks for reading, glad you like it, blah blah.  Well, if you're familiar at all with those situations, you know it's generally considered common courtesy to read someone's work if they've read yours.  She picked Witch Hunt instead of Ghost Hunters, probably because it was only three parts (so far) instead of the whopping 95K word, 47-segment ordeal of the latter.  At any rate, I didn't know she was reading it, and I generally don't want folks to feel compelled to read my work just because I've read theirs.  That's the wrong reason for doing it anyway, and I won't take it personally.  Reading is a major investment of time and thought.  It's not easily undertaken, especially with a big project.  Right, Sherri?  :)

Well, this afternoon, I had a comment from this nice lady.  We'd exchanged a couple of them today, about various things, random thoughts, and when I read it I nearly did a spit-take on my screen with my coffee from shock.  Here it is, verbatim, copied and pasted from my dA page:

Okay, I reread this hoping to provide some helpful criticism. Here goes: This is great. No kidding. I couldn't find a single s[c]rew up, or typo, or grammatical error -- or even something I just plain didn't like. My opinion cou[n]ts too, because I taught creative writing for three years, composition for three more, and have been writing professionally for ad agencies, magazines and a newspaper for over 24 more! If I received this piece as sample pages to consider for publication, I would demand more immediately. Don't you wish I was an agent? Yeah, me too. Anyway, I'm off to part two.

BADDA-BING, PEOPLE!!  Okay, Sherri-berry, say it with me now; ready?

WOOOOO!!!

That ... that left me absolutely speechless.  Oh, and a little teary.  I tried to find some fumbling words of gratitude to express, but I just kept gushing.  So I gave up.  But I was blown away.

That's not the end of it, either.  She commented on all the other parts of "Witch Hunt" too, and she picked up a typo I missed along the way.

Needless to say, I'm on a euphoric, endorphin-driven high from which I sha'n't come down ... until someone says they don't like it, of course.  Then I'll slide into a dark, brooding depression, bubbling like the swamps of Dagoba, grunting like Yoda, and I won't emerge from that for a while.  Back and forth I'll go.

Right now, though, I'm high.

If you're in the mood for a gritty, kinky sorta mature-reader oriented story with a lot of punch, suspense, tension and professional-quality prose, check out this wonderful author's dA page at http://denlm.deviantart.com.  The story is called "Jon.com", but she's got others, too.  You have to sign up for dA to comment, I believe, but you might find an email address for her there somewhere.  Drop her a line and give her your feedback, if you want.  She enjoys quality critiques.

I'm going to bask now.  Thanks.

:)

-JDT-

wordpress Tags: writing, random thoughts, reviews, critiques

Technorati Tags: writing, random thoughts, reviews, critiques

Witch Hunt - Ch. 3

Just joining us? You may want to start at the beginning!

"I can't believe you're doin' this, dude."

JD rattled around in some boxes tucked into a corner of the walk-in closet in his bedroom, Dillon leaning against the door jamb watching him as he fished out the equipment he needed.

"I made all the arrangements. I accepted the commission. I told the client I would be there, and when ... what's so hard for you to believe?"

"That a guy who's all scientific 'n' shit's so frickin' dumb, dude," Dillon sneered at the back of his head.

"I'm not being dumb. I just don't think this is any big deal. They almost never are."

"Almost? Dude, you're battin' a frickin' thousand. What're you, a dumb-ass? C'mon. Th' only stuff you seen was a big deal."

"That's not true," JD sighed, "and I've been over this with you. I'm going. Wendy wants to go with me. You're welcome."

"No way."

JD shook his head. "You're being irrational."

"I'm makin' sure I stay alive, homey."

"Oh, cut it out. You don't have any reason to believe you'll die if you go."

"I ain't givin' a chance fer that shit t'happen, bro. I think you oughtta make Wen stay, too. You wanna risk your own ass, that's fine. Don't risk her incredibly tight and perky one."

JD turned and glowered at Dillon over his shoulder.

"Sorry ... I can't help it, dude. It's true."

"Keep your eyes above her collar bones, please."

Dillon shrugged. "Whatever. Dude, I'm jus' sayin', this trip's a trip. You didn' learn jack from the last one."

"I understand your position," JD said, standing with several devices in one hand and a small, worn duffle bag in the other. "I do. You've made it clear. What happened scared you. So much you can't compel yourself to go with us. That's fine. But I made a promise and I'm keeping it. Wendy won't be made to stay behind, she's taken the time off work, and she's excited about the trip."

"Didja even tell 'er I don't think it's smart?"

"No, I haven't said anything to her about you."

"You didn't tell 'er I ain't goin'?"

"Why would I?"

"She might care 'bout that ... she might wonder why I ain't goin', an' ask me an' stuff. Then I can tell 'er how stupid I think you're bein', and she'd be all, like, 'Oh, Dilly, you're so much smarter'n JD, I wanna be with you all weekend havin' massive sex an' stuff while JD goes to play with more ghosties.' An' then we'll stay here all warm an' safe an' havin' massive sex, and YOU can go get killed."

JD was staring at Dillon with something between disbelief and disgust. "How ... how long has that fantasy been playing in your so-called mind?"

"Dude, I'm jus' sayin' is all. If Wen knew I waddn't goin', maybe she'd think twice, y'know?"

"She'll be here after she gets off work, why don't you tell her yourself. I'd leave out the sexual proposal component if I were you, though."

"'Fraid she'll take me up on it?"

JD laughed. "Yeah. Right."

"Hmph. Well ... still. When're you leavin', chump?"

"Right away. As soon as she gets here. I'll load her things into the car and that's it, we can go."

"Tonight?? You're leaving tonight??"

"No, this afternoon. It's a long drive and we want to get there as early as possible, so --"

"This afternoon??"

"Yeah. Is that a problem?"

"Dude! That's like -- that's like today, man!"

"Uh ... yes, that would be the 'this' part of 'this afternoon'. Isn't that interesting?"

"DUDE. I didn't know."

"Didn't know what?"

"Didn't know you were leavin' today, you asshole-licker!"

"I told you we ... did -- did you just call me an asshole-licker?"

"Aw, man!! I can't believe this shit! Dude!"

"What??"

"That don't give me time t'set up a party or nothin', dude! I'm gonna be all bored an' crap, while you're off gettin' laid!"

"Don't be crude. And I told you I was leaving as soon as I could make the arrangements. They're made. We're leaving."

"I ... aw, man. Naw, dude, that ain't cool. I'm all off-kilter an' shit now."

"You'll adapt."

"I can't. You gotta gimme some notice."

"I did."

"More notice."

"Why?"

"It's the rules, dude."

"What rules?"

"The rules that say you gotta gimme time t'be cool with bein' left alone an' shit. Dude!"

"Rules? You're a grown man for pity's sake! What's the matter with you?"

"How do I know you didn't leave a damned ghost up in here, dude?? You could be trackin' it all over th' place like dogshit!"

JD shook his head. "Will you grow up, please? If you're not comfortable staying here alone -- for some reason -- then come with us. Your choice. Or go back to your mom's basement for a week."

"Dude. I'd rather hang with ghosts."

"Suit yourself."

"When's Wen comin', dude? I gotta try an' talk 'er outta this."

JD glanced at his watch, stacking bags near the door of his room. Some were filled with the clothes he'd need for the week. Others were filled with the instruments and laptops he'd need for the investigation. He grabbed a handful of straps with each arm and went into the hallway.

"Should be any minute now. She was leaving work at 11. It's nearly 11:30 now."

"DUDE!!"

"What now?"

"You said this afternoon! 11:30 ain't after noon!"

JD sighed, moving down the stairs. "We'll be going to lunch before we get on the road. Possibly dinner too, depending on what time we get there."

"You're goin' out t'eat? Without me?"

JD stopped and looked at Dillon. "Dill ... do you want to come on the investigation with us?"

"Hellz no."

"All right then. It's your choice."

"I don' want you guys goin' either."

"Sorry, that's not possible."

"Dude."

"Indeed."

JD set the bags beside the front door, Dillon close behind him with the rest of the bags.

"Thanks," he said absently, taking them from Dillon and stacking them with the others. "Let me get my list and make sure I got everything I'll need."

"Man," Dillon moaned. "This sucks, dude."

"It is what it is. Okay, let me see ..."

