I can't tell you how impressive this was to me. Now that's a true follower. Today, he's much, much happier.
Congratulations! It was a hard row to hoe, but you did it. That's not going to mean much more than not having a perfect bookend season to the undefeated one of 35 years ago, but hey -- a win's a win, right?
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.
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.
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.
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.
(Some of you may have already read this on one of my other sites. Sorry about not getting it up here sooner.)
This one goes WAAAAY back to 1997 for me. I hadn't met my beautiful, loving wife yet, and was working through trying to learn how to write a book. But, as a pants-seat writer, I never followed through, so here it sits, rotting on my hard drive. Let me know what you think of it.
The shop was quiet.
The shop was quiet most of the time, actually. Debbie Syntalis opened her Psychic-Tarot reading storefront two months ago, and in a town as small as Hinton, Illinois, it takes time to get established. She knew that when she opened up, but still …with the holidays coming soon and shopping to be done, rent coming due and bills to pay, money was more than tight. Relocating to Hinton wasn’t turning out to be everything she’d hoped.
Of course, being on the outer edges of the Bible belt didn’t help either. The strength of the Christian community, with their fundamental and narrow-minded beliefs, wasn’t exactly nurturing to the health of her business. Outlying communities had psychics, but Debbie would be only one of four or so in Hinton proper. Going any further west meant being in the heartland, surrounded by corn and farmers. Going farther east meant more fierce competition, and going into Chicago was too much for her altogether. Hinton seemed ideal, because it was a quiet, peaceful suburb with relative affluence and somewhat higher-level educated populace.
It wasn’t ideal at all, though. At least not yet, she mused. She looked at the stack of bills sitting on the counter, gave a quick calculation of the remains of her small business loan, and sighed. Things didn’t look good, but she predicted success in Hinton for herself. A wry smile snaked over her full, pink lips, and she swept her auburn hair behind her delicate ear. I could be wrong, I suppose, she thought amused. It wouldn’t be the first time … or the last.
She looked at her reflection thoughtfully in the glass of the display case in front of her, where the crystals, incense, meditation aids and other sundries were stored for sale. She was an attractive woman, and she knew that. Early thirties, single most of her life, with only one disastrously failed long-term relationship under her belt. That was so long ago, but she ignored the psychic’s advice when they went to him. Jim Something-or-other, she couldn’t recall the medium’s name. But he influenced her heavily. His startlingly accurate portrayal of their relationship’s demise sparked her interest in psychics and spirituality. Raised a Baptist, she gave up on the faith her parents tried doggedly to impart on her in college. The loss of her one committed relationship two years later changed the path of her life forever. She tried to explain to her parents the depth and the mysterious nature of the psychic world, and that it didn’t exclude Christian beliefs, but they were frantically trying to “get her help.” She realized she hadn’t contacted them yet since she’d been in Hinton, and decided to send a Christmas card and call before the end of the week.
She was jotting a note to herself when the door opened, and the jingling of the bell on the jam almost startled her through the background New Age music lofting through the tiny, narrow storefront.
The man that came in was in his early thirties, about six feet tall, with jet-black hair that fell to just above his shoulders. When he walked in from the late evening darkness, it swept back on the currents of air he created when he moved. Wow, he’s GORGEOUS, she mused as he flashed a winning smile at her. She smiled back. “Hi, can I help you?”
“I think so. I’m looking for Debbie. Do you know if she’s in?” His voice was soft and liquid, and she found herself drawn to him and gazing into his deep, deep brown eyes.
“I’m Debbie,” she said, feeling what she could only describe as a schoolgirl’s flush run through her cheeks. What’s my deal? she thought. I just laid eyes on this guy and I’m already flushing? He smiled more broadly and stretched out a flawless, piano player’s hand.
“Hi, Debbie, I’m Jerry,” he said.
She took his hand and shook it. “I know,” she lied, throwing out a trained psychic’s response to keep the illusion up. “What can I do for you, Jerry?”
He cocked his head to the side skeptically. “If you knew my name, how come you don’t know why I’m here?” he said softly, the grin twisting the corners of his mouth up deliciously.
She giggled. Oh, great, she thought, NOW I’m giggling, too! She knew her bluff had been called. “Well, I can’t take ALL the impetus away from you,” she said and laughed again.
Thankfully, he laughed with her. “Oh, I see. Did the little gremlin sitting on your shoulder giving you information fly away?” He smiled through the comment, but she noticed a subtle change.
I’m distracted, she thought. I need to focus, here.
“Not at all,” she said, and cleared a spot on the counter in front of her and gestured for him to come nearer. “What can I do for you today, Jerry?”
“You mean you really don’t know?”
“Why don’t you tell me, and that’ll make things a little easier on both of us.” She was trying to regain control of the meeting’s flow. She did notice, however, that he seemed to delight in the fact that she couldn’t pinpoint anything in him, or around him. There was almost a … cloudiness about him that interfered with her reading.
“Oh, that’s disappointing, but not surprising,” he said softly. “Psychics NEVER know what I want from them. Isn’t that interesting? None of them ever ‘pick anything up’ from me.” He smiled again.
She smiled back. “Well, tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Are you that powerful?” he asked, his eyebrows going up quizzically.
She hesitated. Something was strange. She couldn’t nail it down, but there was something different about this man than anyone else she’d ever seen.
“Still with me, Debbie?” he asked, the smile fading from his lips somewhat.
