Screaming to Get Out & Other Wailings of the Damned
Author: J. F. Gonzalez; Mark Williams
Date: 2014-05-15 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Horror; Short Stories (Single Author)
Description: A man wanted for the murder of his young son takes a woman hostage in her home and realizes she's hiding her own dark secret. In a glimpse of a possible future, a young girl must survive by her instincts if she wants to eat and keep a roof over her head. A college student realizes the invisible thing creating havoc throughout the world is a direct result of not sticking up for the most picked-on kid in school who also happened to be a scientific genius. A man begins to realize his new job isn't all that's cracked up to be when his boss begins demanding things most employers wouldn't ask from t
Publisher: Midnight Library

Table of Contents

Introduction

Laura

After Nightfall

Holes

Screaming to Get Out

Home

Ricochet

Mutant

Captivity

Witness

Balance

The Smile

Christian Woman

The Wasting

Breaking Point

About J. F. Gonzalez

Also by J. F. Gonzalez

Acknowledgements

Copyright

SCREAMING TO GET OUT

& Other Wailings of the Damned

Introduction:

AS I WRITE this it is the middle of spring. Outside, it is a warm, but pleasant 73 degrees. The sun is shining. There is a mild breeze in the air. If I were to step outside and take my laptop to work off the side of the front stoop of my house, where I have converted the garden into a sitting area lined with stones complete with Lay-Z-boy chairs and little end tables, I would probably produce nothing. Instead, I’d yearn to get up off my chair and take a walk. Or I might just be inclined to get in my car and drive. Roll down the windows, hit the main highway that leads to the turnpike and head west.

Never to return.

My life as of late has been very much like the title story in this collection—I feel stuck in a rut, I want to escape the confines of my self-made prison. I want to leave the state of Pennsylvania which has been home, of a sorts, for the past twelve years and return to where I feel most at home, Southern California.

But I am also torn between both worlds. I love the peacefulness and serenity of the open country, especially in the spring. I love the coming of fall as the leaves on the trees change color. I love not having to bump asses and elbows with hordes of people just to take a drive up the street to the corner convenience store for a gallon of milk and some toilet paper. I love the sound of the crickets at night on summer nights and I love the blinking lights of the fireflies that buzz around my house like little twinkling stars.

Despite that, I have come to find annoyances in this state – its strange township tax laws, its liquor laws, and its indigenous people (the Amish). I find it annoying that if I want to experience any kind of food that isn’t white-bred, middle-of-the-road cooking (or Italian....more on that in a moment), I have to drive thirty or forty minutes one way just to experience it. In my old Pasadena neighborhood, I just had to walk up the street and take my pick of cuisine from all over the world. Here, in rural PA, it seems the only cuisine available is Amish-food (basically, PA Dutch cooking), sandwich and burger shops, and Italian joints.

Now don’t get me wrong...I love Italian food. But Italian places are on every street corner out here the way Mexican restaurants dot the landscape throughout the greater Los Angeles/Orange County/San Diego stratosphere. One tends to tire of it after awhile. And for the record, no, I never got tired of Mexican food when I lived in California because...well, I had so many other choices, too! Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Indian, Southern/Creole, various Middle-Eastern cuisine (Armenian was one of my favorites), Morroccan, Ethiopian, British/Irish pub fare, and your standard American steakhouses.

If there’s a correlation between food, my wanting to get the hell out of Pennsylvania and back to my birth country, and the stories in this collection, well...I’ll figure it out. Needless to say, all of us are, in a sense, screaming to get out of something. A bad job, a bad relationship, or simply out of an embarrassing situation. Me, I want to get out of Pennsylvania and I want to break out of the mid-list and attain a higher level of income with my books. You might be screaming to get out of something else.

All of these stories, in a sense, came screaming out of me. They demanded to be written at some point in my life, and because they just begged me and pleaded with me and – finally – screamed to be let out, I let them. They went on to live various lives between the pages of paperback anthologies, magazines, and, in some cases, on the digital screens of web magazines. With a few exceptions, most of them were not written with money in mind – that usually comes later, after the creation of the art is accomplished. The fact that they achieved some kind of life prior to their being included in this volume is a minor miracle in itself. My including them here is my way of preserving them in the annals of my overall body of work. After all, as much as most writers don’t like to admit it, most readers miss individual stories as they fly by in magazines and anthologies. The only way your story gains any sense of immortality is through the reprint market (specifically the Year’s Best compendiums) or within the pages of a collection, where your hardcore readership will finally get to savor them.

I tend to see short story collections as a benchmark of accomplishment. They provide a time capsule. Some of my favorite short story collections are often compiled in this manner. They aren’t compiled in regard to theme or mood or subject matter. Besides, I don’t think I have enough material within a certain theme or subject matter to gather them all in one book (you’ll never see The Collected Vampire Stories of J. F. Gonzalez or The Best Western Stories of J. F. Gonzalez for the simple reason that I’ve only written three vampire stories and one western...those would be very small books).

I don’t begrudge other writers for compiling their collections with stories that share a similar theme or motif. My feeling is, if they have enough material, go for it! But, for the most part, my favorite collections have simply been gathered by their respective authors without regard to theme or sub-genre or whatever – they’re just books of stories: Dark Carnival by Ray Bradbury comes to mind; so does Night Shift by Stephen King; By Bizarre Hands by Joe R. Lansdale and In a Lonely Place by Karl Edward Wagner are two stellar collections that are all over the map. Another one is Peaceable Kingdom by Jack Ketchum.

Subsequent collections by many of these guys may have been undertaken with certain themes or moods in mind, but I would be hard pressed to guess which ones. Most collections are compiled from a writer’s recent output – a good example are Stephen King’s short story collections, starting with his first, Night Shift. I compiled two in this manner (Old Ghosts and Other Revenants and When the Darkness Falls); a third collection, the slim eBook version only The Summoning and Other Eldritch Tales was done at the invitation of Delirium Books and it gave me the opportunity to do something different, which was collect all of my published Mythos tales together.

(Aside: I officially have three previous full-length collections. Maternal Instinct was originally supposed to be a short novel but the publisher decided at the last minute that he wanted a book with more pages to justify his price point. I had already compiled most of my best output in Old Ghosts and was forced to find additional material to add to Maternal Instinct. I still think of Maternal Instinct, the book, as the original short novel and not the collection it became).

The volume you hold in your hands was compiled the same way. I wish I could tell you what criteria I used in determining which stories should be reprinted, and in what order. To me, it’s akin to a rock band coming up with a concert setlist – you include your favorites, the critical/fan favorites and most popular, and you plug in a few from the latest album and a deep album track or two from a few albums back...in the writer’s case, this would be stories that might not have gotten as much press as the others but that you still kind of like; it might also include some recent efforts and some new, never before published stuff – as I write this, two such pieces are included in this volume (although by the time this book comes out, they will have already been published in England). As for the improvisation, the drum solos, etc., well, that’s why we have things like introductions and story notes and acknowledgement sections in these things. Right?

This collection spans about fifteen years worth of work. The oldest story in this collection was written in 1998. The latest was written late last summer (2012). They range in theme and mood and run the gamut to the quiet, to the kind that get under your skin, to the out-and-out screamers. Or at least I think so. Some of them also have a B-movie feel to them- after all, that’s what I seem to do best.

With that out of the way, why don’t we get started?

BEFORE I LET you get to the stories, I have a few people I’d like to thank and acknowledge:

Paul Goblirsch for his enthusiasm for publishing the limited edition of this collection.

Special acknowledgement must be made to Tim Deal, Shane Ryan Staley, Nanci Kalanta, Arthur Sanchez & Keith Graham, James Beach, Bill Hughes, Dru Pagliassotti, David C. Hayes & Jack Burton, Marc Ciccarone, Jason Duke, Jack Bantry, Ty Schwamberger, and Kyle S. Johnson & Douglas F. Warrick for buying and publishing these stories, or soliciting them from me in the first place.

Other editorial and colleague peeps: Don D’Auria, Shane Ryan Staley, Gord Rollo, Gene O’Neill, David J. Schow, Tom and Billie Moran, Larry Roberts, Brian Keene, Shane McKenzie, Mike Hawthorne, John Skipp, Jacob Haddon, John Pelan, Lee Seymour, Dallas Mayr, Tom Piccirilli, Nate Southard, Ryan Harding, Mike Lansu and the rest of the crew at 34th Street Films, Wrath James White, Richard Christian Matheson, James Moore, Debbie Daughtee, Robert Swartwood, Mike Lombardo, Brian & Lesley Conner. Tod Clark, Jamie La Chance, and Bob Strauss get bonus points for pointing out all my mistakes and making me look good.

To Steve Calcutt – we tried.

Last but certainly not least, I’d like to acknowledge the support of my family: Cathy J. Gonzalez, Hannah Gonzalez, and Rosie Grace Gonzalez; Jesus and Glenda Gonzalez; Trish & Tim Chervenak, Samantha Chervenak and Max Chervenak; Debbie Martinez, Nick Nave, and the entire El Paso contingent (there’s so goddamn many of you, but you know who you are); also to my friends and family who supported me and kept me sane during the first few months of 2013 – Cathy, Brian, Coop, Bob, Lombardo, Swartwood, Mom, Debbie, Scott, Brian, Dave, Laura & Chip, RC, John & Elsa.

There will be more of this stuff; you can count on it!

J. F. Gonzalez

Lititz, PA

June 10, 2013

Laura

NAOMI STEPPED OUTSIDE to get the morning newspaper when the man jumped out from behind the porch retaining wall and grabbed her arm.

“Don’t scream,” he said in a hissed whisper. He gripped her arm tightly. “I’m not going to hurt you if you don’t scream.”

She held back a scream. His grip on her arm tightened, and she caught a glimpse of a handgun. “Okay, we’re going to walk to the front door of your house. You aren’t going to do anything funny. We’re going inside. Okay?”

She nodded and felt the tears come. The hot summer sun beat down on her face and she had to struggle to keep from crying. A thousand thoughts ran through her, but the most important one was keeping him away from Laura, her daughter.

“Let’s move,” he said.

Nudging her firmly, he escorted Naomi back up the driveway to the front door of her house. He kept the gun on her, shielding it from possible sight from neighbors with the cover of his body.

Naomi’s key ring was still in her hand, and she automatically inserted the house key in the lock and turned it. The door opened, and he ushered her inside and closed the door behind them.

The sound of the lock engaging felt like the lid of a coffin slamming shut over her.

The curtains were drawn over all the windows, shrouding the house in darkness. As if he knew the layout, the man ushered her through the foyer into the family room. He pushed her towards the worn sofa and pointed the gun at her. “When’s your husband get home?”

She got her first real good look at him, and despite the fact everything was happening so fast, she was able to see that he was a big man and had a look of desperation. “I...I don’t...please, don’t hurt me...”

“When does your husband get home?” His tone was more demanding, more desperate.

“I...I don’t have a husband,” Naomi said, the words slicing through her as they came out. Even now, after two years, it still hurt to talk about Larry and what happened to him. “It’s just me.”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“I swear, it’s just me!” She fought to keep the panic out of her voice. “Please, don’t hurt me, I swear I won’t tell anybody, I won’t tell—”

He pointed the gun at her. “Get up!”

“What?”

“I said, get up!”

She got up.

“Come.” He motioned for her to follow him. Naomi followed him, her nerves too shattered to do anything else now.

Once in the kitchen, he started opening drawers. “You have duct tape?”

“Y..yes,” she said. “First drawer on your left.”

He found the drawer and opened it. He pulled a roll of duct tape out and regarded her for a moment. “Turn around and get on your knees with your hands behind your back.”

Trembling and crying, she did as she was told. She slowly lowered herself to her knees, ashamed at herself for crying but not able to stop it. She hoped that whatever happened, it happened fast and Laura wouldn’t get home until it was all over and the man was gone. Please God, get this over with, please just let him tie me up and ransack the place, let him take whatever he wants to feed whatever addiction he has, but please don’t let him still be here when Laura gets home.

She felt rough hands grab her wrists and begin binding them with the duct tape. She doubted he was in possession of the handgun still—she wouldn’t think he’d be able to bind her like this while armed—but she imagined he’d set it down close by. No way in hell was she going to try making an escape in this position. He had the upper hand.

When he was finished binding her hands behind her back, he stood up. “Okay, on your feet. Come on.”

He guided her back to the living room toward the couch. “Sit down.”

She sat down on the sofa. He was looking around the room, as if casing the place. He was a good-looking guy, perhaps in his mid-thirties, with black hair and tanned skin. He appeared to be in good physical shape. He was dressed in black jeans and a black t-shirt and white tennis shoes. Aside from the handgun he was brandishing, there was nothing about him that stood out.

Keeping the gun trained on her, he backed up toward the French doors that opened onto the backyard patio. He peered through the blinds. "Where's the bedrooms?"

"Down the hall," she said. Her stomach was doing slow flops in her belly.

"You have a shower I can use?"

"Yes."

"Where were you going?"

She decided to be honest and tell the truth. "I was going to the store for some groceries."

"You have a job?"

"Yes." A lie, but what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

"What do you do?"

"I'm a child psychologist." It was the first thing she could think of, especially when it came to dealing with Laura.

This seemed to affect him. He fidgeted with the gun, his left hand rubbing his face. “A child psychologist, huh? Just what I need. Jesus.”

Naomi didn’t know what to say. Everything had happened so fast. Had she said the wrong thing?

He picked up the roll of duct tape he'd left on the kitchen counter and placed the handgun down. He pulled out a strip of duct tape. "What about kids?"

"No kids," she said quickly, hoping the lie wouldn't backfire. Do whatever you came here to do and then get out, just leave!

He knelt down in front of her and began binding her legs together at the ankles. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said. He tore off the long strip of duct tape that now bound her legs together and pulled a smaller strip off. "I need to use your shower and clean myself up a little. Then I need to rest. Okay?"

She nodded. She wondered if he was running from something, or if he'd committed some kind of violent crime. "I'm gonna tape your mouth shut so you can't scream, and then I'm gonna use your shower. I'll leave the TV on. Okay?"

She nodded again, feeling a tear slide down her cheek.

He picked up the remote control and turned on the TV. There was a commercial for some fast-food restaurant on, and he turned back to her. "Okay?"

She nodded again and he taped her mouth closed and left her there, bound and trussed up, and went down the hall to the bathroom.

A moment later she heard the shower start up.

The commercial ended and the news came on.

Her captor's face loomed large on the screen. In the background, a popular, local newscaster reported what was being considered a major story. "...shot and killed a hospital security guard, identified as forty-eight year old Herb Eckman, as well as twenty-nine year old Carol Whitman, who was identified as a Hospital Administrator, when a nurse tending to his four-year old son, Henry Oliver, found the suspect in his room attempting to remove the breathing tube—"

Her eyes grew wide as the story rolled on. She could only sit up in rapt attention, the suddenness of the story overwhelming her.

"...Greg Oliver had fled when officers arrived at the home he shared with his wife and young son. His wife had called 911 saying Greg tried to drown their son Henry in the bathtub. Despite attempts to fight him off and save Henry, the boy was unconscious when Mr. Oliver fled the scene. The child was rushed to UC Irvine Medical Center where he was listed in grave condition. A bulletin was put out for Greg Oliver's arrest, and he remained undetected until this morning when he showed up at the hospital and managed to sneak past security. When Emily Bacon, a Critical Care Nurse who works in the Pediatric Unit, walked into the ICU, she saw Greg attempting to remove his son’s breathing tube. When Mr. Oliver attempted to flee, Mr. Eckman tried to stop him. That’s when Greg Oliver opened fire with what appeared to be a nine millimeter handgun."