JD slowly walked toward the kitchen, looking at the printed list on the 3 x 5 index card in his hand.

"It ain't like ya never broke a promise b'fore or nothin'."

"I don't break my promises," JD answered absently, still looking over the list.

"Yes you do. Chump."

"No I don't."

"Do too."

"Name one."

"You promised me in 5th grade that in 6th grade you weren't gonna be a geek no more. You been breakin' that promise every year since."

"Oh, stop it."

"I just don't like it, dude. I gotta bad feelin' about this."

"You mean like intuition?"

"No, like a gut feelin' an' crap."

"Do ... do you know what 'intuition' is, Dill?"

"Look, all I'm sayin' is, I got this feelin' somethin' bad's gonna happen t'you guys up there. You should call this off, dude."

JD sighed again. "Dillon ... I'm trying to be patient with you. The entire trip is most likely going to turn out to be absolutely nothing but a few squirrels in the attic, or someone talking in the hallway and voices carrying through the ventilation system. We're being put up for free, fed with 5-star food, and have the entire resort to ourselves. There's wireless Internet access throughout the entire hotel, a store, and a fantastic view of a valley. It's going to be a vacation and a lot of fun. And since you refuse to join us, it's a perfect chance for me to be alone with Wendy in an extremely romantic setting."

"Until you die."

"No one's going to die."

"You so are."

"No, I'm not. Wendy's not going to either. And you'll be fine here."

"Aw man ... you gonna at least call once in a while??"

"Yes, mother. I'll call you once in a while. If I'm not busy."

"Man."

"Wendy will be here soon. I'm packed. Are you going to help me move this stuff into the car?"

"What 'bout food for me? How'm I s'posedta eat?"

"There's food in the fridge, and if I recall correctly, there are no fewer than three grocery stores all over town, countless fast food restaurants, a Denny's, a buffet, and a mall with a food court. I think you'll be okay."

Dillon pouted. "Yeah. I'll help yer ugly ass."

"Thank you." JD watched Dillon staring down at his Chuck Taylors quietly. "Do you want to come with us?"

"Hellz no."

"All right then. You have my cell number -- for emergencies -- call if you need to."

"What counts for emergencies."

JD shook his head. "You're going to be fine. Try not to destroy the house while we're gone. Clean up after yourself."

"Dude. I've lived on my own before, y'know."

"Clean up after yourself, please." JD strode into the kitchen and sat at the peninsula, going over his list again.

Dillon exhaled loudly through his lips, flapping them together. He pushed himself off the wall he'd been leaning on and paced the floor, staring through the picture window in the living room at the street outside.

"Wen's here, dude." His voice was soft and hollow.

JD got up as Dillon opened the door, and Wendy swept in, all dazzling smile, wafting auburn locks and sparkling eyes. JD smiled instantly, his chest warming internally as he saw her come in.

"Hi, Dilly!" she said, throwing her arms around Dillon's neck and hugging him hard. He held her tightly.

"Mmm! Good to see you, sweetie," she said, pecking him on the cheek.

He laid his head on her shoulder. She giggled and hugged him again, then tried to pull away. Dillon didn't release his embrace, and hid his face from her.

"Um ... did you miss me, Dilly?"

"Uh-huh," he said into her coat.

"It's ... good to see you."

"Uh-huh."

"You ... you can let go now, Dilly. We have to leave."

"Dillon's not going with us, Wendy," JD interjected as he approached her.

Her head snapped around in shock, her jaw dropping open. "What??"

She pushed hard and finally separated from Dillon, his face sad, his eyes not meeting her gaze. "Dilly? You're ... you're not going?"

He shook his head.

"Why?" Wendy stepped back, her eyes stinging with unexpected tears, her hand going instinctively over her mouth. "Why? Are you ... are you mad at us or something?"

"No," Dillon said quickly, taking her hand, "naw. Nothin' like that. It's all good. I just ... I don' ... I dunno. I got a bad feelin' about this one, Wen. I don' think you an' dumb-ass should go."

"JD, he has to come, he's part of our -- team."

"I asked him repeatedly. He doesn't want to come along."

"Dilly," she said softly, her voice wounded. "Dilly, you gotta come, hon. It won't be as much fun without you."

"Wen," Dillon said, his face worried, "I really don't think it's a good idea. I mean, y'know, with all th' crap that went down las' time ... somebody coulda got hurt, y'know? I think ... I think this time someone will get hurt, but Jackass won't listen ta me."

"Oh, Dilly ... sweetie, it's probably nothing. Most of the time they aren't."

"What're you, a cult dude?" Dillon said, scowling at JD. "You got her brainwashed t'say th' same shit as you."

"I don't have anyone brainwashed, Dillon, it's just true. The last time was an anomaly. This time it won't be that way."

"Aw, man ... Wen, I ... I -- I really think you guys oughtta call this off, man."

"I told you I can't do that. But if you think Wendy can be convinced, now is your opportunity." JD folded his arms across his chest and raised his eyebrows at Dillon.

"Wen," Dillon said softly, "don't go. It's gonna be all messed up. Don't go."

Wendy wiped a tear from her cheek. "Oh, Dilly ... I'm going. It's going to be a good time. I wanted us all to have fun. I ..." She trailed off, and wiped another tear. "I'm going to miss you, Dilly."

He sighed. JD shrugged. "I told you."

There was a moment with the three of them just standing there. JD finally moved first. "We have to go, Wen. I'll get these things into the car and then load your bags, too."

She nodded, and threw her arms around Dillon's neck. "Behave yourself, Dilly."

"Wen ..."

She pulled back, tears welling in her eyes again. "Hey, it's only a week. I'll see you when we get back. We'll have a pizza, okay?"

Dillon's face was pained, frightened and worried all at once. He finally made himself nod, and a tear streamed over his stubbled cheek.

Wendy hugged him again, and Dillon grabbed the rest of the bags and carried them out to JD's car. He was arranging them in the trunk when Wendy came and brought along her own luggage. JD was surprised at her having one large bag and a small overnight case.

"Is that ... is that all you have?"

She tipped her head. "Yeah, why?"

"I - I don't know. I expected more."

"I'm very efficient. It's only a week, right?"

"Yes, but ... I guess I expected more, that's all. I thought women packed more heavily."

"I got everything I needed in there. And who needs clothes for sleeping?" She bit her lower lip teasingly while watching JD blush deeply.

Dillon placed the last of the bags into the trunk, and JD shut it. They stood there, staring at each other.

"Well." JD finally said. "I ... guess we'd better ... get going."

"Yeah," Wendy agreed. "We have a long drive."

Dillon was silent, eyes downcast.

Wendy embraced him again. "Bye, Dilly. See you soon, okay?"

He held her tightly and nodded against her cheek. They parted and Wendy opened the passenger door of JD's car, watching Dillon as she slid into the seat. JD watched Dillon closely as he opened the door, but they didn't exchange words. Finally, JD got in and closed the door.

They started the car, and JD did a slow U-turn, passing the house. Dillon stood on the curb, hands tucked into his pockets. JD slowed the car to near a crawl, watching his friend standing in the street, just watching them. They began to creep away, and Wendy wiped her face again as fresh tears rolled from her eyes.

JD was looking in the mirror, his face long and heart heavy, as he gradually pulled away from the house.

Dillon watched the car receding down the street, gaining speed.

"WAIT!" he screamed, bolting after the car, flailing his arms, "JD, WAIT FOR ME, MAN!! WAIT FOR ME!! JDWAITFORMEMAN!!!"

JD slammed on the brakes and parked the car, jumping out with a smile on his face. Dillon raced up to him, looking confused and alarmed.

"I ... I guess I'll go," he said softly, clearing his throat. "I mean ... yeah, I'm good. I'll go."

JD grinned broadly, the two friends standing in the middle of the street. Without a word, they hugged hard for a moment. Then they parted, stepping back from one another quickly, checking to make sure they hadn't been seen.

"So ... yeah. I'm all good."

"Me too," JD said, coughing into his fist and getting back into the car. "How long do you need to pack?"

"Oh yeah," Dillon said, "I guess I'll need clothes an' stuff."

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Witch Hunt - Ch. 2

Just joining us? You may want to start at the beginning!