She blinked, trying to focus. “Y-yes … I’m sorry, I’m just … tired. Long day.” She smiled again.
She still couldn’t get through, get any kind of vibe from him, no matter how she reached out. There was nothing she could contact – no aura that she could see, no terrain to his persona for her to map out. She was confused, and concerned. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
“Don’t feel bad, Debbie,” he said sympathetically. “It’s not your fault. Your god can’t help you with me.” There was no smile on his face, now.
“Excuse me?” she said, and the expression on his face began to frighten her.
“Your god Satan can’t help you with me, Debbie. You won’t get any ‘readings,’ you won’t ‘see my aura,’ you won’t get anything. You’re powerless with me. That’s why I’m here. I’m here to help you, Debbie.”
This is getting creepy, she thought. This guy’s weird.
Her eyes darted to the phone on her counter top, within her reach.
“Don’t worry, Debbie. I’m not here to hurt you … only to help you,” he said, and he looked deep into her eyes.
He knows I’m getting nervous, she said. Man, I’m not comfortable with this at ALL. I need to get this guy out of here.
“Look, I don’t think I can help you, Jerry,” she said calmly. “I think it’s best for you to leave.”
“I’m sorry, Debbie, I can’t do that yet,” he said sadly.
“If you don’t leave, mister, I’m going to call the cops,” she threatened, trying to harden her tone. She failed.
“No, I don’t think you will,” he said, looking down and shaking his head. “I don’t think you’ll be calling anyone for a little while. Until we talk.”
“Really?” she spat. “Watch me.” She jerked the receiver from the hook and put the phone to her ear.
Silence. No dial tone, no busy signal …not even electronic noise to indicate the phone was working.
“You see?” he said, his tone one of attempted comfort. “I’ve taken care of your phones. So we wouldn’t be interrupted.”
Her heart pounded in her chest and she slowly lowered the hand piece onto the base unit again, trying to think. Oh my God, she thought, this man is insane. Fear began to sink in for the first time in earnest.
“Don’t be afraid, Debbie,” he said soothingly. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore. I’m here to help you.”
She wanted to scream but couldn’t find the strength to force it through her lips. She ran her eyes over him frantically, looking for a weapon of some kind, but adrenaline made her vision quake. Her breathing was short and sharp, and she could feel the panic rising.
She started to cry when she realized that she’d have to go past him around the counter to try and escape through the rear of the store. If she tried to climb over the counter, he’d be there before she could get over it. She was trapped.
“Debbie, Debbie,” he cajoled, trying to calm her, “relax. I’m not here to hurt you. All I want to do is help you.”
She groped madly under the counter for something to defend herself with, anything to defend herself with. She was desperately trying to be fast and quiet simultaneously, and her hands shook violently.
“I’m here to offer you a great gift – a pearl beyond value, a treasure beyond price,” he cooed.
“I don’t want anything from you!” she shouted, hysteria setting in. “LEAVE ME ALONE!”
“I can’t do that, Debbie,” he said sadly. “You need what I’m giving you, and I can’t leave until you accept it.”
She began to sob, no longer concerned with whether he heard her reaching and groping beneath the counter. She jumped off her stool and fumbled beneath the counter, opening the display case and taking out a five-inch diameter crystal ball from its base, clutching it over her right ear to hurl it at him.
He cocked his head and raised his eyebrows sadly. “Would you attack me for trying to help you?”
“Get out of my shop, you freak,” she shouted through her tears that clouded her vision.
“Debbie, you only have to listen. All I’m doing is offering you life … eternal life, Debbie.”
“Get out!” she screamed again. “Get out of my shop!”
“It’s Jesus that calls you, Debbie … He’s the one that sent me here. He wants you to have eternal life, Debbie. He’s calling you.”
“LEAVE ME ALONE!” she was screaming over his words, eyes closed and head wagging back and forth from the effort of her shouts. Maybe someone on the street would hear her … maybe someone would help.
“Debbie, don’t reject this gift. You can be saved, even though you’re serving Satan. God’s mercy is so great, Debbie …just accept it.”
“SHUT UP, DAMN YOU!” she screamed. “Get out of here! NOW!”
“You aren’t going to reject the call of Christ, are you, Debbie?” he asked, and his voice was mournful.
She shrieked and squeezed her eyes shut, hissing through clenched teeth. “YES, DAMN YOU! GET OUT!”
A tear rolled down his cheek, and he wiped it tenderly away. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” he said softly.
*****
The car pulled up in front of the tiny shop, and the two young people jumped out all giggles and smiles. She was twenty-two, he was twenty-four; they were so in love, all hormones and emotions. The push to marry was driven by their incessant desire to be together constantly, but they were “honoring” their parents’ wishes that they find out whether or not they were right for each other and ready for the commitment.
Their solution was to seek out the advice of a psychic. It drove their parents insane, because they were committed Christians … which was exactly the point.
They pushed open the door and heard the chiming of the bell announcing their entrance. The girl snuggled her head into his chest and they walked toward the counter as he put his cheek against the top of her head. He shut his eyes, smelling the sweet perfume of her hair and drifting, lost in her aroma.
It was her horrified scream that tore him from the trance.
He shot his eyes open and stared at the body behind the counter, the blood beneath her head caked in her hair and coagulating on the artificial Persian rug.
The girl screamed again and the boy turned to vomit.