Naomi watched the news coverage in stunned silence as Greg Oliver showered down the hall.

She learned the rest of it quickly. Greg had fled in a white Camaro with the police in close pursuit. Greg had abandoned the car five miles away from the hospital, in the development she lived in, and there was no trace of him. He was also the father of a two-year old son, Bobby, now deceased. His wife had been arrested but was never charged with Bobby’s death, which had been labeled an accident.

The sound of a helicopter flying overhead eclipsed her thoughts and broke her attention from the newscast. The police were here, at her subdivision, conducting a search.

Down the hall, the shower stopped.

She felt tense as the news droned on in the background. There was no doubt that if the police showed up while Greg Oliver was in the house, he would kill her. But if it took another few hours for the search team to reach this end of the subdivision and Laura –

Laura! What would happen with Laura? Would her elementary school let the kids out of school knowing what was going on?

She worried about this while the news coverage continued, and before she knew it Greg Oliver was standing in the living room dressed in a pair of Larry's old jeans and nothing else, towel-drying his hair as he watched the TV.

After watching the coverage on himself for a few minutes he muttered, "Goddamn. They didn't waste time putting this on TV, did they?"

She didn't say anything; her heart beat heavily in her ribcage. She felt sweaty, hyped up with adrenaline.

Greg turned to her. "They're searching the development?"

Trembling, she nodded.

The shower seemed to have reinvigorated him. When he’d first taken Naomi hostage he'd been primed up, on the edge, a man driven to desperation. She’d seen the tiredness in his eyes. Now the shower seemed to have driven away whatever fatigue he'd had; he looked more dangerous now than ever.

They watched silently as the news anchor brought the viewing audience up to speed, repeating the story she'd seen earlier.

Naomi stayed silent, watching him.

Finally he turned off the TV with the remote. "Okay, this changes everything. Damn!"

Her thoughts were running a mile a minute. She shook her head, hoping he’d see the look of desperation on her face. He looked at her for a minute, and then reached over and ripped the duct tape off her mouth. Naomi winced at the pain, debating on what to tell him. "It's only ten-thirty," she said. "It's not going to take all day to canvass the area. They'll probably finish by two and reopen the development. When they do that, you can go. I’ll even drive you out myself." Then you can go and be out of my life, she thought. Before Laura gets home.

He was shaking his head. "They're not going to reopen it so soon," he said. "They'll keep it closed off. They'll escort people into the development as they come home from their jobs. They're not going to write me off as being gone so quickly. They know I'm nearby somewhere."

"Well, they can't just force their way into every house in the neighborhood," she said.

"I dumped my vehicle only four blocks from here," he said. He regarded her calmly with those dark eyes, that strangely passionate and dangerous face. She noticed for the first time that he was lean, his stomach flat and hairless. "They're going to concentrate their attention four blocks in either direction. That means they're going to mostly be smack dab in the middle of this development."

"If they do, we just won't answer the door," Naomi said. "We'll just—"

Greg tore off another strip of duct tape from the roll. "I'm taping your mouth shut again so you don't scream when that happens." He leaned forward, ready to tape her mouth shut again when she shook her head.

He paused, irritated. “What?”

“Why...” Naomi began. Go ahead, ask him! she thought. With that little bit of internal courage, she finished her thought process. “Why did you try to kill your son?”

He looked at her for a moment, his dark eyes deep and penetrating. “So you want to know why a man would go out of his way to kill his own child?”

She nodded. She had to gain his trust, and the only way she could do that was to keep him talking, learn what made him tick, empathize with him. In that position, he might let down his guard enough to allow her to—

"You want to know what you're up against, huh?"

She nodded again.

"Bet you see a lot of cases of kids with behavioral problems, don’t you? Kids who are out of control; not in the normal sense, but more than you’d expect."

“I suppose I do,” she said, playing along with him.

"Bet these kids’ parents don’t know what to do with them, do they? They come to you because they think you have some insight into their child’s behavior. They think because of all your big degrees and your years of practice that you have some insight into what makes a child’s mind work. And you know what?"

“What?”

“For the most part, they’re right.” He leaned forward and placed a rough, callused hand over her mouth. His voice was a whispered hiss, his face inches from hers. "Here’s where your colleagues have got it wrong, though. My son's a little monster. Everybody always says that children are special, children are our future, they’re innocent, but it's all bullshit! There are birth defects and there are mental abnormalities. We see them every day and we live with them. Sometimes we can treat them. But out of all those physical and mental abnormalities there's an even smaller percent, maybe less than one percent of all those kids born with certain deficiencies, that have something else, something that makes them different. I don't know what it is, and I haven't been able to find anybody that can help me, not any scientist, or doctor, or psychologist. Nobody! All I know is what I've seen, what I've experienced, what I've seen happen around me and my son. He's a monster, and he'll grow up to be a bigger monster if I don't do something about it! He'll—"

"What has he done?" She didn't realize she was going to ask this question until it was out of her mouth. She shuddered, hoping she'd said the right thing.

Her question startled him. Greg looked at her, his eyes wide. His breathing seemed to stop. He still had his hand over her mouth but it loosened somewhat, which was how she'd been able to ask him her question. Now the hand relaxed slightly. He was looking at her with a false sense of hope. "What are you saying?" he asked. "How do you know?"

She felt elated, and sagged with relief at the sound of his last question. She had the necessary background to deal with this, and it was more than enough to deal with him!

"If this is some bullshit you’re trying on me," Greg continued, his hand still over her mouth, "I'm not buying it. I know what I've seen and—"

"I know what I've seen too," she said, the words coming out in a rush. "I see it all the time in my practice and believe me, what you’re saying is something I’ve been turning over in my mind now for the last few years. I know society puts children on a pedestal, that children have become poster things for politicians and clergymen, that so many of our laws and the way society is structured is to protect children. You want to know something? It's all designed and manipulated by these...these things that aren't children. They're the ones manipulating parents into becoming shrill, overbearing advocates for child protection at every level of society. And they do this because it drops our guard against the real threat—the creatures who are masquerading as children!"

"I don’t know if I should believe you," he continued. "You probably think I'm psycho or something, saying shit like this about kids. You're a psychologist, you're probably just stringing me along and—"

She shook her head. "No, I know what you're talking about. Believe me, I’ve seen it enough in my practice that—"

His eyes narrowed. "There's pictures of a little girl all over this house. Who is she?"

"My sister's daughter," Naomi lied. She could tell he believed her, and she continued. "I don't have kids and I'm not married. My husband, he wanted children, but I didn't. I...didn’t have time...I wanted to concentrate on my career. That's why we broke up." Another lie, but what he didn't know wouldn't hurt. "My sister has a daughter and I guess she's a good kid. She sends pictures every few months. I have pictures of other people in the house, too. Didn't you notice them?"

He nodded now, the suspicious expression slowly giving way. "You asked me something a minute ago," he said. "You asked me what my kid did, as if you knew he’d done something...that he’s not like other kids. How did you know? Why'd you ask that?"

Naomi’s answer came quickly. "Because I know children are born with no conscience, no sense of morals, of right and wrong. Most parents do a good job of raising them and instilling some sense of values in them, but a lot of them don't even bother. It becomes easy for such children to become emotionless vacuums. I've read stories about pre-schoolers who snap suddenly and lash out violently at playmates, of elementary school kids shooting each other at school and not feeling sorry for what they've done. It's something I've taken interest in, something I've read up on since I was in my early twenties when my parents, my whole family actually, started asking me those pesky questions about when I'm going to reproduce. They wouldn't accept my reasons for wanting to be childless. They felt there was something wrong with me for not wanting to be a mother, especially since I work with kids. Personally, I don't see anything wrong with self-preservation, for not wanting to reproduce. A child in the womb is a parasite, a leech draining a woman's natural resources. When it's born it physically depends on the mother for nourishment. Likewise for the father if he decides to stick around. The father becomes a host mostly on the financial end, but also the psychological. His life suffers to a degree. Most people can handle that and even like it. I knew early on that wasn't for me. I didn't want that kind of drain on me, so I opted to not have kids." She paused for a moment, watching his reaction. "Society doesn't encourage this, though. The way everything is so...so..."

"Child friendly?" He asked. He removed his hand from her mouth.

"Yeah." She nodded.

"That's part of what they do," he said. Naomi could tell she was getting to him now, that she was getting him to let down his guard and trust her. "It's their trick. They've been fostering this notion that breeding is good, that the more kids people have, the more emotionally fulfilled you'll become. They do this because they want more of themselves. They're rare, you know. Only a fraction of all births in the world. That's tiny, a drop of water in a vast ocean. There were more of them up until the last fifty years or so. Now people wait until their thirties and later to have kids. And the things don't like it. That's why we're seeing such an increase in the way they're manipulating those in power to ease restrictions on birth control. They want to encourage more births, because the more kids people have, the more chance they have of increasing their numbers. That’s why you have people like that woman in Texas who killed all six of her kids—people like her realize what they are, and they try to put a stop to them but nobody sees it!"

"You didn't answer my question earlier," Naomi said. Now she knew she had him. His mention of Andrea Yates was the clincher. If she could now only gain his trust further, get him off guard so she could save herself and escape... "I asked you what your son did. Tell me."

Greg Oliver paused for a moment, than relaxed. He sat on the sofa next to her, no longer intent on keeping her mouth shut. "Lady, believe me, I'd love to tell you but—"

"You don't trust me," Naomi said, frowning slightly. "Look, you've got to trust me with some of this, Greg. Believe me, if I wanted you caught I would have screamed, and the way the police are canvassing this neighborhood, you and I know somebody would hear me."

His eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know so much?”

She felt an ache in her heart as her answer yearned to burst out of her. “Because it’s...well, like I said...I see...a lot of things in my practice...”

His eyes widened. All the color seemed to drain from his face. “What kind of things?”

“Two years ago one of my clients, a little girl...” she chose her words carefully. “...killed another little girl. She was at this little girl’s house playing, and...my client pushed her friend down a flight of steps. The little girl died instantly of a broken neck. The police were involved, but my client...was only five when it happened. She didn’t understand! She was distraught...she said it was an accident and the performance she put on...it convinced the police and the social workers that what happened was an accident.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “But it wasn’t.”

“How do you know it wasn’t?” Greg asked.

Naomi was silent for a moment. “It wasn’t the first time she’d done it. She tried to choke another playmate a few months before. And the little girl that was pushed down the steps? One time...my client swung a belt at her, hitting her in the face. My client wanted to kill that little girl. And...and...”

Before she totally lost it, Greg interrupted her. “My son Tony drowned his little brother.” His voice was tortured, dripping with raw pain. “He drowned Marky in the bathtub. Connie had nothing to do with it! I caught him doing it. I...I didn’t get there in time to..to save him!”

Greg almost lost it. She waited with bated breath, willing her own tears back and listened as Greg told her what he’d been through with his oldest son, Tony. “He was always a handful but there was something just...different about him...it was as if he knew what we—his mother and I—were thinking. Every time we tried to discipline him or correct him in any way, he would do something worse...it was as if he were testing us. And then we started hearing from his daycare providers that they were having trouble with him. His pediatrician diagnosed him with ADD, but I knew it wasn’t that. It wasn’t until his daycare providers told us they could no longer care for him that I started looking for more serious help. Tony was in three different daycare providers and saw four different child psychologists in a five month period. When he—”

“Is that why you tried to kill him?” Naomi asked.

Greg took a deep breath. She waited for him to answer, noting out of the corner of her eye that it was now almost eleven. She had a little over four hours until her daughter, Laura, came home.

“I saw him slipping rat poison into my wife’s coffee a few days ago,” Greg said slowly. “I...I didn’t let him know I’d seen him and I waited till he left. Then I poured the poisoned coffee down the sink and went upstairs and filled the bathtub. I was thinking about Marky and what Tony had done to him. The police originally chalked that up to an accident, you see. Marky was only a year old and Tony was only two at the time. The prosecutor wanted to press charges against Connie, but there just wasn’t any evidence. Connie had been beside herself with grief—she’d never hurt the kids for any reason. She never even spanked them. So I was thinking of Marky when I filled the bathtub, and then I went downstairs and picked Tony up and he put up a fight. He kicked and screamed, bit my thumb. His screaming woke Connie up. By the time she pulled me away, I’d had Tony’s head dunked under water for over a minute. By then I could hear the sirens and I left, I—”

She nodded, tears spilling down her face, remembering the rest of the story from the news.

“I went back to the hospital to finish the job,” he said, his voice haunted. “I can’t live knowing that I...I helped create...I helped spawn this...this creature...”

She was just about to say, I know what you mean, when there was a knock on the front door.

They froze, their bodies rigid. She held her breath, her heart lodged in her throat. Part of her thought, this is your chance! You can scream now and they’ll bust the door down...you might get hurt but at least—

And on the heels of that: No! Don’t say anything!

Greg Oliver gripped her upper arm with his hand. The doorbell rang and the knock sounded again, more firmly this time. Then, a voice: “Anybody home? This is the Orange County Sheriff’s Department!”

They remained silent, hardly breathing. Naomi whispered to Greg, “Don’t say anything. Don’t even move, even if they go in the backyard. All the curtains are drawn and every door in the house is locked. They can’t get in.”

It seemed like an eternity, but they finally left. “They’re gone,” she said.

“Yeah.” She felt him relax beside her.

For the first time Naomi realized her lower back was getting numb. She shifted position on the couch, her bound wrists chafing together. “My butt’s getting numb.”

Greg rose to his feet. “Let me untie you.” He went to the kitchen and came back with a pair of scissors.

As he cut the duct tape that bound her wrists and ankles, she said, “They’ll have to eventually start letting the people who live here back into the area again. Once that happens, you can stay here for a few days, and then when the coast is clear I’ll take you to wherever you need to go.”

Her bonds were untied now and she rubbed her wrists. He sat on the sofa, hands over his face. She could tell he was exhausted. “You hungry?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. He looked at her. “I am.”

Naomi stood up. “I’ll make you a sandwich.” She headed to the kitchen.

He followed her and she didn’t even go for the handgun he’d left sitting on the counter. She opened the refrigerator and took out cold cuts, mayonnaise, mustard, and then she got a loaf of bread out. He watched as she prepared a sandwich, and then he went to the refrigerator and opened it. “Got anything to drink?”

“Help yourself.” She opened the silverware drawer and pulled out a large butcher knife. He had just pulled out an ice-cold bottle of beer from the refrigerator when she sank the nine-inch blade deep into his abdomen.

His eyes flew open. His hands closed on hers as she twisted the knife in his gut. Aside from the initial spatter of blood on the linoleum floor, the wound didn’t bleed much. She twisted the knife again, pushed it in even deeper, as deep as her straining muscles would allow, and the look in his eyes before he died seemed to search her face and ask, why?

Because I have to protect Laura, my daughter, she thought, jabbing the knife into him further, driving him to the ground. She almost fell on top of him as he tumbled to the floor and she scrambled to her feet, her palms slipping on the blood that was now spilling more fervently out of him. She stepped away, back against the kitchen counter, and watched as his feet jittered on the floor for a moment and then grew still.

She released the breath she was holding and almost collapsed. A wave of relief washed over her, threatening to break the damn. A few tears managed to trickle down her cheeks and she allowed herself to cry. I did it, I beat him, I got him out of the way and, most important, I saved Laura!

Naomi didn’t know how long she sat huddled on the kitchen floor crying, but it was the sound of the police helicopter overhead, still searching for Greg Oliver, that snapped her back to her senses. She glanced at the clock on the microwave oven. It was after one.