The phone on his hip began buzzing immediately as he struggled to open the door, the bags of groceries laced over his wrists. The plastic handles dug deep into his skin as stumbled inside, grimacing in pain and struggling to get through the living room into the kitchen beyond, hefting the rattling white bags atop the counter.

Dillon shuffled in after him, more bags dangling from his fingers. He kicked the door closed behind him and ambled through the living room after JD.

"Hello?" JD puffed into his phone as he put it to his ear.

"Hey, baby," Wendy's voiced cooed. "Have you missed me?"

"Oh, hi!" JD sang, his face brightening. "I was just going to call you!"

"Really? See, we are connected, lover. What's on your mind? Besides me, of course."

"Of course," JD laughed in agreement. "Well, Dill and I received a very strange phone call while we were out grocery shopping."

"Oh yeah? How strange?"

"Really strange," JD said, pacing around the linoleum floor. "It was a long distance call, for one thing ..."

"Dude ... really long distance. I mean, the longest possible distance, yo."

"And why's that weird, sweets?"

"Well, the caller said they were referred to me. Recommended, I think the word was. By a friend."

"Okay, I'm still not seeing weird here."

"Well, first of all, I don't really ... really have any friends. I mean, none that would recommend me as a ..."

"No, you were right the first time, dude. You ain't got no friends."

JD sneered at Dillon. "None that know about my paranormal investigation business, anyway."

"Business?" Dillon snorted. "You makin' any bank on that 'business', dude?"

"Okay, so maybe they meant an acquaintance, babe. What's wrong? What's troubling you?"

"Well ... the caller said the referral came from ... Bea Jenkins."

Dillon visibly shuddered, turning his face away. JD noted the reaction, then returned focus to the conversation.

"Did you just say someone called you and was referred by Bea Jenkins, hon?"

Wendy's voice was amused, but there was an undertow of tension.

"Yes, exactly."

Silence; JD paced casually across the floor and absently began pulling groceries out of the first bag on the counter.

"Wendy?"

"No, I'm here," she said quickly. "I'm just ... I'm just having a hard time processing what you said. You're saying that you got a call from Bea Jenkins. the dead librarian that helped you with the last case. Right?"

"Uh ... no, no. I'm saying that someone called me today and told me they were referred to me by Bea Jenkins, the dead librarian that helped us on the last case."

"Yeah," she said softly. "That's ... that's a bit to process for me, baby."

Dillon began slowly emptying the bags in front of him as well. JD stopped for a moment, listening, one eye trained on Dillon.

"I ... yeah, it was a bit for me to process too. It took me completely by surprise."

"Yeah," Wendy answered fast. "Yeah, that'd be surprising."

"So ... I ..."

"You accepted the case."

"Well ... well, yes. Of course. The person asked for my help. I didn't ... I didn't think it would be right to turn them away out of hand."

"Who is this person?"

"It's the owner of a lodge somewhere upstate. Way out in a very remote area. It's the Winter Haven Lodge."

"The Winter Haven? That really exclusive one where the politicians and movie stars go? That Winter Haven Lodge?"

"Uh ... yes. I've never heard of it before, but I suppose that's the one ..."

"Dude, you never even heard o' the place?"

JD looked helplessly at Dillon, shaking his head. Wendy laughed in his ear.

"Poor sweet Jaded. You don't get around much, do you, love?"

"I ... guess not. Should I know about this?"

"Probably not. This is a multimillionaire's resort, baby. It's for the rich and famous, and not for little commoners like us."

"Dude, everybody knows 'bout it. How'd you not know 'bout it?"

JD shrugged. "Oh. Well, it should be a nice visit then. We're being provided rooms and all we can eat free of charge."

"We? Are you inviting me to come along to an exclusive hotel and resort with you, baby-cakes?"

JD blushed, his voice trembling. "Um ... yes, I am."

"Well ... I'm just getting back from a long weekend. I have to go to work and see if I can take the time ... it's going to be tricky."

"Oh," JD said, his heart sinking. "Well, if you can't come ..."

"I don't know yet, lover. Let me look into it and see. Are you sure you're able to just drop everything and go?"

"Well ... I have a lot of vacation time saved at work. It's ... I've been saving it up for a long time. The only problem might be with the notice. I may have to stall the owners for a while until I can make the arrangements, but I think I can go right away. I'll have to verify that tomorrow, of course, but I think it'll be fine."

He watched Dillon out of the corner of his eye while he pretended to put things away in the cabinet over the counter to his right. Dillon was quiet. Very quiet. JD wasn't sure if something was wrong or whether he was just being polite while JD was on the phone. He seriously doubted the latter.

"Well, I can't make any promises. But I should be able to get some time off next week if I can't get time off this week. If you want me to go with you, you might have to delay the trip for a week. Can you live with that?"

"Sure," he said softly, still watching Dillon, continuing to shuffle items out of bags and put them away around the kitchen. "I could probably just let them know I can't do it on such short notice. I'm certain they'd understand that."

"Well, either way, I'm game."

"Yeah? That's great," he said, trailing off.

"You sure?" Wendy giggled. "You don't sound all that enthused, to be honest."

"OH, sorry. No, I am. I'm just ... I'm thinking ahead already. You know me. I have to prepare a list of things we'll need in terms of equipment and such. I can have all that together and ready before the trip whenever we decide we can go."

"You didn't tell them when you'd be there?"

"No." JD turned to follow Dillon from the back of the kitchen as he balled the empty bags up and stuffed them into a plastic bag holder mounted behind a cabinet door under the sink. "No, I didn't say when I'd be there. I told them I would have to check my schedule and see when it would be possible."

Dillon quietly ambled past JD around the kitchen island, past the peninsula and out through the living room. JD heard his familiar plod up the stairs.

"Babe?" Wendy said. "Baby? You okay, love? You sound really distracted. Everything okay?"

"Yes," JD said, more firmly this time. "Yes, everything's fine. Will you be home tonight?"

"I'm home now hon, that's why I'm calling. I just wanted to let you know."

"Oh! Are you -- how was the shower and party?"

"Great! We had a blast. It was really good to see everyone again. I haven't seen some of those people since high school, so it was nice to reconnect with them."

"Yeah? Did anything ... anything ... special happen at the bachelorette party?"

"Special? Lots of drinking and being rowdy, but special? I wouldn't say so."

"No? Nothing that ... that I should -- you know ... know about?"

Wendy giggled. "Know about? Like what?"

"I ... I don't know. I just was wondering how it went, that's all."

"It was fine. A lot of fun."

"Oh, well that's ... good."

The dead air was heavy on the phone.

"Was there a ... was there a stripper -- at the party?" His voice was weak and he flushed even hearing the question come out of his mouth.

She burst into hysterical laughter. JD shook his head, covering his eyes with his palm in embarrassment while she cackled for long seconds on the other end of the phone. Finally, she could control herself again and she regained composure.

"Is that what's been bugging you? You're worried that there was a stripper at the party?"

JD stammered into the phone, unable to collect himself in his mortification to answer her. She bellowed that lilting, sing-song laugh again, and nearly coughed as she finally exhaled sharply, and drew a deep breath.

"Oh my God," she said, "oh, my ribs hurt. That's the best laugh I've had all weekend. Whew!"

"I'm ... I'm glad I could help cap it off right."

"Oh, baby," she said, the giggles still in her voice as she spoke. "No, hon. There was no stripper. Just a bunch of girls going out and dancing, having a great time, and sharing one last girl's night out with our friend before she gets married. There was no stripper. She's not into that."

"No?"

"No."

"Are - are you? Into that?"

"Well, I dunno," she teased, "I guess it depends on the stripper."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Do you want to strip for me, lover?" She whispered in that incredibly sultry, sexy tone that she knew would completely collapse him. It did.

"Uh -- I -- well, I don't -- I guess I -- ummm ..."

She burst out laughing again. "Okay, okay stop! I gotta pee! Stop! I have to go to the bathroom, now, or I'm going to wet myself!"

"Oh, sorry, I --"

"Stop! I'm going. I'll call you after I nap, okay? I'm a little tired. Bye love!"

"B--" The phone went dead in his hand. "--ye."

He sighed, and then set his jaw. He went up the stairs resolutely, and found Dillon's bedroom door closed when he got to it. He knocked softly.

"Come in, dude."

JD opened the door. Dillon was laying on his bed, his signature Chuck Taylors crossed one over the other at the ankle, thumbing through an Amazing Spider-Man comic book. He looked up, scratching his stubble-crusted jaw beneath his chin.