Somehow she was able to drag Greg’s body into the garage and wrap it in an old, musty blanket from the laundry hamper. She shoved it into a storage space inside the garage, making sure it was concealed, then went back into the house. She hid the gun in the top drawer of her bedroom bureau. Then she spent an hour cleaning the kitchen floor, making sure to eliminate every drop of blood, then she peeled her own bloodied clothes off in the master bathroom and took a long, hot shower. She changed into fresh clothes placed her bloody clothes in the garbage and entered the house.

It was two forty-five.

She turned the TV on with the remote and, with the sound turned down, she tuned in to the local news.

For the next few minutes she monitored the news and was quickly brought up to speed. Despite securing the development, the police and SWAT team failed to locate Greg Oliver and concluded he'd slipped out as quickly as he'd gotten in. Door to door searches failed to turn him up, and there were no signs any of the homes were broken into. The search was now being widened and Greg’s photo was being broadcast on all the local and regional news networks in the hope somebody had seen him.

At three-fifteen, she heard a key slip in the lock. She sighed in relief. “Laura!” she called out.

“Hi, Mom.” She heard Laura set her backpack down on the floor near the hallway that led to the bedrooms, followed by the sound of her daughter’s footsteps as she walked into the family room.

She held back her tears as she held her arms out. “Come here.”

Her daughter hesitated a moment, concern flickering across her sensitive features, then she went to her mother’s embrace. Naomi held her daughter, reveling in feeling her child’s heartbeat, breathing in her scent. She could tell Laura sensed something was wrong. “What’s wrong, Mom?”

Naomi looked at her daughter and smiled, forcing back the tears. “Nothing, honey. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“There were a lot of police around,” Laura began, her features looking concerned. “What happened?”

“It’s okay,” She squeezed her daughter’s hands reassuringly. “Everything’s fine. The police were here, but I sent them away. It’s okay now.”

Laura’s eyes remained on her mother, as if searching for the truth somewhere. Naomi smiled at her daughter. She never asked about her father anymore. Naomi had accidentally killed Larry one night when they were arguing about going to the police after Laura pushed the neighbor girl down the stairs of their house. Larry claimed Laura had beaten the girl with a belt and burned her with cigarettes a few weeks before. He’d gone so far as to say their little girl was a monster.

Her child wasn’t a monster! Laura was her baby, her child, and no matter what she did or who she was, Naomi was going to love her, and care for her, and protect her no matter what.

Naomi smiled at her daughter, fighting to keep the tears back. “Go change into some shorts,” she said. “I’ll get supper ready. Maybe later tonight I’ll tell you everything and you can help me decide some things, okay?”

Laura smiled, all sweet dimples and child-like innocence. “Okay, Mommy.” Then Laura leaned forward and kissed Naomi’s cheek, turned and skipped toward the hallway and her bedroom.

Naomi watched her go, a sad sense of relief overcoming her. She may be a monster, she thought, the loss filling her so suddenly, so overwhelmingly, but she’s all I’ve got.

After collecting her strength, feeling sorry for what she’d done in killing Greg Oliver, a man she could instantly relate to because of her own situation, she rose to her feet and headed to the kitchen to prepare a light supper for two.

Story Notes

I remember getting the idea for this at an airport. I was flying home to visit my family and was waiting for my flight at the departure gate. The TV at my terminal was turned to CNN and the breaking story was about a hostage situation in Atlanta, Georgia. It seems a guy had broken into the home of a middle-class suburbanite woman and taken her hostage. If memory serves, I think he’d just robbed a bank, too, and been chased into the neighborhood by the police. Long story short, his female hostage kept calm and simply talked to him. She didn’t fight him, and eventually she earned his trust. She talked him into turning himself in and he did. In the days that followed she was all over the news, and we would later learn she'd discussed spiritual matters with him. The Christian Networks would go on and say that God had worked through this woman to touch this man’s heart into doing The Right Thing. Maybe. Whatever happened, for once, nobody got killed and nobody got hurt. The bad guy went off to jail and the woman became a hero and a celebrity for about fifteen minutes. Then she was out of the limelight.

The story was featured so prominently in the media during both legs of my vacation, that I could not help but amplify the situation as I turned it over in my mind. Most significantly, I kept thinking about the fact that she had a five-year old daughter (who wasn’t home at the time this all happened, fortunately). I wondered what would have happened if perhaps her little girl was off at school and came home to this hostage situation. Things could have turned a whole lot worse.

I had just finished my novel Bully and was working on a novella called The Power of the Primitive (which later became the seed for my novel Primitive) when I got the idea for this story, but according to my notes I didn’t actually start writing it until a year or so later. Sometimes stories take time to percolate. They have to rise on their own. That’s what this one did, and when I finished it in late 2007 I sent it to Tim Deal, the editor/publisher of Shroud magazine, who’d been asking me to send him something. Tim liked it but suggested some edits—the original version was about 9,000 words long. I managed to trim some unnecessary exposition scenes, which shaved about 2,000 words off, and it appeared in the Shroud #4 for Fall 2008.

After Nightfall

“DID YOU GET the feeling that hotel clerk was looking at us funny?”

Randy looked at his wife, Wendy, and shrugged. They had just exited the motel office where they had checked in for the night, and were returning to their Acura Legend for their suitcases. “Yeah, but...you gotta remember, this is a small town. We’re virtually in the middle of nowhere. To him, we probably are weird.”

“I still don’t like it,” Wendy said, as she pulled her suitcase out of the backseat and closed the door. Randy already had his in hand, and they walked down the small corridor to the room they had rented for the night. It was a late summer afternoon and they had left Los Angeles heading for Denver earlier that morning. They each had three weeks of vacation they had to use before they accrued another four weeks in their respective jobs. This was the first vacation they’d had since they were married three years ago. They wouldn’t have even stopped in this town for the night if it hadn’t been for Wendy; she noticed that the secondary road off Interstate 15 would cut the traveling time down by about a third. Randy agreed when she showed it to him on the map. Who was  he to argue?

The secondary road was mainly deserted, taking them through barren desert. It was all tumbleweed, sand, and cactus as far as the eye could see. Occasionally they were passed by another vehicle, but other than that they had the road to themselves.

Randy had been just about to ask her if there was a town on this stretch of road when he saw  the tiny cluster of buildings on his right. He saw a gas station and pulled off the road. It was then that they realized two things: they were dog-tired, and they were starving.

“Why don’t we see if we can find a place here?” Wendy had suggested. Luckily there had been a motel right near the gas station and it had vacancies. Randy realized they had been driving almost non-stop since leaving Los Angeles earlier that morning and it was now six o’clock.

Wendy’s earlier question came back to mind fifteen minutes later at the coffee shop next to the motel. They had stowed their luggage away and strolled to the coffee shop for dinner. They were ravenous. They ordered quickly and talked about the trip as the hum of the clientele created familiar background noise. It was a nice diner, clean, well ordered. The people sitting at the booths appeared to be locals and smiled and nodded politely at them. A young couple that appeared to be in their early twenties was lounging in one of the booths; the boy's hair was long and he wore grunge-rock attire of tattered jeans and a plaid shirt and black Doc Marten boots. Likewise, the girl was dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved plaid shirt. Everybody perked up when Randy pulled out his BlackBerry to check email from work and waited for a connection, but there didn't seem to be any in this area. The man in the next booth was looking at the device as if he'd never seen one before. So was the young grunge couple.

Wendy seemed to notice this interest when the waitress brought them their food – steak for Randy, grilled chicken breasts for Wendy. The waitress frowned as Randy put the device away. "What's that?"

"BlackBerry," Randy said. He pulled it out again and showed it to her. "It's like an iPod Touch and a cell phone all in one."

"What's that?"

"What's what?"

"An iPod Touch."

Randy shot a quick glance at Wendy. "You've never seen an iPod?"

The waitress shrugged sheepishly. "We kinda are in the boonies out here."

Randy grinned, relaxing. "Surely you get truck drivers coming through here. Sometimes they carry smart devices like BlackBerries and iPods." The truckers that were employed by his firm, Pacer, carried BlackBerries.

"We don't get many truckers through here," the waitress said. "Not since they closed Highway 10 and diverted the traffic to the Interstate."

Randy and Wendy had been traveling the Interstate when they thought taking Highway 10 would take some time off their trip. If they hadn't, they would have had to travel around in an almost horseshoe pattern to reach their final destination. Randy began digging into his steak. "Well, a BlackBerry is kinda like a mini-laptop computer."

"A laptop?" The tone of the waitress’s voice suggested she didn't know what a laptop computer was, either.

"Hey Mary! Coffee?" A man seated at one of the booths addressed the waitress, coffee cup raised.

"I'll be back," the waitress said and scampered off.

“I think you’re right about what you said before,” Randy said to Wendy quietly, slicing into his steak with greedy abandon.

“About the people?”

Randy nodded. “That motel clerk looking at us funny when we checked in. And...”

"The people at this place are looking at us funny," Wendy suggested.

"Yeah. And our waitress gives me the impression she's never seen a laptop computer, either."

Wendy nodded. This was the first time either of them had been out in such a rural area. Wendy had grown up in Phoenix, Arizona; Randy in Los Angeles. "Maybe they're just behind the times," she said, spearing lettuce from her salad with a fork. "My grandparents live in a small town in Colorado and things there are a little slow. Not that slow, though!"

They finished their dinner quietly and the waitress approached them. "Where you guys headed?"

"Denver," Randy said. He smiled at the waitress.

"We don't get too many travelers through here," the waitress said. "You driving straight through?”

“No, we’re staying overnight at the motel next door,” Randy said.

“We don’t get many people staying overnight,” the waitress said.

“You want dessert?"

"No. Just the check, please."

The waitress scribbled on the check, tore it off the pad, and set it on the table. "Have a nice stay," she said.

When they left the diner Randy couldn't help but feel everybody was watching them. He mentioned this to Wendy as they walked back to their motel. "Don't worry about it," she said. "We're probably the only form of amusement they've had all year." The early evening was fading with the setting sun. Shadows were lengthening and the other patrons began leaving.

When they got to their room, Wendy opened the suitcase and rummaged inside for her toiletries. "I'm gonna take a shower," she said. She disappeared in the bathroom.

Randy flopped down on the king-sized bed and turned on the TV with a flick of the remote.

Just as he suspected, there weren't many channels. This town was probably too far off the beaten path to receive cable service. He found a local station playing a re-run of Seinfeld, got bored, then flipped around. Everything he chanced upon was a re-run of an old sitcom or drama: Picket Fences, LA Law, Frazier, the X-Files. He found one station playing a movie: Jurassic Park.

He mentioned this to Wendy when she came out of the shower.

"Try to see if the news is on," she said, toweling her hair dry.

Randy flipped through the stations. There was no news. Randy checked his watch. "It's still early," he said. "Only eight o'clock. Local news probably comes on at ten."

Wendy was rummaging among the desk and pulled her laptop computer out. She flipped it open and looked around on the desk. "Guess this place doesn't have high-speed Internet connections."

"Some hotels still don't," Randy said. He got up and stretched. "Try dial-up."

Wendy tried the dial-up connection for fifteen minutes while Randy was in the shower. When he came out, she frowned at him. "I can't connect at all."

Randy toweled off. "Maybe it's a good thing we can't connect to the Internet," he said. "We're supposed to be on vacation. No need to check email. Let's just pretend we don't have the laptop."

"Long as you pretend you don't have your BlackBerry," Wendy said with a grin.

"Deal."

Neither of them was tired, and as Randy pulled his underwear on, Wendy suggested they dart across the road to the tavern for a nightcap. "Sounds good to me," Randy said. He pulled on his jeans and a tee-shirt while Wendy got dressed, and a few minutes later they left the room.

THE TAVERN WAS just like Randy would have expected; dimly lit, a bar lining the west wall, booths along the east wall. The jukebox played Garth Brooks. Randy hated country music, and approached the jukebox to see what other selections there were: "Enter Sandman" by Metallica, "Hard to Handle" by The Black Crowes; "Achy-Breaky-Heart" by Billy Ray Cyrus. There was also some vintage Aerosmith and Bob Seger, stuff from Randy's toddler years. Nothing at all from the last five years. "Nothing new here," he said, turning away from the jukebox.

"A lot of bars have nothing but old songs on the jukebox," Wendy said as they bellied up to the bar. "This isn't so unusual."

Randy shrugged. "Maybe.”

They each ordered a glass of wine. The bartender served them and they sat at the bar, nursing their drinks, savoring the taste. The bar was fairly empty for a Wednesday night. A pair of working-class guys were playing pool and a couple was seated in one of the booths. A pair of older guys were at the other end of the bar. One of them acknowledged Randy and Wendy with a nod and a wave. Randy nodded back.

"New in town?" the man asked. He looked to be in his late forties, a farmer or maybe a construction worker.

"Just passing through," Randy said.

"On your way to Denver?"

"Yes." Randy introduced himself and Wendy to the man. The man's name was Hank. They shook hands.

"Nice to meet you," Hank said. "Sorry to hear you're just passing through. Well, I should say I'm glad, but I'm also sorry. This is a nice town. We don't get too many people stopping in for the night."

"Surely you get people passing through all the time," Randy said.

"We do, but never for the night." Hank sipped his beer. His companion, who Hank had introduced as Moose, sat morosely on Hank's left, staring at the bar. "The motel stays open for business though, just in case."

Randy frowned. Come to think of it, there had only been a few cars parked in the motel parking lot. He hadn't given it much thought until Hank mentioned it. "You mean we're the only guests they've had in a long time?"

"Only out-of-town guests." Hank sipped his beer. "Town used to do booming business before the Interstate was built in 1970. It diverted traffic away. That killed off a lot of industry in the area and a lot of towns simply died. People left, went to Denver or the outlying suburbs. Some went to New Mexico. Not us, though. We stayed. It's been tough, but we're managing."

"So other towns in the area have simply dried up?" Randy found all this interesting. "Are they ghost towns now?"

"In a way," Hank said.

Randy glanced at Wendy. He took a sip of his wine. "How do you guys get by?"

Hank smiled. "We do it by good, honest living. Home cooking, laid-back lifestyle, agriculture. We get by. Only thing we miss is the constant infusion of people from other parts of the country driving through. We miss out on a lot of things here. Sometimes it takes us awhile to catch up, but we eventually do."

"I can see that," Randy said. "The waitress at the diner we ate at had never seen a BlackBerry."

"What's a BlackBerry?" Hank asked.

Randy grinned and told him what he'd told the waitress. Hank laughed good-naturedly. "See what I mean? We're behind the curve, but we'll pick up eventually. That's why we're usually thrilled when somebody new passes through and stays for the night."

Randy and Wendy had a nice time talking to Hank. They also had a chat with the bartender. Moose chimed in a few words as well. When they were finished with their nightcap, they bade Hank good evening and left the bar. "Enjoy your stay!" Hank said.

They crossed the road holding hands and made their way back to their room.

Randy tried to pay attention to the motel as they entered the grounds. Beside their car there were five other vehicles parked in the lot. Their car was the newest—the others looked like they were early nineties models. There was even a 1991 Chevrolet Camaro RS. It didn't make a lot of sense that they were the first people from out of state to stay overnight in years. How could the motel survive financially? He voiced this in quiet tones to Wendy, who said, "Let's just not dwell on it. We'll get some sleep and be out of here early tomorrow."

That was fine with Randy. He let themselves into their room, and in a few minutes they were dressed down in their underwear. They climbed into bed. Randy felt tired finally. He kissed Wendy. "Night, honey."

"Night."

"We'll get up early, be out of here and on the road by eight."

"Sounds good." Wendy said. She reached over and set the radio alarm clock for six-thirty.

They settled beneath the covers and fell asleep in no time.

AROUND THEM, NIGHT settled in around the town. The roads were barren, lonely. The diner was closed. The tavern closed up shop at midnight. Hank went to his dusty pickup truck and drove off. In the dozens of tiny clapboard houses that dotted the side streets of the town, people settled down in their beds to sleep, eager to begin the next day. Business slowed down to a crawl and completely stopped by midnight as the inhabitants of the town slept.

Randy and Wendy slept deeply.

Stillness.

And then, gradually, there was a stir of something alive in the atmosphere.

The wall that the head of the king-sized bed was against appeared to shimmer and melt. It drooped down the headboard slowly, like molasses. It rolled over the pillows and began to creep over the sleeping forms, slowly covering them. Likewise the floor seemed to elongate and ripple, tendrils reaching up to grasp the bedspread and crawl up. It enveloped Wendy and Randy from the side and foot of the bed. Neither of them stirred; they were in such a deep sleep from the wine and the general road-fatigue that they wouldn't have awoken even if the essence of the town hadn't intoxicated them with its images of easy living and the calm, peaceful feeling it injected into their conscience. This essence wrapped itself around them and drew out their memories and knowledge, feeding on them, and when Randy woke up the next morning before the alarm clock sounded, he felt even more drained than when he went to bed. He looked over at Wendy, noticed she was still sleeping. Then he got up and padded to the bathroom and got into the shower.

By the time he got out he felt a little better, but he was still tired. The shower had reinvigorated him somewhat. Wendy was up now and she had the TV on, turned to CNN, and she was watching the latest news on the Iraq situation. "Good morning," Randy said.

"Morning." She yawned. "I could use some coffee."

"Take a shower and we'll grab some breakfast," Randy said.

When she was finished with her shower and dressed, they walked over to the diner. Randy was more hungry than anything now, and he ordered a plate of eggs, bacon, pancakes and coffee. Wendy ordered an omelet. A truck driver came in and sat at the counter and ordered breakfast. He pulled out a cellular phone and talked to somebody for a long time. When the waitress brought their check, Randy asked, "Is there a real estate agent in town?"

"Hank Michaels over on Running Springs Way," she said.

“Does he drive a pickup truck?” Randy asked.

“Sure does.” The waitress motioned to a pick-up truck across the road at the Feed Store. “That one right there.”

Randy looked out the window. A shiny red Ford pickup truck was parked near the entrance.

Randy turned back to the waitress and smiled. “Great! Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” The waitress scampered off to wait on other customers.

Randy and Wendy quietly finished their breakfast.

After they finished, they paid their bill and exited the diner, which was filled and bursting with early-morning customers. They walked back to their room and started packing. Randy flipped through the TV—Sharon Osborne was interviewing Hilary Duff on her morning talk show and Bill O’Reilly was pontificating on Fox News. He flipped to a movie channel—Finding Nemo was on. He flipped to a music station and got a local station blasting Coldplay. That was more to his liking.

He helped Wendy pack the rest of their stuff, than they got in their car and drove to the feed store.

They approached Hank Michaels, who was just finishing his transaction. “We were told you’re the local real estate man,” Randy said.

Hank turned to them. The only difference in his look today was that he was wearing a clean pair of tan slacks, a white shirt, and brown oxfords. “ I sure am,” he said. “Follow me to my office.”

Once at his office, he led them through the rear to a small building behind a barn. He showed them to their seats and sat behind a large desk. There was a buzzing sound and Hank reached for the BlackBerry clipped to his belt and pulled it out. He looked at it. “Just a moment,” he said. He tapped a message in and hit a button, then replaced the device in its clip on his belt and sat down, his smile wide. “Now what can I do for you?”

“We’d like to see if there are any homes for sale in town,” Randy said.

“I have several,” Hank said. He looked at his laptop computer, tapped in a few keys, and a moment later a laser printer began to hum. He picked up the printout and handed it to them. “Take a look through these, tell me what you think.”

Randy and Wendy looked through the listing. They were all nice houses at prices nowhere near what they were used to in Los Angeles. “There’s several I like,” Randy said, looking over the listings. “Can we look at them today?”

Hank smiled. “You figuring on staying now, aren’t you?”

Randy and Wendy looked at Hank and returned his smile. “We feel we’d like to stay,” Randy said. “We like the atmosphere, the slow pace. Plus, we feel we have a lot more to give.”

“The town thinks so, too,” Hank said, smiling wider. He held out his hand. “Welcome to Diamond, Colorado, folks!”

Randy and Wendy Neff spent the rest of the day house hunting and eventually bought a three-bedroom house in town. They didn’t even quit their jobs in Los Angeles and go back to gather their things. They simply stayed and moved right in.

And the town thrived once again.

Story Notes

If you take a driving trip anywhere in the southwestern part of the United States, you will come across small towns as described in this story—many of them nothing but a main street or two with a few little housing developments scattered along the outskirts. These towns can be found in the middle of nowhere. I mean that, literally. You can be driving for hours and then all of a sudden there’s this little town in the middle of the desert.

I’ve always wondered how people in such small desert communities lived. What do they do for fun and leisure? Where do they work? Do the people who live in these towns feel cut off from what goes on in larger cities? Those were the thoughts on my mind when I wrote this. I wish I could point to an exact moment of inspiration that fueled the fire for this one, but I can tell you it was written sometime in the summer of 2005 and I sold it immediately to Dred, an online magazine.

Holes

Editor’s note: The following is a transcription from a tape-recorded message. It has been transcribed here with voice-recognition software for easy reading.

It’s cold outside. Winter is here and, according to the newscasters, this is already proving to be the harshest winter in this part of the state.

(A heavy sigh on the tape. The sound of a chair squeaking)

I guess I better get started.

Just a moment ago I heard a heavy booming. It sounded like something very large and heavy tramping through the forest behind my house. I took a peak outside, of course, but didn’t see anything.

The booming was so heavy I could feel the ground vibrate.

I sat listening for ten minutes as the sound receded in the distance. I kept waiting for police sirens, or maybe the sound of somebody heading outside to investigate, but I saw and heard nothing else. Just those heavy, tramping footsteps.

Because it sounded like they’d started near the Sallee home, I put my heavy winter coat on, headed outside, got into dad’s car, and drove over there real quick. The Sallee place is only half a mile from where I live.

The Sallee house looked empty when I got there. Looked like Billy’s parents were gone.

Billy, of course, was probably home for winter break, like I was.

There was no way I was going to go knock on the door to find out.

Instead, I parked the car on the side of the road and trudged through the ankle-deep snow to the woods that bordered the Sallee house in the back. I kept well out of the perimeter of their property—old man Sallee is one of those gun nuts and has those No Trespassing signs nailed up around his property. I made my way through the back and into the woods and started looking around; wondering if what I’d heard just ten minutes earlier had been a figment of my imagination.

It wasn’t. I saw it about fifty yards away from the Sallee back yard.

There was a large path through the woods made by dozens of circular impressions. The impressions sank well into the snow, making firm prints about six inches into the frozen soil beneath.

Whatever it was, it was heavy.

(Pause on the tape).

And as I stood there, shivering in the cold night, my breath misting in front of me, I swear I could still hear it. It’s footsteps moving farther and farther away from me. Judging from the distance, it had to be in town by now.

But nobody saw it. I heard no screams, no crashing cars.

Just those footsteps growing fainter.

I don’t even want to begin to think of what it might be.

(At this point the narrator must have turned the tape recorder off and then resumed again due to the audible clicking noise)

I’m back in my house. God, I never want to see something like that again.

Okay, I’m going to start everything over from the beginning.

My name’s Josh Collins. I’m twenty-one years old. I will turn twenty-two on January 21st, 2013, which is a little under a month away. I live in a dorm room on the Penn State campus in State College, Pennsylvania, but I spend my winter and summer break at my folk’s house in Lititz, Pennsylvania, where I grew up. I’m at my parent’s house now, in my old bedroom, narrating this all into a little voice recorder. My parents are at some Christmas party tonight for my dad’s company. He’s a Purchasing Director at a manufacturing firm in Lancaster, so it’s pretty much mandatory he attends a company Christmas party, you know?

I’m an only child. And like I said, I grew up here. Went to Warwick High School, graduated top of my class in 2009. Got a scholarship to Penn State and am majoring in Engineering.

Anyway, I don’t want to tell you about myself, although I think I need to give you some of my background so you know where I come from. Who I really need to tell you about is Billy Sallee.

I grew up with Billy. He’s an only child, too. Only he and I are light years apart in so many ways.

I don’t mean to brag, but...I was a very popular guy in high school. I was on the track team, on the debate team, held various student body positions, and maintained a 4.0 grade average. I also managed to hold down a part-time job throughout my senior year at Stauffer’s, the local grocery store. I did volunteer work in the community, all to raise my profile for the college recruiters, but also because I liked it. Yeah, I admit it...I like helping people. I know that’s kinda strange in this day and age, especially with people my age, but it’s true. I helped out at the local senior center, the local rec center. I did all kinds of things for the community.

And again...not to brag or anything, but I had a social life. I had friends. I had dates. I had a steady girlfriend in my senior year. Her name was Heather Watkins. She was a cheerleader, and unlike a lot of cheerleaders I knew, Heather actually had some smarts. She’s a junior at Millersville University now, majoring in Biology.

Billy Sallee was smart, too. Like me, he maintained a 4.0 grade average.

Unlike me, Billy Sallee had always been a social outcast.

Billy’s parents were middle-class, like my folks. And while I think they loved him, I don’t think they really paid attention to him. I also think they coddled him too much. I remember when we were in kindergarten, his mother always sent him to school with notes to the teacher; she didn’t want Billy to play on the monkey bars because he was clumsy and she was afraid he’d hurt himself; she didn’t want him to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches because peanut butter made him break out in a rash. It got to the point that the other kids immediately sensed Billy was not like everybody else, that he was Special. Therefore, he became a target.

You know how kids are. Kids can be cruel.

Billy became the butt of everybody’s joke. He was teased. Harassed. Humiliated. Laughed at.

Oh, the teachers tried to put a stop to it, of course. Kids got in trouble. But the teasing never stopped. Not really.

Despite that, Billy did great in school academically. Like I said, he was smart. He was a whiz at math and science.

Because of the teasing he got through elementary school, he was painfully shy. It also didn’t help that his mother dressed him in the morning. His parent’s fashion sense wasn’t very becoming to him. If the word ‘geek’ had a picture in the dictionary, Billy’s face would be featured prominently. When adolescence set in, Billy’s eyesight went south and he was fitted with glasses that magnified his eyeballs. His teeth were crooked (for some reason his parents never got him braces), he had bad acne, his hair was cut in a really awful haircut that suggested the barber (or his mother) had stuck a cereal bowl on his head and simply cut around the rim. Yeah, Billy was an outcast all right. And it might not sound like such a big deal, but you weren’t there. Billy Sallee wasn’t just teased...he was tormented.

The examples are too numerous to mention. I can’t count how many times Billy was sent home from school crying. And not just little whimpering crying either, but outright bawling. The kids just picked and picked at him, finding all his vulnerable spots, and Billy never once fought back. I don’t know why he never fought back, although I have my suspicions. That probably had to do with his parents admonishing him to never make a fuss about things, to never call attention to himself, to not do anything that would embarrass them.

You know...things like fighting back, maybe getting suspended from school for the trouble. God forbid some school administrator thought badly about Billy’s parents because he’d gotten into one schoolyard fight.

So instead, he suffered and not once spoke out.

He was called every name in the book. He was called four eyes. When we were thirteen, he was called Chipmunk, for his teeth and his high-pitched squeaky voice. Pizza face was another common nickname when he got zits. Fishy was another nickname. I don’t know why the kids called him Fishy. He was skinny, for one thing. Skeletor would have been a more appropriate name. One time I asked James Chapman why that particular nickname was given to Billy. “Because when he starts crying he breathes like a fish,” James said. “His mouth kind of goes like this.” He demonstrated, his lips turning into an ‘O’ as he mock gasped for breath and mock sobbed at the same time, his eyes wide and bugged-out, giving the appearance of a fish looking out at you from an aquarium or something. The other kids that were gathered around us at lunchtime laughed at this demonstration. I didn’t laugh. I thought it was pathetic.

But I never once told James this to his face.

I realize I should have. Realized it shortly after it happened. But I never did anything about it.

To top it off, Billy didn’t have any kind of support system. He had no friends. And all I knew about his home life was that his parents were over-protective, and either didn’t have a clue their only child was the pariah of the school, or they didn’t care.

Despite Billy and I being on the same level academically, I didn’t know him very well. We were in the same class in a lot of subjects. We consistently fought for the top five in the entire school as far as grades. And even though Warwick High School is fairly small, and Lititz itself is a small town, Billy and I never so much as passed half a dozen words between us in the twelve years we went through public school together.

Pathetic, I know.

I never teased him. Never once made fun of him.

But then I never did anything to stop it, either.

(The recording resumes at this point, broken off by a clicking noise signifying the tape recorder had been turned off).

Okay, it’s been about an hour since I started taping this. CNN is reporting that there’s a riot in Lancaster City. Lancaster is about ten miles from where I live. CNN is also saying that similar riots are occurring in Philadelphia and Baltimore.

Here, I’m going to tape some of what’s going on.

(At this point another voice cuts in. We get the impression that the narrator has turned the microphone toward the television. We hear the voice of a female television newscaster)

“...it’s really a mystery, Bob. The reports we’re getting are saying that windows are being broken, buildings are being demolished—it’s the only word I can describe. Buildings are being broken as if something is crashing into them.”

“Something is crashing into them? (This second voice is male and is obviously the co-anchor).

“Something is crashing into them. In one case, a woman reported that her house was basically crushed. Like something walked right through it. We cut now to Alan Turin, who is reporting from York County.”

(There is a click, and then the narrator cuts back in)

I’ve been watching this the past hour. I also went online. This is big news.

I know it’s tied to those large circular prints I saw behind the Sallee house.

Something is out there.

Billy Sallee did something. He called something up.

(There’s another pause on the tape, as if it was turned off momentarily, and then the narrator is back).

It’s four hours later and my parents aren’t home yet. I’m worried about them, and I almost went out to see if I could find them—the invitation to the Christmas party is on the refrigerator door, so I could just drive over there if I wanted to. But something is keeping me inside the house. I’m afraid to go outside.

It’s getting worse.

During the past four hours, I’ve monitored the news and done some research.

First, the news. Like I said, it’s getting worse. The phenomenon that’s being reported– buildings falling down or being crashed into by something invisible—is becoming not only more widespread, it’s starting to happen in other places. Detroit. Nashville. Los Angeles. Even London and Buenos Aires, of all places. Just ten minutes ago there was a report that it was happening in Brisbane, Australia.

And new stuff is happening too. Not only are buildings being crashed into, but more of those large circular prints are appearing. It’s as if something giant and invisible with a lot of feet is walking around. People are reporting from all over the world that they’re hearing it. That tells me there’s more than one.

There’s also something that sounds like it’s being dragged along the ground. Whatever it is, it’s big....big enough to demolish not only buildings, but also cars, bridges, even skyscrapers. It’s almost like a giant, invisible child is dragging a large blanket or something behind it through a miniature tinker-toy city and the blanket is destroying everything it’s dragged across, only the tinker-toy city is a real city.

Anyway, I wanted to tell more about Billy really quickly. I have a feeling that he has something to do with this, and it all has to do with what happened to him when we were kids, and how bad he was teased.