"'Sup, dude?"

"You tell me."

"Eh?"

"Something's wrong, Dillon. You've never been that quiet for that long, especially while I'm on the phone with Wendy. What's going on?"

"Nothin'. Ever'thin's cool."

"Cool? I don't think so." JD sat on the foot of Dillon's bed. "We've known each other too long for that, Dill. Something's bothering you, troubling you, worrying you ... whatever. Something's not right with you. What's going on?"

Dillon sighed heavily, deeply, and sat up and back against his headboard. He fixed his gaze on JD.

"This case ... you already decided you're takin' it, right?"

"Yes, I told them I would on the phone. You heard them. They have multiple witnesses to paranormal activity and need help. And ... well, frankly, a woman who's dead referred them to us."

"Not 'us', bro -- you."

"Me? I don't understand."

"They weren't referred to us, dude, they was sent to you. By a ghost."

"Okay ... I guess. Or someone pretending to be the ghost of Bea Jenkins, I suppose. What's the problem? Are you feeling neglected because your name didn't come up, or because it's not on the business license?"

"Pff. Dude, please. I ain't about that crap. You know better'n that."

JD shrugged. "Then what?"

"I can't believe you forgot already," Dillon said, shaking his head. His face showed no signs of mockery, his body language showed no indication of a coming joke. JD watched Dillon avoid his eyes.

"Okay, what did I forget, Dill?"

"Everything we went through last time, dude. All the crap. The way you was haunted an' stuff after it started. The way you got all beat up 'n shit -- by a ghost. The way all that creepy-ass shit went down. It's like you forgot it all."

JD tipped his head. "I didn't forget, Dill. But ... I'm into this. This is what I do. At least in my own time. I can't let those things sway me from proving that 99% of the 'paranormal' is nothing more than misinterpretation of evidence. Those things that happened -- we have no proof that we weren't experience something like mass hysteria. We have no tapes, no photos, nothing except those weird recordings. And that's something, that's big. It's real EVP, I think, but we haven't really got any reason to believe it's anything more than a strange play of the sounds."

"Aw, dude -- naw, man, naw," Dillon said acidly. "I can't believe you gonna pull that crap again, Jay-Bird. Dude, you're doin' it all over again, man! You're doin' th' same crap you did before that ghost kicked your ass, bro. Don'tcha see?? It really happened, dude! It really did!"

"No, don't misunderstand me -- I believe we encountered something supernatural. I have no explanation, whatsoever, for what happened to us. Especially Bea. And the encounter with Robin Brown. I have no idea what that was, other than experiencing a real apparition. None. I'm not saying that. I'm saying that it may still be that what we went through has an explanation, but I don't have it. A better investigator might.

"And that still doesn't mean that this case is going to be a legitimate haunting, Dill. I still firmly, soundly, whole-heartedly believe that 99% of what people think is a haunting isn't. It's just misunderstanding what they see."

"Dude ... whatevs, bro. All I know is, it scared the shit outta me. For you, for me, and for Wen. Who knows what th' hell coulda happened, dude? One of us coulda been killed, man. Killed. We wandered out inna yard for like five hours, man. We coulda been led inta traffic or somethin'."

"We weren't, though."

"No, not that time. But what 'bout this time, home-brew? What 'bout somethin' goin' all hella wrong an' shit, out inna middle o' nowhere, an' one of us buys it? What if these ghosts ain't nice an' helpful an' shit? Mebbe they ain't tryin'a get their story heard an' shit. Mebbe they wanna be left the hell alone, an' they'll kick th' crap outta anyone that mucks with 'em, y'know?"

"Wh ... what're you saying, Dill?"

"I'm sayin' I ain't goin' this time, dude. I'm out. I don' think you should go, either, and I damn sure don' think you oughtta drag Wen inta this, bud. But ... me? I'm out, dude. I'm out."

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Ready to go on to Chapter 3?

Witch Hunt - Ch. 1

Dillon walked out of the busy little gas station building, a look of disconcerted irritation on his face. He stopped after a few feet, gripping his pants near the top of the thigh and lifted his foot off the ground slightly, shaking it and hopping on his balance leg. He wiggled his hips as he walked a few more steps, then repeated the jiggling hop-dance, bending his knees and shifting his hips. He continued toward the car, pausing to do his bizarre ritual like a mating exotic bird.

JD watched carefully as he approached. He was filling the car with gas, his face stamped with a sort of confused curiosity. Dillon stopped once more before opening the car door and shook his hips again.

"Wh ... what're you doing?"

"Huh?"

"Well ... I know I'm going to regret this, but -- what are you doing?"

"What're you talkin' about?"

"That ... little ... move you keep busting. What are you doing?"

Dillon looked lost. "I still don' know what th' hell you're talkin' about."

"You're walking away from the store and ... dancing. Why - why are you dancing?"

"Dancin'?"

"Yes. I guess that's what it is."

"I ain't dancin', dude. I'm a bomb-diggity dancer, dude. You'd know if I was dancin'."

"Okay, it's not dancing, but it's not normal either. What're you doing?"

"What the fu-- OH! Oh, that? Dude, what're you, a girl? I'm adjustin'."

"Adjusting? Adjusting to what?"

"Not TO what, dumb-ass. I'm adjustin' my schlong."

"I knew I'd be sorry I asked."

"You know ... I hadda go t' th' bathroom, and when I put my anaconda away, it waddn't in there right. I'm adjusting."

"I -- I really ... I really didn't need to know that about you."

"Jealous?"

"Of what? Your inability to pull your pants up properly after going to the bathroom? Hardly."

"If you ain't gotta adjust from time t' time, you're a girl. With NO anaconda."

"I've certainly never had to deal with a large constricting South American snake in the restroom, but then -- I did learn how to use the potty when I was about 2."

"Pff. You ain't gotta schlong, do ya? Why's Wen like you again? 'Cause you're sensitive an' can relate to 'er feelings an' shit?"

"I have all the necessary anatomical parts for her, thank you. And I don't want to have to stop again, so did you use the bathroom all you needed to?"

"Hey, I goes when I goes. That's jus' how I roll, baby."

JD hung up the nozzle on the pump, and pressed the keystroke combination to print the receipt from the purchase.

"Well, we're almost home, so you'll have to hold it now until we get there."

"Blah, blah, blah," Dillon droned dryly, opening the door wider. He paused a moment and jiggled again, then slid into the seat as JD came around the other side.

"All right, let's get back."

"Missin' Wendy, pussy-whip?"

"What?"

"Pff. You ain't called her all weekend. I'm kinda surprised."

"She had a bridal shower to attend. She said she'd call when it was over."

"What 'bout yesterday?"

"What about yesterday?"

"You didn't call her yesterday either."

"How do you know?"

"'Cause I was eavesdroppin' an' stuff, how else?"

"You're spying on me?"

"Sorta."

"Why?" JD said over his shoulder, as he watched for oncoming traffic while he pulled onto the road.

"You're boring. I wanted t'see what you did now thatcha gotta girlfriend an' all that."

"Why would I do anything differently?"

"You said you loved her."

"I did, and I do, and I'm still the same person. Why would that change anything?"

"'Cause, now thatcha told 'er ya love 'er an' crap, you're gonna get all PW'd."

"Stop it, that's ridiculous. Wendy's not that type of person."

"You are."

"Obviously not, Einstein. Or I'd have called her."

"I think you couldn't call 'er."

"Oh, and why would that be?"

"That's what I'm askin' you, dumb-ass. Why didn'tcha call her?"

JD was silent.

"You couldn't, right?"

"No."

"HA! Toldja."

"Just because I couldn't call her doesn't mean I'm ... PW'd."

"Does to. If ya coulda, ya woulda."

"So?"

"So, that's the first sign o' bein' PW'd, chump."

"All right," JD said deliberately, "let me ask YOU something. If you were dating a woman like Wendy, would you want to be with her every moment possible?"

Dillon said nothing.

"Well? Would you?"

Silence.

"Hmm. You see?"

"Wull ... it IS Wendy ..."

"Exactly."

Dillon lifted himself slightly in the seat, squeaking the supple leather quietly, and shook his hips side to side as best he could.

"What are ... still??"

"Dude, I ain't got it right yet."

"Please don't do that."

"I ... gotta ... " Dillon fussed with his crotch and shifted his weight, holding his backside off the seat slightly.

"Dillon, I really, really don't need to know all this about your personal ... business."

"Almost ... almost ..."

"Oh for God's sake ..."

"So why couldn't ya call 'er, dude?" He grunted tightly, still pulling and tugging at himself.

"It's not comfortable to have a conversation with you while you're groping yourself, you know."

"Almost ... not quite ... "

JD pulled to a stop at a traffic light, and noticed the passengers in the cars to their right watching Dillon closely and laughing. He turned to look out his window so he wouldn't see them, or be looking at Dillon as he yanked and wiggled beside him. JD flushed deeply and tried to sink into his seat.

"Please stop doing that."

"THERE!" Dillon exclaimed, and JD jumped. "GOT IT!!"

"Thank God."

"No shit, man. That was drivin' me nuts. So t'speak."

JD shook his head.

"Okay. So -- why couldn't ya call 'er?"

"Because she and some friends were out shopping for the bride-to-be's gifts, arranging the bachelorette party ... things like that. She was busy, and needed to be left alone. Satisfied, nosey?"

"So she gonna get a stripper?"

"What?"

"A stripper. Lotsa chick-parties get a stripper. She gettin' one for her party?"

"It's not her party, and I don't know. What difference does that make?"

"Pff. Dude -- ask Wen how she'd like it if you was goin' to a party with a stripper. Betcha she won't say 'what difference does it make?'. I'll bet she ain't too happy 'bout it."

"Well, I'm not concerned. I trust Wendy and she trusts me, so why would I have a problem with her being at a bachelorette party with a stripper?"

"'Cause he's gonna show his dong, dude."

"No, he's not."

"His ass, then."

"She could see that on TV."

"But at the party she can touch it."

"I -- Wendy wouldn't -- that's just --"

JD's phone rang, the sound emanating from the car's sound system through the wireless connection. Both of them started. The light turned green and JD pressed the button on the display to answer the phone as he accelerated through the intersection.

"Hello?" he said casually.

Static fired suddenly through the car, making both of them jump again. Dillon quickly turned the volume on the radio down.

"Hello?" JD said again, brows knitting over his eyes.

Static.

"He -- anyon -- rows?" The voice crackled, coming partially through the crackle of the hissing noise.

"I'm sorry, could you say that again? You're breaking up and I --"

"A -- ou -- Burrows?"

"Yes," JD said, his voice instinctively louder, "this is JD Burrows. Can I help you?"

"I w -- recom -- a -- end."

"I'm sorry, you're still breaking up, can you repeat, please?"

"I was --commended to y-- -y a friend."

"A friend recommended you to me?" JD said, trying to decipher the caller.

"Yes," the voice said, a bit more clearly.

"What friend? Recommended you to me for what?"

"As a paranormal investigator."

JD paused, glancing at Dillon. Dillon's eyes were wide and he raised his eyebrows.

"I'm sorry, did you say you were recommended to me as a --"

"Yes, as a paranormal investi-ato-."

"Uh ... yes, I've done some work in that area. How ... how can I help you?"

"I --ink I ma- -eed -our help."

"I ... who did you say gave you my number?"

Static, quiet hissing.

"Hello? Are you there?"

"Yes," the voice said back softly. "I'm here."

"Who recommended you to me?"

There was a delay.

"Bea Jenkins did."

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Ready to go on to Chapter 2?

Experiment in Fiction 5

Well, today is the last day of digging through my archives to find old stories to present to you.  Mostly because I'm out of old stories to present to you.  Any further fiction experiments presented will be new stuff, first seen by you, oh helpful and persistent readers.  Thanks to all for coming by and providing feedback.

This one is also from the '04 period, and this is again what I originally called a "prologue".  There's more of it, but I'm not sure how much because I haven't read through it.  The usual disclaimer about being a first draft applies; so does the request for anything you've got to help it get better.  Thank you all for playing along, and thanks so much for spending so much time with me.  I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have.

The foreman watched through the mirrored, shielded faceplate while the crate was slowly lowered from the boom. It swung easily in the light gravity, not pulling into a pendulum swing as it might have in regular gravity. The sealed crate was contained completely, and there were no seams visible from his vantage point. Not that it mattered, but it was still nice to know that a standard crowbar wouldn’t pry open the package. On the bottom of the crate, the tiny multi-wheeled rolling loader was waiting.

The boom lowered quickly, and a cloud of dust exploded away from the platform upon which the putty gray container sat when it touched the surface. White-gray plumes of eons old powdery matter skittered away as if in slow motion from the underside of the lift, then settled quickly in the absence of atmosphere. The men moved about clumsily in their bulky pressure suits, and while great strides had been made to make the work easier, technology still limited them to the heavy materials required to contain the life-sustaining atmosphere and pressure.

Above them, the black sky seemed empty. Despite lacking interference from air, the stars were eclipsed by the reflection from the surface itself. As the crews worked in the cold vacuum, it was like nothing in the heavens could see them. The foreman considered that this fact was probably a good thing. Nothing in the heavens should see them. Perhaps that was for the best.

The crew was small, only four men. The crate was manageable in the fractional gravity, and that was a good thing. All the months of preparation ahead of time had made this mission an easy one, and it was going perfectly. That actually surprised the foreman somewhat, considering what was in the crate. If it was actually what the world’s leaders feared it was, then he expected more … opposition. But there it was, ready to be vaulted, and the entire thing was going off without a hitch. He shook his head in the helmet incredulously. Shouldn’t that in itself be proof that it wasn’t what they all said it was?

Well, he was no one to question authority. A conglomerate of private investors, the same ones that had funded the emergency launch to carry out this mission as well as all the preparatory missions in the previous two years, was handsomely compensating him. And that was all he cared about; the rest was for the eggheads to work though.

The men were ready to load the crate into the vault. For some reason he couldn’t understand, he licked his lips nervously.

“All right,” he spoke over the intercom in his helmet, “it’s ready to move into the vault.”

“Activating rover,” came the reply.

One of the crewmen moved forward with a huge, glimmering and flashing remote control in his thickly gloved hands. He activated the levers with his thumbs, and the wheels on the rolling platform moved and scurried over the dusty landscape. Plumes of gray kicked out from beneath the bulky all-terrain tires as it rolled over rocks and small hills, moving toward the mountainside just ahead of them.

He glanced skyward again, and then shook his head to get himself back in the game. “Prepare to seal the vault after it moves in.”

The other crewmen were silent, watching as the rover passed them and moved into a doorway. It was barely large enough to allow the clearance of the crate and the rover, which would never see the light of day again. One of the crewmembers stepped around the rover as it passed, and moved to the right of the entrance. It was a huge, heavy door, nearly three feet thick, circular and with an electronic lock that blinked a green light and red digits in the gray-and-black gloom and stillness.

The rover moved into the cave, and the tires began to hop and bounce more aggressively over the rough surface of the cavern. A threshold, a band of thick metal that held the gargantuan hinges in place, lined the opening. The rover slowly receded into the blackness of that opening as if being swallowed by a maw, and as the last vestiges of sunlight slipped from the rover’s rear, the crewman beside the door began punching in a sequence of commands on the keypad beside the door.

The door would have hissed on its servos, but the silence was deafening as the door slowly began to swing closed.

The foreman tried to wipe his brow with this arm, but the helmet was between them. Then, and only then, he realized he was sweating. Whether from tension or from fear, he could not, and would not, determine.

The door inched along the hinges, closer and closer to its final resting place. The sliver of light beyond the opening was getting smaller and smaller, moving so slowly, and the foreman was staring wide-eyed and on pins and needles. Irritated with himself, he forced an exhale through his nostrils.

All of them stared at the door as it finally seated itself. There was a flashing of the display lights, and the crewman beside the door frantically began to mash the keypad again. In a moment, the green light blinked twice and then went amber. Another split second passed and it turned red.

“Door sealed!” the crewman cried, unintentionally jubilant. “It’s sealed!”

The crew let out a collective sigh of relief.

“Okay, disable the rover,” the foreman said hurriedly.

The crewman with the remote pushed a sequence of buttons on the face of the unit, and then held up his hands in triumph. “Rover disabled! We’re clear!”

Another excited and relieved breath ran through the crew.