When we were seniors in high school, Billy and I had the same World History class. One day, we were studying Mayan History. Actually, we were studying South American history and we were covering all the indigenous people of Central and South America. We covered the Incas, the Aztecs, and then we got to the Mayans and their belief systems. How the Mayans were a highly advanced people, and how they had a complex system of mathematics, astrology, and astronomy. They’d even developed a calendar, and had it worked into a magical system. The teacher made an off-handed comment about the Mayan calendar being not only accurate with our own calendar, but he also mentioned that it ended on December 21, 2012. He mentioned that many people believed that was a sign, an end of the Great Cycle which many scholars believe began in August of 3114 B.C. Other people believe the Mayan Calendar doesn’t end at all, that its like the odometer on a car that simply starts a new cycle when 9 clicks over to 0 and so on, only in this case it’ll change from 2012 to something else. Anyway, he talked about many theories and he had the nerve to laugh about it all in class. Rather dismissively, too. But then he never did offer an alternate theory.

Anyway, Billy was riveted by the story. Especially when Mr. Chapman talked about the ending of the Mayan Calendar.

There was something about Billy that changed that day. I noticed it right away.

For the first time he actually raised his hand in class and asked Mr. Chapman questions.

I don’t remember what the questions were now. For the life of me, I wish I did. But I remember it was pretty far out. Something that wasn’t even covered in the class. I remember a couple kids kinda chuckled, and Mr. Chapman looked out at the classroom kinda disapproving. Then he turned to Billy and answered his questions. They had this five-minute discussion on the Mayan Calendar. Billy was asking him not only about the calendar, but the Mayan belief system. Mr. Chapman seemed really interested in fielding Billy’s questions. I gotta admit, the change in Billy was astonishing. For the first time he seemed sure of himself. Like he had purpose.

In the weeks that followed, I noticed Billy spending a lot of time at the school library. While Billy was always smart, he never spent a lot of time at the library. Sometimes I caught a glimpse of the books he was checking out. Volumes on ancient history, astronomy. He must have been hitting up bookstores, too, because some of the books I saw him reading during study hall, or during lunch break were definitely not library books from the school. These were big books on mathematics and the occult (I could tell from the weird symbols on the covers). And there was this intensity about him while he was reading these books....an intensity I hadn’t seen in him since we were in the eighth grade.

When we were in the eighth grade, Billy created a device in science class that threw a mock explosion. That’s about the closest I can come to describing it. We were supposed to be making transistor radios, but like I said before...Billy is smart. That year was particularly bad for him because he was getting bullied pretty much everyday. Anyway, he made this thing...Ted Gleason said it was a superconductor because that’s what his father had called it in the days that followed. I only caught a glimpse of it during class one day, and it was this little square metal thing, about the size of a wallet. It had a couple of wires sticking out of it, and a button in the center. It sure didn’t look like the radio we were supposed to be building. Instead, Billy put it inside a very large glass jar, screwed a lid over it, then drilled a hole in the lid. Then, using a straightened out hanger, he inserted it through the hole and pushed the button with it.

The button was a detonator.

We were in the final stages of our projects. We were supposed to be able to turn our radios on and get signals. Our electronics teacher, Mr. Eschbach, had been circling the class during the week we were building them, and I remember him stopping at Billy’s station to look at what he was doing. I heard glimpses of what Mr. Eschbach told Billy. “....you’ve got this all wrong, Mr. Sallee...” and “...you haven’t been listening or paying attention...you’re deviating from the scope of this project...” and “...no matter the outcome of your project, Mr. Sallee, I’m afraid I’m going to have to fail you...”. And then, finally, the coup-de-grace.

I was watching as Billy inserted the straightened-out coat hanger through the little hole and pressed the button.

And I saw the mini-explosion that brightened the glass jar his little metallic box was in.

We all felt a mini-concussion rock through the atmosphere of the class. Ted Gleason and I were the only ones who saw the flash, and then the miniature mushroom cloud flared inside the glass amid fiery smoke and blowing particles of metal and wire.

Mr. Eschbach ran up to Billy upset and astonished. “What have you done? My God, what have you done?”

I remember the panic that ensued as Mr. Eschbach ushered us out of the room. I remember him grasping Billy’s arm firmly as he led him down the hall to the principal’s office. I remember the police and the fire department coming to the school. I also remembered guys coming to the school dressed in white plastic coveralls, wearing face masks and helmets with the radioactive symbol stenciled on their backs.

Billy Sallee was almost expelled from school for that stunt. He was even visited by the government. I think it was the FBI; they wanted to know where he’d come up with the formula for creating what was essentially a mock nuclear device. For weeks our town lived under a cloud of suspicion as the once tranquil streets crawled with government vehicles. They whisked Billy and the remains of his device away to some lab, and it was later determined that what he’d created wasn’t radioactive at all. It was eventually deemed to be harmless; using materials he obtained in class, he simply created a superconductor made from carbon nanotubes coated with an amine through which gases absorb on the surface. He created an electrical charge which “ignited” the gases and—viola!—a fake hydrogen explosion within a controlled environment.

The school didn’t expel him, but he was suspended for three days. In the months following that incident, people seemed to be afraid of Billy Sallee. It was almost as if the harassment and teasing, which had reached its pinnacle in the days prior to that incident, proved to be the catalyst for Billy to demonstrate what he was capable of and it worked. I later found out that what he did in class that day would have required somebody at a PhD level to accomplish and Billy not only figured it out himself, he seemed to have done it without the aid of any Internet “how-to” guides. I think it was his way of sending everybody a warning that he’d had enough, and the message was not only heard, it was taken seriously. The jocks and preppie kids that constantly tormented and picked on him suddenly let up. The teachers and administrators that had turned a blind eye to it all suddenly went out of their way to be nice to him. I admit that I even made a small attempt at being friendly with Billy. Perhaps even then, we were all afraid of what he could do.

I later learned through Ted Gleason and his father (who, for some reason, had taken an interest in what happened) that the school district reached out to the Sallee family and began a series of meetings. They realized they had not only an exceedingly brilliant student, but one who had the capability of even greater things. They realized he could use his knowledge, his talent, for good if he was only properly mentored. So with that, Billy had a mentor in the form of Mr. Eschbach (who, despite the scare Billy put into him, took an interest in his scientific mind). The harassment from the jocks stopped in the ninth grade, and by the time we entered Warwick High School, that was all in the past. Billy Sallee was still a social outcast, still avoided by the social elite, but he was on the fast track to bigger and better things. He was on the fast track to a promising scientific career.

The harassment levied against Billy might have stopped on the surface, but it was still going on in more subtle ways. In the tenth grade yearbook, his photo was credited to ‘Spaz’ Sallee; Kevin Malone was suspended for that. The one time Billy tried to reach out to his classmates in a gesture of friendship resulted in a nasty rumor being spread about him (that he was sexually attracted to chickens, of all things). He got a new nickname because of that: chickenhead. He retreated socially again, and as the years passed into our junior year and the early part of our senior year, he became even more withdrawn. His physical appearance became disheveled, which didn’t help matters. If he thought withdrawing would make him more invisible to the more popular jock crowd (who were the main culprits of the continued harassment), it didn’t.

The administrators tried to stop it, of course, but nothing much was really done about it. After all, the jocks were higher on the social ladder. They carried the football and track teams. Some of them were academic stars, too. The teachers  and administrators mostly tried to keep them—the jocks—and Billy away from each other.

It mostly worked.

And like I said...I could have stopped it. Or at least I thought I could have. I could have at least influenced the jocks—who I knew very well on a social level—from harassing Billy. I was a popular student. I was a leader. Other kids looked up to me. They respected my decisions on various councils I sat on. I had a way with persuasion.

I could have done something.

But I didn’t.

(There is a short pause on the tape and several sighs are heard. Then the narrative continues)

That brings things to the day in History when Billy learned about the Mayan calendar.

Like I said, after Billy heard this it was like he became a changed person. He began reading books on ancient religions and cults, began poring over books on mathematics and astronomy and physics. It almost seemed like he had a sense of anger in him, an emotion I’d never seen in him before (prior to that he’d always seemed shy, scared, or pleading with whoever was near him to leave him alone and stop bothering him). Now, though, he was angry.

I also detected a sense of hate coming from him.

In fact, he seemed downright spooky.

My girlfriend, Heather, mentioned to me one night while we were on a date that he creeped her out.

I can only imagine that if he evoked those feelings in Heather, he evoked it in other girls too.

But Billy wasn’t interested in girls in high school. He wasn’t interested in much of anything, really, until that day in World History. After that, he developed a keen interest in physics.

Several big colleges courted Billy, including Harvard, Stanford, and Yale, but he settled on a little college in a place called Arkham, Massachusetts. I’d never heard of the school before, or the town, and I remember wondering why he turned down such prestigious universities to attend a school that wasn’t such a heavy-hitter. I remember making this remark to some friends over pizza one Saturday night, and Ted said something about Miskatonic University being a pretty good school. It was one of those institutions that flew under the radar but was considered top pedigree nonetheless. In fact, it was Ivy League. Regardless, that’s where Billy was going.

And so that’s how things went for the next three years.

(There’s a strange noise in the background of the tape. We hear the narrator mutter “shit”, then the audio cuts off, as if he has turned off the tape recorder. Audio resumes a moment later)

That was some shit! Man...it was like...damn, I don’t know how to describe it...it was like something...something that sounds like a...lion...or a wolf or...some kind of animal that’s...well, it was indescribable, to tell you the truth. It had a growl, that much was certain. But it also had a strange whining tone to it. Almost like a whistling. And it sounded like it was coming from right outside!

Whatever it is, it’s gone now.

(There’s another sigh on the tape)

I’m in the basement now. My folks’s basement is completely finished. I turned off all the lights upstairs, brought some food down and stashed it in the fridge we keep in the downstairs bar. I turned on the baseboard heater, so I’ll at least be warm tonight.

Anyway, I want to continue about Billy. I’m almost finished, so this won’t take much longer.

The first time I came home for Christmas break, Ted Gleason and I went out. We got to talking about our friends from high school and Billy came up. Ted said he’d seen Billy at the Park City Mall the day after he came home for winter break. Ted said he looked worse than he’d ever seen him. He was wandering around the mall with a glazed look on his face, his appearance grubby, just watching people. Ted said he even stopped to say hi and all Billy did was look at him like he didn’t even know him. Ted said he asked Billy how Miskatonic was, and Billy warmed up to that. He smiled at Ted, said school was great! Like he was real enthusiastic about it. Ted asked Billy what he was studying and Billy muttered something else again. Ted thought he said he was studying physics, but he wasn’t entirely sure because Billy kept muttering about “angles” and “portals” and “the spheres beyond” or some nonsense. That’s when Ted realized that maybe Billy was going crazy.

For some reason after hearing that I had the wild urge to head over to Billy’s house to maybe see for myself what he was up to.

Ted was totally up for that.

So we got in my car later that night and drove over to Billy Sallee’s home on Spooky Nook road.

We parked at the end of the rural, two-lane road, then made our way on foot to the house. Spooky Nook Road is pretty far out in the country, and there are only half a dozen homes on its half-mile run. Across the road from the houses is farmland. Behind the homes are thick woods. Ted and I hiked over to Billy’s house and, once there, crept up to the house.

The windows were dark. I noticed a car parked in the driveway. By all outward appearances, though, I had the impression nobody was home.

Ted and I crept up to the side of the house, being as careful and quiet as we could. We stood still for a while, trying to get a sense if anybody was home.

It sure didn’t seem like it.

Ted grabbed my arm, pointed toward the ground, and I saw what he was getting at. There was a faint light coming from the basement.

We crept forward slowly and knelt by the basement window. The window was set at ground level. We could see a light emanating from somewhere within, and once we got close enough we began to hear the sounds.

I got down on my knees, shivering from the cold, and crawled to the window. I put my face to it, cupping my hands to the side of my eyes to see inside. Ted did the same. I really wasn’t worried about the repercussions should somebody—Mr. Sallee, or even Billy himself— come out and catch us. I could just claim that we knocked on the door and nobody came and we went around back to see if anybody was home. No big deal.

What we saw in the basement, though, almost made me bolt for the car right then.

Billy was in the basement, his back to us. He was in a room that was off the area we were peering in. There were lit candles everywhere. The candle flames cast iridescent shadows on the walls. They illuminated what we were seeing perfectly.

Billy was standing on the floor, his arms outstretched, head tilted back. There was a big black book lying open on a podium, as if he were reading or reciting from it. There were candles on the floor. There was also a weird shape drawn on the hardwood floor, with strange symbols scrawled here and there. There were also large scraps of paper with other symmetrical shapes and designs scrawled on them, with writing that appeared Arabic. I also saw bottles with different kinds of liquid resting on a bench nearby.

Then we heard the sounds.

It almost sounded like Billy was chanting.

And there was something in the atmosphere, too. Something that was heavy, and malevolent and dangerous. I could feel it closing in on me. It almost felt like some awful force was being conjured, that it was simply waiting for some kind of signal to unleash its damage.

Ted and I got the hell out of there.

We ran back to the car, got in, and drove away. As we headed toward town I kept telling Ted that we had to do something. What Billy was doing wasn’t right. Ted kept shaking his head, saying we can’t do anything about it. Billy wasn’t breaking the law, and it was we who were trespassing. He suggested we just leave it alone and not have anything to do with Billy ever again. I finally agreed.

(There is a pause in the tape, a couple of sighs, then what sounds like a sob. A moment later the narrator’s voice comes back).

I didn’t see Billy for a long time after that. Over the past three winter breaks I inquired kinda casually around town to see if Billy was home, and he was. Billy always came home for the holidays. I never saw him, and I never went by his house after that incident, but I couldn’t help but think about him and what he was up to.

And then...this year...and what’s happening now...

I saw Billy a few days ago at the Freeze and Frizz hamburger stand on Broad Street. He was looking shabby still, and the people around him gave him a wide berth, like he had a bad odor or something. He was just so damn scary! It was like people subconsciously knew he was bad news and they stayed away.

Seeing him again got me to thinking about what he’d been up to the past few years, so when I got home I got on the computer and googled Miskatonic University. I found the school’s website and read as much about it as I could. It seemed like a good school. Good, upstanding academic record. Its alumni were well-respected scientists, physicians, lawyers, professors, and writers. I wasn’t finding much out on the university’s website, so I broadened my search to other sites. It was there that I found more than I’d ever wanted to know.

Arkham, Massachusetts. A place said to be cursed. Witch-haunted.

And Miskatonic University itself is said to house rare books in a special section of the library, under lock and key, with armed guards patrolling the grounds...books that are said to be dangerous. Books that are said to contain secrets and formulas that could spell the end of civilization as we know it should they fall into the wrong hands.

Naturally, I gravitated to those rumors and googled and googled until my brain reached saturation. I learned about the Necronomicon, of its author, the Mad Arab Abdul Alhazred, of De Vermis Mysteries, of Cultes de Ghoules and the Liber Daemonorum and another book that had a similar name. I think it was just called the Daemonolateria. These were ancient tomes kept under lock and key at the Miskatonic University library. I tried to find out what those books contained by further google searches. There was a lot of speculation...a lot of wild guessing...but I couldn’t find any reliable source on what was in them. Everything I read, from message board postings to essays on the occult on various websites, said the same thing: the books were ancient volumes of magic and contained ancient histories of the Old Ones, inter-dimensional beings that came from beyond the spheres, other dimensions, way back when the earth was uninhabited by man. These Old Ones ruled the earth then and somehow got banished to the outer spheres, but the books are said to contain formulas and rituals that are supposed to appease them, that if the right words were spoken, when the stars were right, the angles would be shifted and the spheres would open, allowing them access to our world.