“All right, let’s go home and get the hell out of here,” the foreman said, finally relaxing. He wasn’t sure why he was tense to begin with, but he was glad the mission was completed.

They began to back away from the sealed, cold metal door in the mountainside, and then they turned toward the waiting landing module. The foreman noticed they were hurrying a bit.

Three and a half more days and they’d be back home. This was over, finally over.

The time window was tight, but they were able to get back to the module and initiate the launch sequence in time. The orbital module would meet them on time, and then it was a matter of hours before the departure window was available. The crew scrambled, going through their respective roles as quickly as possible. They barked their read-outs to one another, gathering the information they needed to get the launch in motion.

The chronometer ticked steadily, counting down the moments until they could fire the engines. They began to count down, the pilot ready to fly the module into orbit. The commander was licking his lips, strapped securely to the module’s seat, watching his instruments carefully. The other crew members watched intensely, sweating again.

The countdown commenced.

The pilot depressed the ignition switch and the ship rumbled and shook with the force of the fires raging below them. They watched intently as the instruments started to indicate lift off.

“We have dust off,” the pilot said into the intercom mouthpiece. “We’re away!”

The mission commander shut his eyes in relief.

“Gaining altitude, sir … one hundred meters … three hundred … five hundred …” a voice droned.

Come on, come on, get up, baby, the commander thought, knuckles white on the arms of the chair.

“… One kilometer … two … five … gaining speed.”

The craft moved upward, rising out of the weak gravity and toward orbit. The second stage of the escape was complete. Stage three went much more smoothly, the crew finally relaxing, though none of them could say what it was they were tense about. Docking with the orbital module was flawless, and six hours after they docked, they were ready to leave orbit.

“Okay, gentlemen, we have one more sequence to get us out of here and we’ll be home before you know it,” the commander smiled.

“None too soon, either,” whispered the pilot.

They nodded silent agreement, but no one spoke. They would have a five-minute burn before breaking into escape velocity. Once around the satellite, and they would be bound for home again.

The ship rounded on schedule, sling shotting with the assistance of the feeble gravity and gaining speed as it broke orbit and finally started on its final path homeward.

The commander felt the tension finally leaving him as the huge disc of the lunar landscape receded behind them at last. Earth was never so beautiful as it was that moment, and it was looming larger in their view ports.

“Final escape achieved,” the pilot said softly into the intercom. “We are homeward bound, gentlemen.”

The silence was destroyed by the thundering crash of whoops and yells of jubilation.

The commander smiled at last. “We’re going home, boys.”

“Glad this one’s behind us, sir,” one of the crewmen said happily.

The rest of the journey went uneventfully. The commander and his crew made it back to Earth orbit safely and without incident. When they contacted mission control at Houston, however, they received no answer. Confused and concerned, they were rapidly descending and needed to establish contact with mission control. Trying again frantically, they called out, trying to decide whether to remain in orbit or to go ahead with the unconfirmed landing plan.

They never saw the rapidly approaching shuttle Avenger, specially designed for this mission, and unmanned. It came up on them unannounced, automatically launching the projectile that blew them into billions of pieces as they passed at thousands of miles per hour. The shards spread out over the upper atmosphere, and burned up as they spun down in unrecognizable fragments. The explosive at the head of the projectile was specifically designed to make sure no remains would survive the re-entry process. The avenger reported the planned contact with a meteor of insignificant size and that the project “Protective Shield” had gone exactly as planned.

The mission was a complete success, and no one on Earth except those that executed it ever knew it occurred.

Technorati Tags: fiction

Experiment in Fiction 4

Hello again, everyone!  Continuing with the experimentation and feedback process, here's another one from that 2004 era in my writing career.  I decided to really try it at that point, and I was warming up to a story my wife and I thought needed to be told.  When I tried to tell it, though, it flopped horribly.  Anyway, this isn't that one, but another that I concocted around the same period.  The same disclaimer applies -- forgive my bad grammar and such, and give any crits you think will help it along.  Thanks to everyone participating, and I hope you're enjoying them.

East Tennessee – Appalachian Mountains

The powerful Mercedes roared along, the road winding like a ribbon of asphalt up and down the rolling hills in the mid-autumn evening. The sun was just below the horizon, and the misty sky threatened to unload the rains held back for several days, pregnant with the precipitation common with the southern states. Rick Martinson was settled into the comfortable leather seat, the sophisticated stereo system oozing the soft sounds of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons from the CD player. His hands were draped over the leather-covered steering wheel comfortably, his tie and collar loosened and his suit jacked laid delicately over the back of the passenger seat.

He had a lot of things on his mind, but Martinson wasn’t concerned about any one of them in particular at the moment. He was thinking about the kids, his wife Sophie, and the array of in-laws that were waiting for him at the cabin near the lake. Deep in the woods, still some eighty miles away, there was a fishing resort where he’d rented the cabin three weeks before. It was rustic without being overly crude, and Sophie and Rick decided at once it was the perfect location for their wedding anniversary celebration. Sophie’s parents had come down from Pennsylvania to time the celebration with their own vacation in Florida (which invariably lasted for months), and the group had decided that a week in the cabin was just what the CEO of MarFeld International needed.

Martinson and long-time friend Peter Rosenfeld started MarFeld International shortly after college. The computer architecture firm had been slow to launch, and hard going with stiff competition on every side, but had managed to scratch out a terrific market niche for itself with the music industry in Nashville. Now, it was the largest independent manufacturer of computer MIDI equipment, and the plan in the works was explosive and promised to move MarFeld International into a new arena.

But I’m not going to think about that today … or this week, he promised himself.

It was a big deal, though. There were exactly five people in the world that new about it, and he was one of them. Peter, however, was not another. It was part of the deal; he couldn’t tell anyone about it, including his wife and partner. When Pete did find out, however, Rick knew he’d be ecstatic, and would understand the secrecy.

He hoped.

The big Benz was coming up behind a beat-up old pickup truck that had woven its way onto the highway from a side road, fishtailing madly before straightening its trajectory and then moving slowly up the interstate. Martinson signaled to pass, moved into the left lane and began to pass without changing speeds.

Suddenly, the truck swerved into the left lane drunkenly, and Martinson jerked the car back into the right lane quickly, eyes widening in surprise and cursing loudly, slamming on the brakes to take the sedan out of cruise control. He gently pressed on the accelerator and the engine roared, moving again to pass the truck, but again it was wracking into the same lane with Martinson. He was forced onto the shoulder, tires spitting dirt and gravel, the sedan weaving madly until the front tires caught the pavement and again. Martinson let the truck ease by him, then punched the accelerator again and roared into the left lane. The powerful touring car pulled a vacuum that sucked him deeply into the plush seats as it launched past the truck finally, even as it weaved to try and cut him off again. The horn blared from the rusting pickup, and the figure of the driver waved a distinct finger in Martinson’s direction. Martinson blasted his own horn in response, providing a one-fingered salute in return, and then gunned the motor to leave the truck farther and farther behind him.

His heart pounding loudly in his ears, he exhaled sharply through his nose in anger and tried to relax again. He gave a final backward glance in the rearview mirror, and watched the truck fade from view as the Mercedes crested a hill, the driver of the raggedy old pickup flashing lights at him as he disappeared from view.

What the hell? he thought. Jesus, it takes all kinds, I guess.

He was distracted, and hoped that he hadn’t passed his turn-off as he dodged the madman in the truck. He went into the valley between two hills, and saw that the truck was cresting the top of the rise he’d left. It was easily a mile back, and falling farther behind as he crested the next one, moving over the top and down the other side. Martinson stepped more firmly on the gas and the Benz responded nicely, smoothly accelerating to a higher speed and putting his mind more fully at ease as it moved over the brownish road.

As he sped along, he finally saw a sign for the turn-off he wanted. He puffed a slow sigh of relief. Only about another hour of driving, and this over much more scenic, two-lane road through the Appalachians. He reached down into the console between the front seats and looked at the Mapquest directions once more, just to make sure of the exit. It was correct.

He settled back into the seat again, and relaxed himself. He turned the volume up on the CD player and let his mind drift again to the scenic beauty of the cabin. Nestled along the banks of a large, placid lake in a deep valley, it was large, and quiet. The rent for a week wasn’t cheap, but the six bedrooms were perfect for their gathering. Their thirtieth anniversary, and there was good weather ahead of them. He’d have some time to do some fishing with his father-in-law, and some quality time with Sophie was exactly what he needed to recharge his batteries.

MarFeld International was more of a spouse than a company. Like many small businesses, it became a source of time theft over the years. He’d dedicated a lot of time to the company in the early years, and while the plan was to reduce the amount of time required from him over time, he learned quickly that he was being naïve and ridiculous just to imagine such a thing were possible. As a young, aggressive business owner, the years ahead of him were full of challenge and excitement. As he and Pete took the company through its stages, it became cancerous in the consumption of time.

It was the same story told over and over across the company; he was putting in about thirteen hours a day now, and that was actually down from the sixteen that he and Pete had put in for the last ten or more. And, getting the company off the ground had, naturally, cost him dearly. He missed a lot of the kids growing up. He and Sophie had almost split, especially during the lean years. Money was tight for a lot of those early years, and he and Pete had more than their share of sleepless nights hoping that payroll checks were going to clear.

God, it seems like so long ago now, he thought. The money, the houses, the cars, the boats, the deals. They all seem so far away sometimes. I’m glad that, when this deal closes, we won’t have those things to worry over anymore, ever again.

The deal. Everything hinged on the deal.

The plan, put together all those decades ago by he and Pete, had meant for them to retire by age forty. Of course, both of them had waved that number of years a fond farewell, but it would finally come to fruition … as long as the deal closed.

And that, of course, depended on the other four people involved in the deal.

On the one hand, MarFeld International was stagnating. In reality, how much MIDI equipment could be sold? With the down-turn of the technical industry since the end of the 1990’s, there was less and less demand for the company’s products and service. Software could be upgraded, hardware could be replaced, but in the end, it was a finite market. Turning international had helped, but not for long. Even trendy European recording studios could only upgrade so many times. Eventually, MarFeld International was going to have to branch out.

And the future? The future was in this deal, Martinson thought. The path to the future lies down this road, and this would rescue both Pete’s life and mine. We can finally, really retire. And, while we’re doing this, we can save the company for years and years to come.

Naturally, there were many variables. Five people, five different variable factors, but many more than five variables. It was all too fragile. All five of those involved knew that this was the only way they could obtain what they wanted; of course, they all wanted something different. Each of the five had their own reasons for entering into the deal. None of them were the same, and each had its own perspective on the deal. Each had something different to offer to the others. Each was a critical element, and none of them were capable of getting the plan off the ground without all the others.

He settled in to examine it again – at least his end of it – but he realized suddenly that the two lane road was winding much more sharply as it moved deeper into more mountainous terrain. He tapped the cruise control buttons with his thumb, decelerating to a reasonable speed as the car hugged a curve. He tightened his grip on the wheel a bit, and the road bent the other way. It rose and dipped, and he tapped the button again to bring the car into better control. He watched as the road bent more aggressively, and he slowed more still. The lake must be near here somewhere, he thought. The valley is getting deep and the road’s getting curvy.

He took the car around a long, shallow curve, when he caught a glimpse of headlights in the distance behind him.

Martinson looked at the clock on the dash, and realized that his musings had killed over an hour; the sky was dark and the canopy of trees and high hills around him made the terrain even darker. The headlamps of the Mercedes had come on automatically without his notice, and as he maneuvered around another corner in the opposite direction, he caught a glimpse of the headlights behind him again. This time, however, they were much closer.

The first spattering of rainfall hit the windshield as the car moved into a low opening, the road following the valley between the mountains as it wound its way deeper into the hills. The narrow, two-lane highway spilled out into a downhill grade that opened up in a wide spot between the hills, and the rain fell in earnest, gushing down from the black sky and forcing him to put on his windshield wipers and slow the vehicle to gain visibility.

That was when there was a sickening crunch that jolted through the sedan, locking the seatbelt suddenly and painfully against his chest as he was thrown forcibly forward toward the steering wheel.

He fought the pavement for control of the car, the back end sliding to the right as he fought to turn into the skid, once again feeling the aggressive slam from behind. He was still fighting for control from the first blow, and the second forced the rear of the Mercedes into a spin that pulled the front end across the divider line and the rear end off the road. The sudden loss of traction and his frantic yanking on the wheel made the big car swerve into a sideways lurch that reversed itself suddenly when a third crashing blow to the left side of the vehicle pushed Martinson’s car forward while the road bent to the left. The airbag deployed as the Benz slammed broadside into a tree, folding itself around the firm trunk of the old tree, knocking a barrage of autumnally colored leaves cascading onto the hood and roof.

He heard something hissing, the metallic ticking of the engine coughing and gasping for life, and a whimpering whine that he realized was his own voice in the sudden quiet of the road. The airbag was slowly deflating, the air in the cabin filled with the flame-retardant power from the expended safety device. He was leaning over the console between the seats, aching vaguely in his chest and neck, and he heard a growling, gravelly voice shouting something. He couldn’t see in the darkness, his eyes flashing sparks of yellowish white spots into his vision.

“You think you’re invisible in that goddamn car of yours, asshole?” the voice was shouting, approaching Martinson as he struggled to breathe through aching ribs. “You think I didn’t see you flip me off, asshole? Huh?”

Martinson still heard the simpering whining, and realized he was nearly crying as the voice approached him. He frantically fought to sit up, to gain his posture, fumbling through the cabin for his cell phone.

“DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GONNA GET AWAY WITH CUTTIN’ ME OFF LIKE THAT, FUCKER? DO YOU?” the voice continued.

Martinson jumped, crying out, as a loud, piercing crack rang out through the pouring rain drumming down atop his crippled vehicle.

His window spider-webbed into a craze of cracks, glass softening suddenly. He torqued his head to the left as a bolt of white-hot pain ripped through him, just in time to see the head of a hammer emerge through the spongy glass as it yielded to a second blow.

“Did you think I wasn’t gonna see you in there and find you, cock-sucker? WELL, I FOUND YOU BASTARD!”

The window pane showered in on Martinson, allowing the heavy, pounding rain to drive into the cabin of his car. His hand jerked the suit jacket free of the seat next to him, his fingers digging wildly through the breast pocket until they closed over the compact plastic cell phone.

“I FUCKING FOUND YOU, PIG FUCKER! AND I KNOW WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE! I SAW YOU, ASSHOLE, I FUCKING SAW YOU!”

Martinson ripped the phone open and began to dial 9-1-1 as the hammer fell again, on the windshield now.

He heard a sickening buzzing from the phone. He held it up in horror, the words “NO SIGNAL” emblazoned over the backlit display.

He screamed as the heavy woolen glove shot through the missing window in the car door and seized him by the collar, the large hand clenching powerfully into a knot. Martinson’s fingers felt feeble and useless as they wiggled to find purchase against the meaty bind of knuckles and muscle under the thick glove. There was a guttural shout that rang out long and maniacal into the forest as Martinson was pulled over to the opening in the door of his car like a rag doll. Then, he realized he was crying as a gun muzzle pushed out of the dark and slammed into his forehead, ripping open a cut over his brow near the hairline. Blood ran freely as it mixed with the driving rain that caused him to squint, spitting helplessly as he tried to form words. Only inarticulate sobs escaped him as the gravelly voice, thick with southern accent and ignorance, spat at him again.

“I saw you, asshole, and I found you.”

The gun exploded then … and again … and again.

Technorati Tags: fiction

Experiment in Fiction 3

Continuing on with the experiments, here's another oldie from the dusty DarcKnyt archives ... circa 1998.  This story is much farther along, having four completed chapters beyond this -- which was initially the prologue.  I know, I know ... "call your prologue chapter one."  Well, I didn't know that then, and when I re-work it, maybe I will, but for now, this is the prologue.  Backstory.  Events taking place prior to the primary events of the main story.  So, I thought it was a prologue.  My bad.  And, since I haven't read through it since about 2004, I hope you'll forgive me for my weaknesses ... this is still in draft, so any suggestions you have on improving it are welcome.  I hope you enjoy, and feel free to let me know what you think.

The night was slow, and painfully quiet.

That’s usually how it was on Sunday nights, though. José Marquéz sat, night after night, waiting in the quiet little bar for something in his life to change. He listened to the music playing softly over the jukebox speakers piped through the bar, watching the faded wooden sign out front sway in the occasional breeze. The street was quiet beyond the parking lot, and there was nothing happening, period.