And really...all I could do was put two and two together and...well, this is it. Billy Sallee somehow gained access to those books. How he did it, I can only speculate. He was smart. It wouldn’t surprise me if he rose so high in the academic ranks at Miskatonic that he was allowed occasional access to those volumes. He wouldn’t be allowed to take them off the premises, of course, but like I said...he was smart. He would know where to look, could memorize certain passages, and would then work in secret to apply what he’d learned with what else they were teaching him there. Things like Advanced Geometry and Physics and String Theory and...well, shit....think about it, man! If those books were right...and they had to be, otherwise why would they be guarded so heavily? If they were right...and knowing a little about physics and string theory...how there are inter-dimensions that lie within our own...all it takes is the right mathematical formula to penetrate it...it makes perfect sense that Billy would take advantage of the ending of the Great Cycle and everything happening because of it, like the new sunspots that are popping up on the sun now, and use that knowledge and the information in those books to open those inter-dimensional gates to release something—

(There’s another pause on the tape, accompanied by deep, gasping breaths. When the narrator’s voice comes back on he is on the verge of panic)

None of this would have happened if I had done something to stop the bullying! Billy was teased and bullied all his life, made to feel like a loser and a scapegoat, and he suffered great emotional pain. And for that, he got even. What’s happening is Billy’s revenge against an uncaring world, one that never protected him, that always showed him scorn and ridicule. He did something to open those dimensions and release the Old Ones into our world, to wreak havoc and destroy us. That’s what those things are that are destroying the cities...that’s what those large, circular holes are in the ground behind Billy’s house. It’s an Old One...some slithering, invisible monstrosity that he conjured up...it’s what those booming noises I heard are...they’re footsteps. And these things...they’re spilling out of the break in the dimension into our world, and the more they come out, the bigger the hole they’re creating between dimensions...that’s why we’re seeing more of this havoc all over the world...it’s not just the ending of the Great Cycle, that’s part of it, sure, but Billy is using that natural occurrence to his advantage...the holes are getting bigger, and soon its going to be a flood and they’ll be everywhere and...ah, God, if I’d only done something to have stopped it!

(The tape clicks off. When the narrator’s voice resumes again there’s static in the background and he’s crying).

The power’s out everywhere! I can hear something outside! I can hear something walking outside...something that sounds big and it’s knocking down houses and I never saw my parents today, never saw them before they left to tell them I loved them and...oh God, it’s right outside the house –

(The audio ends at this point and never resumes)

DETECTIVE’S STATEMENT:

The above narrative was fed into a voice-activated program on the Lancaster City Police department’s computers and transcribed into text format for easy analysis in the case of Joshua Collins of 434 E. Oak Lane, Lititz, PA. Joshua is a suspect in the murder of his parents, Brian and Dorothy Collins, who were discovered by a neighbor on the morning of December 12, 2012 when they failed to meet them for a church function.

It is the opinion of the criminal psychiatrist who read and listened to the narrative, and examined Mr. Collins in the psychiatric wing of Lancaster County Prison, that Joshua Collins is not only delusional, but suffers from a myriad of mental disorders including paranoia, schizophrenia, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and various other manias. Joshua is currently under the care of Kerry Wilson, MD, a prominent psychiatrist hired by Mr. and Mrs. Collins’ estate. Dr. Becker, the criminal psych who examined him, concurs with Dr. Wilson. After talking with both psychiatrists, reading through all the evidence, viewing the crime scene, and talking to dozens of witnesses, I am inclined to side with the mental health professionals. Joshua Collins needs to be confined to a mental hospital, possibly for life. He does not deserve prison.

There are things in Joshua’s tape-recorded statement that need to be clarified with a grain of sanity and good old-fashioned truth. The first is obvious: Joshua Collins did pick on Billy Sallee. In fact, according to several witnesses, which included Ted Gleason and Mr. Sallee himself, Joshua Collins was the catalyst; the ring-leader, if you will. While he might not have dished out the harshest of the bullying, he always instigated it, setting the wheels in motion, so to speak. He only stepped in occasionally to administer a cruel punch in the arm, a cold-hearted verbal jab, plant a cruel and vicious sign on the back of poor Billy Sallee and laugh with the rest of his moronic friends. So, despite Joshua Collins stating numerous times that he was the wonder boy who did nothing to stop the vicious teasing of Billy Sallee, that statement is a falsehood. Joshua was no wonder boy. He was part of the elite crowd, yes, but was by no means a golden choirboy.

Regarding the phenomenon Joshua describes in his narrative, including the reports of invisible monsters rampaging through his town and all over the world, the destruction of property, and the chaos he describes, they are falsehoods. The brief news excerpts we hear on the audio are from a science-fiction movie. The other sounds we hear are from other horror and science fiction movies he had playing on his computer when he recorded this tape. In short, there were no monsters bursting loose from other dimensions to destroy the world as he described. It was all an elaborate set-up built to feed his paranoia and delusions.

It is the belief of the psychiatrists and myself that extreme guilt festered in Joshua for years, building up until it manifested in his various mental ailments. Joshua was obviously guilt-ridden for his part in Billy Sallee’s years of mental torture. He not only managed to hide his guilt well, his psyche developed what Dr. Becker called an ‘alternate personality’ to help deal with it. It was these various ailments that eventually led to Joshua’s mental disintegration and, ultimately, the murder of his parents.

I would like to add an interesting footnote to all this. Contrary to Joshua’s statements about Billy Sallee’s state of mind and physical appearance in his narrative, upon interviewing Mr. Sallee I found him to be not only calm and articulate, but also well groomed and handsome. His high school senior class photo shows a boy who looks somewhat awkward, perhaps, but it is obvious to myself and the other investigating officers that Mr. Sallee shed that image and blossomed into a fine young man. Mr. Sallee admitted to me that he was painfully shy as a child and was, indeed, deeply hurt by the teasing he endured, but he obviously developed courage and a sense of spirit at Miskatonic. Perhaps leaving his home environment helped. Whatever the case, Mr. Sallee does not resemble the strange, shambling, unkempt figure Joshua Collins describes in his testimony. Mr. Sallee not only comes across as a courageous, if not outgoing and confident young man, but one who is well-groomed and pleasant in appearance. Currently a Physics student at Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts (and on a whim, I investigated Joshua’s claims about the so-called forbidden books that are said to be housed at the University’s library; the head librarian told me they do keep rare books—including the Necronomicon, which he says is merely an ancient history book—and that they rarely allow access to them because of their rare state, not because they’re dangerous), Mr. Sallee plans to pursue PhD studies there as well.

I think the only thing that Joshua Collins was correct about in his rambling, chaotic statement was what the officers and I found in the woods behind the Sallee home during our preliminary investigation, which very well could have triggered this latest and fatal outburst of violence.

Starting from the perimeter of the Sallee backyard and leading into the woods beyond are several large, circular impressions in the ground.

Story Notes

“Holes” was written in 2008 for a particular market in mind – an announced anthology of Lovecraftian fiction with the theme of the Mayan calendar to be called Cthulhu 2012. This proposed anthology was to have been published by Mythos Books, a fantastic mail-order dealer of horror and a sometimes publisher. For whatever reason, the anthology never materialized.

I’ve always been fascinated by ancient myths, religions, and cultures. I also love conspiracy theories. So when I heard about this anthology, it got me to thinking about the Mayan Calendar. Because I live in a small town, I got to thinking about small town life as well. I imagine this was a direct result of the novel I was just starting at the time – Back From the Dead – which deals directly with bullying and how people who are outsiders are often ostracized from society. The story just kind of came together, as if it was meant to be.

This is the first of all my Mythos fiction to utilize the standard Lovecraftian archetypes: Arkham, Massachusetts, Miskatonic University, the whole works. In my previous Lovecraftian stories, I’d only utilized the concept that we as a species are just specks of dust in an uncaring universe with the suggestions that there are beings out there who can obliterate us if they sneeze. With “Holes” I wanted to go whole hog and pretend I was back in 1937, writing this with Weird Tales in mind.

While the anthology never materialized the story finally did, in my mini-collection The Summoning and Other Eldritch Tales.

Screaming to Get Out

I HAD ONLY been working at my new job as an analyst at Braun and Meyers for just over two weeks when I noticed most of their employees were not human.

Let me clarify that for you.

They were human in appearance. They looked and behaved like regular people. They all fell into easily classifiable stereotypes: the harried secretary, the workaholic middle-manager, the aloof IT staff, the lowly administrative folks. And even though I still hadn’t gotten to know any of my co-workers on a personal level, I overheard enough snatches of conversation in the lunchrooms and corridors to know they lived like normal people; they had cars, paid mortgages on middle-class homes, came home to spouses and children or significant others, and tended to the usual everyday menial chores such as grocery shopping and doing their laundry in the evenings, and on weekends.

But they weren’t human.

They couldn’t be.

And I don’t know what they are.

MY FIRST CLUE that something wasn’t right occurred about two days into my stint at this job when I overheard my boss, Donald Robinson, berate the department secretary, Cathy, for informing him she needed to leave early that afternoon so she could see her daughter perform in her school play.

I didn’t see Donald’s face when she asked this. I was in my cubicle trying to figure out the reporting strategies the company used for their financial forecasting when she informed him, but I heard him sigh in irritation and ask her to step into his office. I looked up to see them going into his office.

The door closed but I could hear them.

“Now Cathy, we’ve talked about this more than once and you know the company’s position.”

“I’ve put in four hours of overtime this week, Donald! I already have the time coming to me! I’m only asking for two hours at the end of the day!”

“Cathy, you know your duties with the company come first. When you’re here, you’re expected to abide by the policies and procedures. They’re final, and so is my decision to deny your request.”

There was a sudden flurry of clicking heels as Cathy stormed out of Donald’s office. I turned away in embarrassment, pretending I was still working. I didn’t want her to know I had overheard their conversation. My eyes rested on my copy of the still unread Policy and Procedure manual I had received at orientation, feeling embarrassed and sorry for Cathy and her predicament. I was a parent too, and I always made it a priority to be a part in my son's life. I hoped what was happening with Cathy was due to some past incompetence on her part, that the reason her request was denied was due to her abusing the system in the past, perhaps. The last thing I needed was to be under the thumb of a petty tyrant.

I could tell Cathy was trying hard to keep from crying. She got that sniffle sound in her breathing that suggested she was very close to breaking down. Donald remained in his office and I pretended to work. A moment later he came in to my cubical, a smile on his cherubic face, and handed me a folder. “The paperwork for the Deller account,” he said. I took the folder from him and nodded. There was no trace that anything was wrong. Everything was business as usual to him.

I opened the folder and was just about to ask Donald a question when I sensed a definite change in his mood. He motioned to the framed photo of my wife and son I'd placed on my desk that morning. I still had not been able to unpack the rest of the knick-knacks I’d brought from home in an attempt to liven the cubicle, make it more homey. “Lovely family,” he said. “Did HR change their policy regarding decorating your work space with personal items?”

I felt my skin bristle. “I don’t know,” I said, the answer rolling off my tongue quickly. “They didn’t say anything about it, at least nothing that stuck out.” Truth be told, the orientation was a yawnfest and I’d downed a quart of coffee and probably excused myself half a dozen times to scurry to the men’s room to pee. If they’d covered this particular policy, I’d probably missed it.

“Most likely the policy hasn’t changed, otherwise I would have gotten a memo.” Donald straightened up, his pudgy hands darting to his sport coat to button it up over his considerable girth. For some reason I instantly pegged him as a stereotypical MBA corporate ladder-climber; you know, the kind that would sell their children for a spot on Microsoft's Board if the opportunity presented itself. “You’ll see the policy in your manual. No personal decorations from home are to be visible in your work space.”

I looked at him. “Are you serious?”

“It’s in the manual,” he said. His composure was direct and uncompromising. The total opposite of the man who’d interviewed me three weeks before and displayed laughter and warmth.

“You mean...nobody is allowed to have even a picture of their kid on their desk? Or their spouse?” I almost added, and what about pets? Parents? Best friends? A favorite Aunt or Grandparent? I couldn’t get over this stupid rule. They actually paid nimwits to make up such governing codes of idiocy?

“It detracts from the workplace,” Donald explained. “This is a perfect case of it now. Had the photo not been there, I wouldn’t have commented on what a lovely family you have and we would have gotten right down to business. Instead, we’ve wasted almost a minute talking about the company policy. The average time employees who display personal items in their cubicles spend talking to each other about personal issues is about forty-five minutes per day. The time drops dramatically when these personal items are absent from the work place.” Donald offered a weak smile. “I have a family too, Jesse. But I don’t need to show them off to everybody. I understand it’s your first week here, and you may have missed or misunderstood that part of the orientation. But please...take the picture down.”

“Fine.” I picked up the wooden framed photo of Jennifer and Ray, mother and son captured splendidly at the beach last summer, and placed it in my briefcase with the other stuff.

“Thank you.” Donald’s smile beamed, but I detected a sense of falsehood in it. “Now, where were we?”

We went over the account and I tried to pay attention as Donald explained the account’s history. Fortunately this was something I had run across before in my last job, and Donald left quickly when he realized I understood the gist of the issues. He toddled off to a meeting while I sat in front of my computer staring at the screen, my mind still on our conversation about the company policy regarding personal photos decorating one’s workspace.

It sounded absurd, and I was sure that if this was mentioned in orientation I had been absent, probably in the men’s room. I pulled down the three-ring binder that contained my copy of the Policy and Procedures manual and flipped through it for the first time, wondering where to start.

The table of contents was filled with the obvious HR headings. I quickly scanned it until I saw the heading labeled ‘Your Personal Workspace’, and turned to it.

I had to read the short paragraph three times before it hit me that it was real.

Employees must keep their workspace in a neat and orderly fashion at all times. At no time are personal items such as photos, drawings, or other decorations, allowed to be visible at an employee’s workspace. Personal items, such as purses and pocketbooks, must be stowed away either under the desk, or in a spare drawer during the duration of the workday and must remain so during working hours.

I was stunned. In all my years of working for large corporations, I’d never run across such oppressive rules.

I was just about to flip through the manual in a search for similar governing decrees of lunacy when one of my co-workers, Bob Little, called me over. “Hey Jesse! You over there? I got a project for you.”

I closed the Policy and Procedures Manual and went over to Bob’s cubicle to see what he wanted.

I DON’T THINK I mentioned the incident to Jennifer that week. I tried to keep work out of our lives when we were at home. If there was one thing we both couldn’t stand, it was talking about the petty issues our co-workers became involved with.

I didn’t mention it to Cathy, the department secretary, either. She put on a stoical face and blazed through her duties like an automaton, her only glimpse of humanity when I greeted her every morning with a “Good Morning” as I passed her desk on my way to my cubicle. By the end of that week, she began to respond with more than just a muffled acknowledgement in return. She actually began to offer me a faint smile in return, and even began saying hello when we passed each other in the halls.

The job was busy and it kept me occupied from the moment I arrived till I tore myself away from my desk to leave for home. My workday was from eight a.m. to five p.m. Monday through Friday; normal hours for most work places. In the first week of my employment I didn’t notice anything outwardly unusual, with the exception of Donald’s overly harsh refusal to allow Cathy earned time off to attend her daughter’s recital.

But by the end of the second week I began to notice something was seriously amiss.

It became apparent to me when my cell phone rang late Thursday afternoon of my second week. I started, turned my eyes away from the Excel spreadsheet I had been working on for the past four hours, and answered. It was my wife, Jennifer.

“Where are you?” She asked.

“I’m here, at work.”

“Couldn’t you call me when you have to stay late at the office?”

I turned around to glance at the plain white clock that was mounted on a wall in the center of the office. It was just after six p.m. I should have been home over thirty minutes ago. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realize the time had gotten away from me so quickly.”

“Since when did you become a workaholic?” Jennifer’s tone was kidding, and even though I knew she was joking, something about what she said got to me. After telling her I was leaving, I hung up and took a subtle glance at my surroundings.

I could see Donald in his office typing at his computer keyboard. Two cubicles over I heard Barbara Rodriguez, one of my co-workers, talking on the phone with somebody about a project. Bernie Shull, an analyst who occupied the cube directly across from me, was working on something. And across the room, in the IT department, I could hear their department secretary answering the phone.

I looked at the spreadsheet I was working on. The company was working on a big account, one that my department and IT were developing together. The deadline for it was looming, and I’d overheard a few of my fellow co-workers talking about burning the midnight oil the last few days to get it completed. I’m not averse to such work, having done it on occasion myself. But there was something about the way all of us had simultaneously worked past five o’clock, seemingly oblivious to resuming our lives outside of work. It creeped me out.

I was more than halfway done with my piece of the project, so I saved the file I was working on and shut down my PC. I felt a strange sense of vertigo, as if I had been rudely awakened from a deep sleep. I quickly stepped out of my cube and headed down the hallway of cubicles, glanced quickly at Cathy’s workstation and saw she was still there. I paused momentarily, casting a quick glance behind me at Donald’s office; his back was to us, working on his piece of the project. I looked at Cathy and saw she had been crying silently. “Are you okay?” I whispered.

She glanced at me quickly, nodded, and turned back to her desk. Whatever she was doing, she wasn’t doing it. She was merely sitting in front of her computer screen, morose and depressed.

I felt torn between wanting to help and just going home. Deciding it would be wise to cut out now before Donald saw me, I whispered to Cathy, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and started leaving.

“You’re leaving?” Her whisper was almost a screech. I stopped and saw that she was livid with fear.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice low. “I gotta get going. I didn’t realize what time it was and—”

Cathy cast a quick glance back at Donald’s office, then turned back to me. She put a finger to her lips and then waved me out. “Go!” she whispered. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Now I was puzzled. Had I violated another company policy unknowingly?

That was foremost on my mind as I drove home. It was already dark as I piloted the Acura through the suburban streets of my neighborhood toward my house. I thought about how every cubicle, every office I passed on my way to the elevators was still occupied by my co-workers, some who I knew had families and spouses waiting for them at home. I thought about Cathy’s expression as I left, as if she desperately wanted to go home but couldn’t because she was afraid of the consequences.

I put on a neutral face when I entered the house. Jennifer was on the sofa reading a magazine. Ray was playing with his toys on the living room floor. Jennifer looked up as I entered the house. “Good! You’re home!” She got up and headed to the kitchen to finish preparing dinner while I cast aside my worries of work and bent down to hug what was most important in my life: my son.

NEVERTHELESS, DESPITE BEING surrounded that evening by what I loved and lived for the most—my family—the comfort they provided didn’t dull the worm of unease that had begun to gnaw in me.

I slept very badly that night.

THE FIRST THING I noticed when I arrived at the office the following morning—a full fifteen minutes before eight o’clock—was that everybody was at their desks and in their cubicles working.

It was as if they hadn’t even left.

Cathy’s workstation was empty as I passed it, her computer screen dark. I wondered if she was okay, and as I sat down at my desk and fired up my computer I sensed the approach of Donald as he lumbered forth. “Good! You’re here. I’d like to see you in my office, please.”

“Sure.” I got up and tried to pretend nothing was wrong as I followed him into his office. Donald motioned to an empty seat in front of his desk and I sat down. I noticed that Donald did not close the door.

He seated his considerable bulk down in his chair and got right to the point. “I didn’t notice you leave yesterday. When did you take off?”

“Shortly after six,” I replied.

“Really? Did you finish your project?”

“No. I’ll probably finish it today.”

“That’s not a good enough answer. You should have stayed and finished.”

I didn’t know what to say. Donald looked at me as if I were some slow, stupid child, one he disapproved of.

“What do you have to say?”

Again, I was at a loss for words. No deadline had been specified for the completion of the project, but I had made it a personal goal to have my report on Donald's desk by Friday, today. I was eighty percent finished already, and knew I could complete it before my deadline. If I'd had the slightest bit of doubt, I would have taken it home last night and worked on it a little on the computer in the family room before retiring to bed.

Donald was looking at me as if he was expecting me to apologize for some serious wrongdoing. I didn’t know what kind of rule I’d broken, so I shrugged. “I...don’t understand...”

Donald sighed and leaned forward over his desk. “Let me spell it out for you then, Jesse. I understand you’re new here, but we at Braun and Meyer's are driven by the singular purpose of helping the company succeed. Our goal is to be the dominant Financial Consulting firm in the industry and then, eventually, the largest grossing corporation in the world. That Free State Account is an important one. If we can nab that, B&M will have the highest earnings in our industry. It’s extremely important that we secure this account.”

“I understand that, but what does that have to do with my leaving at six o’clock last night?” I asked. “I left an hour late.”

“And most of us were here until two-thirty a.m.,” Donald said, his words cutting into me sharply. Now he really looked irritated. “Some of the IT guys are still here.” He paused. “Do you understand?”

I didn’t understand, but I couldn’t tell him that anymore. I think I was finally beginning to get what was happening, at least as far as Donald was concerned. The man was a workaholic who expected his subordinates to work themselves as ragged as he. No wonder Cathy was always depressed.

“Well?”

I nodded. “I understand.”

“It’s important you understand your position with B&M, Mr. Lopez. You were hired as a Business Intelligence Analyst. That is what you do. It is what we pay you to do and it is what you are. There are certain responsibilities to the company you must maintain if you are to hold onto this role. Do you understand?”

I fought the urge to say next time a project is that important, please convey this to your employees. Nobody told me we were burning the midnight oil to finish this thing ahead of schedule. Instead I nodded. “I understand.”

“Good.” Apparently the matter was dismissed. Donald leaned back in his chair and regarded me with those piggy eyes. “I’d like that report on my desk before noon.”

“No problem,” I said, getting up. “I should finish it in about an hour or so.”

When I headed back to my cube I saw Cathy had arrived. She looked haggard. Her eyes held mine briefly as I passed. When I sat down at my cubicle I tried to act as if everything was normal as I started my workday.

AS PROMISED, I finished my report and had it on Donald’s desk well before noon. By two o'clock the revisions were in place and we had a three o’clock staff meeting to wrap up the final phase of the project. During the meeting I sensed a vague sense of hostility and resentment from some of the other members of my department (or, my team as Donald kept referring to us; we were a team, like the fucking Red Sox or something), probably over my leaving at six o’clock yesterday. By that point I had dismissed the whole thing. Because it hadn’t been properly communicated to me that everybody was working late last night and I left before everybody else did, I wasn’t going to feel guilty about it.

I wound up feeling guilty anyway over my refusal to stand up for Cathy when she was brought in to the meeting.

Donald asked me to get Cathy mid-way through and I did so, not thinking anything of it. When I told her Donald wanted her in the meeting, she got a look of extreme horror on her face. “Oh God, no,” she whispered. She actually trembled.

“What’s wrong?” Her reaction alarmed me.

“Nothing,” she said quickly. She gathered her things and stood up, her features becoming stony and professional. “Let’s go.”

She followed me to the conference room and found a seat. Donald asked Cathy to report her progress on the Free State project and she did so. When she was finished she looked down at her report, refusing to look up as if afraid of being physically assaulted or something. Donald nodded, seemingly pleased. “Very well done, Cathy. I’m very pleased with the way this has turned out. We’ve put in a lot of hours to get this project completed and it’s done. We’ll submit it first thing Monday morning.” He nodded to Kelly, the IT tech who had been invited to the meeting. Kelly rose from his seat and moved the TV and VCR into position at the front of the room. “It’s time for some discipline training. It appears Cathy needs some additional training due to her blatant disregard to company policy and Jesse Lopez, our new Analyst, hasn’t been exposed to this kind of hands-on demonstration yet. Kelly?”

Kelly had a big smile on his face, as if he had been looking forward to this all day. He turned off the lights in the room and turned on the TV, which was hooked up to his laptop computer. He pressed a couple of keys and a picture came on the screen.

Cathy said, “Oh God, please don’t do this!”

The sound of her voice scared me. I looked up in alarm, but Cathy was already being counseled by Barbara. I almost got the impression Barbara was trying to get Cathy to watch what was on the screen, and was trying to keep her from bolting out of the room as well.

“What’s going on?” I asked. I felt Bernie’s hand on my leg a moment later as he leaned close to me, his voice lowered as he told me to watch the screen.

The screen showed the front of a school. Traffic was heavy. “There’s a lot of traffic in this area,” Donald said. “So much that they’ve had to hire a crossing guard after two children were hit by cars while attempting to cross the street. One of them died.” It looked like Donald glanced at Cathy. “Isn’t that right, Cathy?”

Cathy was crying. “Please don’t—”

Donald ignored her, his face turned to the screen. “Ah! There’s the crossing guard now! We’re just in time.” Donald plucked his cell phone out of his breast pocket, his pudgy finger poised over the buttons. “Why don’t I have our associate, who is assisting us with this lesson, call the crossing guard over and inform her that her superior has decided to let her go. She works for the city, and our associate possesses the necessary identification that will be enough to convince her to leave her post. Your daughter will be leaving class in about ten minutes, Cathy, and I hear she is a bit careless about crossing the street."

“Are you people insane?” I barely recognized my own voice. I felt panicked, scared. “What the fuck is this?”

Bernie and Kelly took me by each elbow, their grips firm, their underlying message clear: shut up and watch. Their presence was intimidating. It only made me more infuriated.

Cathy was hysterical. “Please! Stop this! I swear to God—”

“This is your second strike, Cathy,” Donald said, his voice devoid of emotion. “You know what will happen in a third strike.”

“I promise I won’t do it again!” Cathy cried. She looked awful as she cried. She was a pretty woman, and she looked absolutely awful when she cried.

“This is fucking bullshit!” I said. I tried to get up. An explosion of pain erupted in my kidney as Kelly kneed me. I crumpled to the floor, clutching my side as agony rocked my body.

Donald pressed a button on the cell phone and held it to his ear. I was barely aware of what was going on around me. All I was aware of was the intense pain in my lower right side and Donald’s voice as he instructed his contact to proceed as planned.

“Nooo!!” Cathy screamed. I was dimly aware she was being restrained by Barbara and another woman.

I tried to rise to my feet but firm, rough hands held me down. I struggled, cursing under my breath. “Get your fucking hands off me!”

“Shut up or I’ll bash your skull in.” Kelly was standing over me, right foot cocked back, ready to unleash a kick. I caught a glimpse of the mad look in his eyes and I stopped struggling immediately. My eyes flicked to the screen. A man in a suit was now talking to the crossing guard. I watched as he led her by the elbow off screen. The crossing guard—a middle-aged African American woman—looked puzzled.

I don’t know how long Cathy and I were held down, forced to watch this atrocity. It felt like hours but I know it wasn’t that long. In reality it was more like fifteen minutes.

But it seemed to stretch into infinity.

I noticed how heavy the traffic was the minute the crossing guard was led away.

A moment later, the bell rang.

Children began pouring out of the school.

I could dimly make out Cathy’s voice as she cried and begged them to let her go, to stop doing this. I could only watch, hoping against all hope that Cathy’s daughter would not wander out into the street distracted. I hoped some school administrator would see what was going on and summon somebody, a teacher perhaps, to direct traffic and escort the kids across the street.

The latter didn’t happen, but the former did. As the kids came out of the school they dispersed in their usual fashion; some heading up the street singly or in groups to walk home; others meeting parents who were waiting at the curb or in parked cars nearby; others waited for the traffic to die down, looking carefully both ways before they stepped off the curb to cross the street. I didn’t take my eyes off the screen and neither did Cathy. When she saw her daughter—I’m not sure which child she was since there were half a dozen crossing the street in a group—she broke down and started sobbing in relief.

I felt Kelly and Bernie’s grip on my arms and shoulders loosen. I was pulled to my feet and the screen went blank.

Donald’s features were grave. “It’s Friday and it’s time to go. Go home to your daughter, Cathy. You’ve put in a long week and I think you’ve learned your lesson.” He turned to me as Barbara let go of Cathy, who remained slumped over the table. “As for you, consider it part of your employee training. Your handbook has been placed on your desk by HR. Pick it up on your way out and read through it over the weekend.”

“I’m calling the police,” I said. I was so angry I could barely speak.

Donald frowned. “I’d hate to have Kelly and Bernie hurt you some more.”

“Fuck you!” I yelled.

“Jesse!” I started at the sound of my name and looked up. Cathy was looking at me, wiping her eyes. She was shaking her head. “Don’t. It’s okay.”

“Are you out of your mind?” I yelled.

“Go home, Mr. Lopez,” Donald said, his voice soothing. He was standing beside me now, his fat hand rubbing my left shoulder. “Kelly and Bernie will escort you to the company nurse to have your side looked at and if Mrs. Murray deems it necessary, she will fill out the necessary paperwork for you to be out on temporary disability with pay. It won’t go against your work record as it was a work-related injury. In the meantime, the days off will provide you with enough time to read the manual and become acquainted with how we do business.”

As much as I wanted to say I resisted Kelly and Bernie’s efforts to lead me away, I didn’t. I did glare back at Donald as they led me out of the conference room, and I hoped he read the fury in my face. Beyond that, I was too stunned to offer resistance. Bernie and Kelly were silent as they led me back to my cubical and allowed me to gather my things. Then they led me to the elevator. They ignored me on the ride down to the lobby when I tried to get them to tell me what the hell was going on and why they were going along with it. When I tried to make a beeline for the front door, they pulled me away and led me forcefully down a hallway that went behind security to the nurse’s office.

Mrs. Murray had no doubt been alerted prior to my inevitable arrival. She nodded at Kelly and Bernie, who left quickly. Mrs. Murray led me to an examining room and looked over my bruised side, poking it tenderly and asking where it hurt. I winced and tried to be as completely honest as I could on what happened, letting my mouth run as I told her I was going to sue the hell out of this company Monday morning. Mrs. Murray nodded and kept silent on my threats, then handed me a plastic cup. “If you can step into the bathroom, I’d like to take a urine sample.”

“Why?”

“I want to make sure your kidneys weren’t damaged,” she said.

I did as asked and thankfully my urine was free of blood. Mrs. Murray labeled the sample and set it aside. “You might want to monitor your urine for the next few days. If you notice blood, call your doctor.”

“I will, after I call my lawyer,” I said.

Mrs. Murray ignored that comment and handed me a slip of paper. “I’m putting you on temporary disability until Thursday,” she said.

I took the slip of paper, grabbed my briefcase, and headed out.

I CALLED THE police from my cell phone and met the arriving officers in the lobby. After I explained what happened and showed them the visible bruising along my left side, I led them inside the building, up the elevator, and down the hall to my department.

Most of my co-workers had already departed for the day, but Donald was still there. When Donald saw who I was with, he frowned. "Is there a problem?"

"You bet there's a problem, you sonofabitch," I said, my voice raised. One of the officers tried to calm me down as I again related my story. "He encouraged it," I said, pointing at Donald. I was so shaken, so angry, I didn't care if I was fired. "He led Kelly and Bernie and had them forcefully restrain me, and he subjected Cathy to psychological abuse that is just horrendous and outrageous!"

One of the officers approached Donald. "How about we go somewhere else where I can get your side of the story?"

Somebody must have called building security because a moment later two members of the security force arrived. They conferred with the officer who led Donald away, and a moment later the two officers compared notes. Donald glowered at me but I ignored him. One of the officers looked at me. "You willing to file a formal complaint?"

"You're goddamn right!" I said.