It was always the same old story.

He often would allow his mind to drift to far away places, places only dreamed of for him. New York, and the pounding, pulsing streets full of life and vitality. London, thronging with humanity and wet with cool rain. Paris, the most romantic city in the world. Somewhere … anywhere but here.

He drew a heavy sigh and sipped his Mescal.

This God-forsaken hole for a city was all he had ever known. It was all his mother had ever known, and his grandparents before them. They were all farmers, every one of them; no ambition, no dreams. It was as if they were never aware that there was a world beyond Tesacarina, Mexico. Population: 62; major industry: rotting in mud-floor huts waiting for the huge tourist industry that was promised months ago and never delivered.

But José knew better. He wasn’t content to rot here, waiting for the government to develop the resort that would never come to pass in his lifetime. He was going to get out, and get out soon, and take Rosamaria with him. Together, they would escape the bondage of Tesacarina that held so many prisoner in poverty and false hope.

This ridiculous bar was a perfect example. It was built last year to be the first in a “long line” of resort recreational facilities. There was talk of land developers being interested because of the location, so near to the coast, only a few miles away. They were going to buy the farmland, build huge hotels, casinos and swimming pools and attract millions of visitors every year. The townspeople would have a new industry, new jobs to get, more money, or could retire on what was paid for their farms. There would be training, and schools, and soon, Tesacarina would be just like Acapulco or Cabo San Lucas.

José saw through it all, though. There was no way they were going to build here … or anywhere near here. The air was too dry and the weather too hot; the ocean was almost fourteen miles away, over hot sands with poor roads, if any. There were no palm trees, no bathing beauties like in the magazines, and the people in this area are uneducated and foolish. They believed the government would negotiate to get the land sold, and then everything would be all right.

Stupidos! he thought. How could you believe such rubbish?!? You believed all of it!

His mother was worst of all. She had actually begun packing her bags. The whole event had come and gone in less than a month, and that was nearly fourteen months ago. There was nothing being built; not now – not ever. The whole thing was a hoax.

But when he came back from school, he was determined it would be the last time he came back. Next summer, he would go visit someplace he wanted to live. Leaving behind his family would be easier than leaving behind Rosamaria, so he would take his sweetheart with him to the ends of the earth.

School wasn’t easy to get into and stay into in this area. He had worked very hard, every day after school and every summer, and that was just to finish his basic education and high school. College was an even worse struggle, but he was managing. The letters of encouragement from Rosamaria kept him going, studying late into the night after working in a bar on the campus in the evenings and weekends. His grades had faltered some, but he was confident he would recover them. He had to – he was the last, best chance that either he or his family had. And Rosamaria too, for that matter. She was as dependent on his success as he was.

So when he came home for the summer this time, he got a job in this rat-hole bar owned by the sleazy drug lord from Guadalajara. When there is money to be made, or the chance that money will be made, you will find them. This bar was losing money by the hour, and his wage was a bigger drain. Soon, it would close, and hopefully when it did, so would the memory of the lies that were driving the people into the ground.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to think about Rosamaria. The curve of her jaw; the almond shaped eyes, so bright and full of hope; the delicate neckline; the voluptuous bulge of her –

Without warning, the saloon door crashed open, spilling someone inside.

The thin walls rattled and startled José out of his fantasy. He jerked his head up to see a tall, thin man in a long raincoat and a wide-brimmed hat stumbling forward almost frantically toward the bar, his arms flailing in front of him as though he’d been thrown through the door. José jumped back as the man crashed into the bar, shaking it and knocking over some of the stacked glasses and bottles beneath it.

“Whiskey!” he rasped, his voice almost desperate.

José stepped forward as he slid suddenly to one side.

“WHISKEY!” the man screamed, his voiced edged with panic.

José didn’t speak much English, but he knew this word. He reached below the bar, his heart pounding and hands shaking and quickly poured a glass, filling it with too much house whiskey. The man snatched it before he could hand it to him, and finished the dosage in a single gulp.

“More!” he shouted, holding the glass out trembling to José, who tried to pour another glass but was shaking so badly he spilled it down the man’s wrist and shirt cuff.

Before he finished pouring the stranger downed the serving again, and again looked out the glassless openings that served as windows in the bar.

“They’re coming for me,” he stammered, “they’re right behind me.”

He was clearly afraid. José recognized the tone but not the words; this man was in fear of his very life.

The tall stranger turned back to José and shook his glass. “C’mon, more! More!” he urged impatiently.

José poured again, trying to be calm despite his adrenaline and fear. Again the stranger took the glass and drank it in a single swallow before José finished pouring.

“They’re hunting me down,” he said, his voice thin and desperate. “I’m never going to get away. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.”

José tried to comprehend, tried to make sense of what the man was yammering. But his English was simply too poor. He couldn’t understand.

The man turned back to him. “You’d better run too, boy,” he said. “If they see you with me … or worse yet, you see them…”

Suddenly the man jerked around, dropping his drink glass. José cried out in start as the glass shattered on the hard adobe floor. The man rushed next to the window, pressing against the thin wall and peering out the window. “Did you hear that?” he whispered. “Did you? I can’t tell anymore if I’m crazy with exhaustion or if I’m really hearing things now. Did you hear it, kid? Didja?”

José could tell he was being queried, but when he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came out. He felt his heart pounding in his throat. He was shaking uncontrollably. This stranger was clearly mad.

The man looked back at José, and his eyes were wide and hallow. They recessed deeply into his skull, and the madman’s gaze frightened José the more.

“You don’t speak English, do you kid? No hables ingles, eh?”

José shook his head, fear showing clearly on his face.

“Good,” the man said. “Bueno, bueno. Maybe they’ll leave you alone.”

José was confused and frightened. He held the bottle up again, smiling weakly as he reached for another glass. The stranger snorted and looked down, shaking his head.

“You just don’t know, do you? You just don’t get it. No comprende, eh, hijo? You’re dead … I’m dead … we’re all dead.”

José offered the bottle again, trying to appease the somewhat calmer madman. He chuckled a bit and poured a glass of the whiskey, and gestured to the man. “Te quieres mas, Señor?” he said.

The man laughed tiredly. “Sure kid. I want more. Why not?”

He started for the bar when he heard the stealthy crunch of gravel outside the bar.

This time José heard it too, and he froze.

The stranger turned slowly toward the open window, reaching frantically into his raincoat pocket for something.

That was when the lights went out in the bar. It was totally black, no streetlights or reflective light from other structures to assist in the darkness.

José scanned the dark, trying desperately to make his eyes adjust to the sudden blackness. The stranger was fumbling backwards, shuffling his feet across the floor to keep from tripping.

Somewhere in the dark there was a guttural snarl.

José tried to scream, but terror had frozen his vocal cords. He dropped the whiskey bottle and slammed himself against the wall behind the bar in terror, still searching in the dark. What he was searching for, he did not know.

The stranger was holding his arm out, clutching something in his badly shaking hand. José was beginning to make out silhouettes in the darkness against the moonlight coming in from the windows. There was the shuffling and grinding of gravel outside, more distinct this time in the silence, and the stranger whirled in the direction of the movement. José caught the silhouette of a very large pistol in the man’s quivering hand.

He shrank to the floor, holding his hands over his ears, tears running involuntarily down his face. He wanted to shut his eyes but fear locked them open, looking over the bar, a panicked whimper escaping him. There was deafening quiet above the bar.

He screamed like a woman when the crashing tore through the silence. The entire bar shook with the force of a blow of some kind. There was an unearthly scream, and gun shots, four, five, six … click! The magazine was empty. José screamed again when the stranger cried out and there were pounding footfalls across the floor. A huge thump, the crashing of tables, a scream from the pits of hell itself … and a terrible sound, an ungodly sound that made the room go silent again.

José wet himself then, and cried like a baby, weeping in fear and dread. He squeezed his eyes tightly closed, crying uncontrollably, the tears stinging his eyes as he clenched the lids shut so he wouldn’t see, still holding his hands clamped over his ears.

He felt the bar shudder and creak under a weight. He didn’t want to – absolutely didn’t want to – but couldn’t help opening his eyes and raising his head to see what was above him.

Then, he really screamed.

Technorati Tags: fiction