The second officer faced Donald. "Mr. Robertson, you're under arrest for false imprisonment and second-degree assault." The officer took out a pair of handcuffs and I grinned. The pressure was coming off me now; I felt invigorated.

That grin stayed with me and grew larger as I followed the officers and a hand-cuffed Donald Robertson out of the building.

I WISH I could tell you there’s a happy ending to this story, that the company investigated my charges and conferred with the local law enforcement finding that Donald Robertson broke serious laws in the name of the company, and that he was fired because of it. I wish I could tell you I had such a strong case that the company caved in and settled for a large sum of money. That didn’t happen. In fact, what happened in the days and weeks following that incident are so hazy in my memory now, so distorted, that I find it hard to relate to the kind of person I was back then.

I’ll try to explain, though.

Jennifer, my wife, wasn’t as pleased as I thought she’d be. She was worried about my injury, of course, but she was equally worried this would present a financial setback for us, that I would eventually be fired and we would be ruined financially. She had a reason to be concerned; at the time this happened we were in dire financial straits from my last layoff (it had taken me twelve months to get this job at Braun and Meyers). We had a huge fight that evening over my actions that day at work. “I understand this company isn't what you thought it was going to be and you should probably look for another job. But...well, couldn't you have just towed the goddamn line for a while until another opportunity arose instead of playing Superman to the fucking secretary? I understand they were complete assholes to her, but...really, Jesse, this isn’t the time to endanger our livelihood for somebody else! Especially now, when you have nothing else lined up and no fall back plan. What the hell were you thinking? We need you to have this job! Don’t you get it?” She was right. I needed this job; my salary brought in half the income needed to house, feed, and clothe us. What was left over went to bills accumulated during my layoff. If I lost this job now I was ruined.

We argued about this all night until I caved in. She was right, of course. Unless I could find a job with similar pay and benefits, we did need this job. The job market was still in the dumps, and I knew my chances of landing another position if I lost this one were slim to non-existent. Employers don’t like to hire somebody who has been fired from their job after having only been at it for two weeks.

I stayed home until Thursday due to my 'work-related injury', but when I finally showed up I had a meeting with Donald and HR. I wasn’t that surprised to hear that the criminal charges against Donald were dropped. I was given an ultimatum—three days suspension without pay (which would most surely lead to termination) or I could apologize to my supervisor and co-workers and keep my job. I chose the latter, of course. The company had me by the balls and they knew it.

I needed to provide for my family. And that meant I had to show up to work every day and do a good job and abide by the company rules and policies and procedures, even if they went against my basic grain of ethics. I had to pretend to stomach what went on; I had to become another person when I was at the office. I had to leave my humanity at the door.

I had to do this for my family.

So I did.

The weeks passed into months, which passed into a few years. It was amazing how buckling down and putting my nose to the grindstone changed everything. When I was at work I didn’t think about home, about the fights Jennifer and I had over what had happened to almost get me fired. Instead I just did the job, did what I was asked without question, got paid, and went home. If there was a special project, I stayed late to get it done. I began to realize in the first few months of my employment at Braun and Meyers, for the first time in my life, that this happened everywhere; this was what most people do. They work jobs they don’t really like until they either drop dead or retire. They make these sacrifices not for themselves, or their well-being, but in order to help support themselves and, in many cases, their families. They feel no special joy in the duties they perform, no sense of obligation, self-worth, or satisfaction whether they are Accountants, Systems Administrators, Secretaries, or whatever. Oh, I imagine some people feel fulfilled by their work. Doctors, Lawyers, Engineers, people that go into some kind of business for themselves maybe. But not the majority of working people. Most of us fall into it because...well, because we have to survive.

Things at work stopped bothering me as the months went by. When Cathy was forced to stay late at the office one night, leaving her young daughter at home alone by herself, I didn’t complain or stick up for her. When Rex, one of the computer operators, began complaining of chest pains one morning after having worked exceptionally long hours on a project, he was reminded that the work came first as long as he was physically in the building. Rex continued working, something in his gaze not right when I saw him that morning, as if he was afflicted with a sense of doubt. He dropped dead at his terminal that afternoon of a massive heart attack. Perhaps if he'd allowed himself time off to rest he would still be alive today.

I could go on but there’s no reason. What happened to those people didn’t concern me. And what happened to my family during the hours I was at work didn’t concern me either, so long as I was at work. I began missing parent-teacher conferences, after school activities. Work had to be done. The company had to meet its financial goals for the year. We had to top last year’s sales. We had to be the top company in our industry. We had to all work together, for the betterment of the company.

I had to put my nose to the grindstone to help meet my team's goals which, in turn, works for the overall company's goals and objectives.

My wife filed for divorce three months ago. I don’t understand why she did. When she left me, taking Ray with her and packing most of our things, I wasn’t even aware of it. I had just been handed the IRC project—it was a big deal, the biggest account we had ever handled—and would lead to incredible growth both for the company and my job, which was important to me because it would lead me to a very visible position within the firm. So I worked as hard as I could on it, staying at the office until 9:00 p.m. and later every day and working weekends. I do remember Jennifer leaving me during this point, saying something ridiculous like she never sees me anymore, that I’m always working. Well, what did she expect? We needed this job. I only did as she asked.

I think back on our last big fight before she filed for divorce...something about what she said then cuts through to me, makes me feel somewhat sad and melancholy. “What happened to you?” she said, through tears. “You were never like this. You were never so into your job the way you are now. It’s almost like you’re a different person now! I can’t even talk to you! Whenever we do talk, all you talk about is your goddamn job!”

I think back on what she said and Donald’s voice comes through, repeating what he said during my first few days at the company. This is what you do. It is what we pay you to do and it is what you are.

I think back on those days and remember how I used to think my co-workers weren't human. A silly notion, really. They were just very dedicated, very driven people, that's all. If they weren't human, what were they? Aliens masquerading as people? Corporate zombies? Or were they simply possessed by some dark force that manipulated them like puppets, all to serve and feed something none of us could see. Such thoughts are asinine and counter-productive to the company's goals and objectives and do not reflect professionalism. They are rooted in fantasy; they are not part of the business world, the real world, and therefore do not belong in my realm of thinking.

It's funny I used to even think all that.

Still, at times, some small part of myself, maybe it’s my old identity, squirms somewhere deep down inside me. It almost sounds like it's screaming to be let out.

And then the feeling passes and everything is fine again.

All is fine.

After all, this is what I do.

Story Notes

Readers of my novel The Corporation will recognize where this came from. If memory serves, the idea for this story came first. Back in another lifetime, I worked for a large corporation that was actually a great place to work at...unless you worked for a certain middle manager who was pretty much like the guy in this story. I heard the horror stories about him from his secretary, his analysts, even fellow middle managers. The guy lived and breathed his job. I think if the higher ups would have allowed it, he would have moved his bed and personal belongings into the building and taken up permanent residence.

Corporations are people, right? 2012 U.S. Presidential Candidate Mitt Romney said they were during his campaign, and, in a way, he’s correct (the use of the word “person” in the 14th Amendment of the U.S. Constitution has been interpreted to include corporations, since corporations comprise of a group of people and people should not be deprived of their constitutional rights when they act collectively). In my younger years I used to see corporations as these giant, lumbering things. The people that worked for them performed vital functions that kept the corporation alive and healthy. The people, the workers, were kept alive and healthy through the paychecks they drew and the fringe benefits the corporation gave them like health benefits, pension, 401k, and vacation time. It was a symbiotic relationship, much in the way the bacteria that lives in your skin or your digestive tract feeds off various parts of you but also help benefit you in some way (bad analogy, I know, but bear with me).

Occasionally a sickness can emerge – a minor corruption in the accounting department for the corporation, and a nasty flu bug for the human. When this happens, the head of the company takes care of the problem and order is restored. The patient (the corporation) is healthy again (and for the human, we take antibiotics until the flu bug is gone).

One day I started to think that if corporations were really people, suppose one was run by folks who were so completely soulless that the corporation as a singular entity took on their essence? This story grew from that thought. Using a similar theme, I explored the idea that if a person can become possessed by a demon or an evil spirit of some kind, why can’t a corporation? Many religious belief systems hold to the idea that people can become possessed by evil spirits or demons. And corporations are people too, right? Wouldn't it make sense that corporations can become possessed by evil spirits and demons?

That’s what led to me writing The Corporation. The seed for both came right around the same time but both turned into different things, riffing on similar themes – the theme of the individual being slowly taken over by the hive mind. Astute readers will recognize this is a theme that has been utilized by many of the SF greats – John Wyndham, Robert Heinlein, Jack Finney. Stephen King explored a similar theme with his 1987 novel The Tommyknockers. I wanted to move the theme away from the SF roots and bring more of a supernatural, suburban horror element into it.

Contrary to what some readers may think, I actually like corporations. I like capitalism too. When properly applied, under the right conditions, both work well. This story (and The Corporation) explore the extremes of globalization and corporatism from both sides of the political spectrum.

Thankfully, I’ve never held jobs under circumstances depicted in this story. I hope I never have to.

Home

"GINA, IT’S TIME."

Gina Peck sighed and picked up her backpack. She slung it over her shoulder. With a sense of trepidation, she rose from the kitchen table and turned to face her father, who was standing in the living room.

Dad was wearing that old robe grandma had bought him—how many years ago was that now? Three? Five? The robe hung on his bony shoulders, covering his frame like a blanket. His stringy hair hung in his face and he brushed it away. Despite the severity of their situation, he smiled at her. And, like always, when Dad smiled at her, it made her world. "That's my girl."

"Are you sure you want me to do this?" Gina asked.

Dad nodded. "We need you to, Gina." Dad turned to look back at the living room where her mother lay on the threadbare sofa, a blue wool blanket pulled over her. The TV screen flickered in the background, the sound muted. Mom wasn't watching. She had slipped back into one of her dozes again.

Gina felt a lump in her throat as she looked at her mother. "I wish I didn't have to."

"I know, honey," Dad said, his voice soothing. He shuffled into the kitchen, not looking at her. "But you know it's the only way. You've got a gift. If it wasn't for you, we'd be worse off than we are now. I can't do what you do—the people out there, they ignore folks my age even if I hang pictures of your mother around my neck with signed affidavits from her medical team. But when they see her daughter, a little girl..." He shook his head. His eyes sad, haunted. "Well, that's the game changer. They'll help a kid. Even after all the shit that's gone down, they'll still find it within their rotten hearts to help a kid."

Gina fingered the backpack. She felt uncertain. Nervous.

"I used to go out there and beg," Dad said. "You know that. And look where it got us."

Gina nodded. "I know." She hung her head. The last time Mom and Dad had gone out to the streets to beg, the police had rousted the homeless camp they'd set up in and beaten them. Mom's condition had worsened as a result of the beating. Gina didn't even remember why they were released from jail—overcrowding, maybe? Regardless, that had proven to be the last time Mom and Dad had taken to the streets to beg. That had been the year Gina turned ten. Now she was twelve; in a few months, she would turn thirteen. Dad said you wouldn't know it to look at her.

"Your mother is out of medicine." Dad leaned against the worn kitchen counter and sighed. "We have very little in the way of food. Rent is due in three days. And winter will be coming in a month. We should have packed up and moved west when we could've, but that's out of the question now. We're stuck here in this godforsaken part of the country. We're going to need money for heat or we're going to freeze."

"How much do we need?" Gina asked.

Dad shrugged. "By the end of the week? A thousand dollars or so to keep us in this shit hole for another month. With colder weather coming in a few weeks, we're going to need lots more. How much more is hard to say with oil costs rising through the roof."

"I can usually only get a hundred on a good day," Gina said.

"Better than what I used to get."

Gina looked at her father, the question at the back of her mind for the thousandth time: Why can't you get a job? Of course, she knew the answer to that. Her father was unemployable. Gina remembered Dad worked at an office a long time ago, when she was really little, like three or four. Her Mom worked in an office, too. Gina went to a day care center that was run by the company Mom worked for; later, she went to kindergarten and first grade at the elementary school downtown, and then took the bus to the day care center when school let out. At night they would all go home together and have dinner, then play games, watch TV, and read storybooks. On weekends they would go to the park or to the waterfront and eat hot dogs and take long walks. They would take Gina to Chuck E. Cheeze, even though Mom didn't like their pizza and couldn't abide the crowds (Dad liked it, though; Dad liked everything). They would go to the movies on weekends Dad's paycheck was a little fatter, when all the bills were paid and there was a little extra left over. On weekends it wasn't, they would make do with what they had. And they had everything, despite not having much in the way of riches. They had each other.

But then the Bad Times came.

First, Dad lost his job. He called it Getting Laid Off. For a while he was at home a lot, but he tried getting a new job. The problem, he told Mom on those occasions when they were in the kitchen and Gina was watching cartoons (but listening to their side of the conversation) was that Dad was over-qualified for the kind of jobs that were out there, and that there were no more of the kind of jobs he used to have. Gina didn't understand this, but it all made sense in a way. The parents of her friends at school were going through similar bouts of bad luck—Lindy Young said her father called it "the effects of the global recession" (whatever that was). It all meant that there were no jobs to be had. And with no jobs, there was no money.

Mom lost her job six months after Dad.

Then she got cancer.

A bout of coughing startled Gina out of her thoughts and she and Dad looked back into the living room at Mom, who had woken up from a sound sleep and was hacking something fierce. Dad hustled over and picked up the bedpan that had been placed at the foot of the sofa. He brought it up and put his arm around Mom, supporting her as she coughed endlessly, at times gagging, and it all became too much for Gina. She called out, "I'm going. I'll be back with the money."

"Be careful!" Dad called back.

Gina waved, said she would, then darted out.

And the side door locked firmly as she shut it behind her.

Gina stood on the stoop of the landing for a moment, looking down at the small courtyard below. A breeze picked up, lifting her hair and blowing it around. She pulled her baseball cap lower on her head to keep her hair in place, and pulled the denim coat over her thin frame to keep warm. Dad was right. Winter was coming. They needed money to pay the oil bill for heating. And they needed money for other things too. Anti-nausea and pain medication for her Mom. Medicine cost an arm and a leg now, and with no Medicaid around to help pay for it, they were on their own. Gina didn't understand why medicine had to cost so much money—there was so much about the grownup world she didn't understand. Gina ran her fingers along the thin material of her backpack. Satisfied she had everything, she went down the stairs to start her day.

IT TOOK HER a good thirty minutes to get to the heart of downtown.

She made the trek in silence, always watching, always observing. Traffic didn't seem any different despite what Dad and his friends usually said ("there's less and less traffic heading downtown these days", "Well, of course there is, Jack. Goddamn companies are laying everybody off, so nobody is driving downtown to work"). There were the usual taxicabs and delivery trucks, the sleek cars with tinted windows that sped by, the occasional limousine. And of course there were the police. The police seemed to be everywhere these days. After the demonstrations and rallies that had ended in riots last summer, the police presence in the city seemed to double. Gina didn't understand why there had to be more police. Why have more police when there were no more riots?

Gina had gone downtown during the four weeks the demonstrations were occurring. She'd gone there to beg for money and panhandle because, quite simply, the downtown square was the best place for it. The square was at the heart of what Dad called the Financial District, and he said that even though millions of people like him were out of work, there were still lots of other people that had been lucky enough to keep their jobs. A lot of those people worked in the high-rise buildings that comprised the financial district. Dad had told her to panhandle there. "A lot of those people are just getting by too, honey, but a lot of others are doing really well. And despite what you might hear from the goddamn news media, not all of them are greedy, heartless bastards. They'll help. Trust me."

Gina headed to her favorite spot. When she arrived she saw only a few of the homeless—a middle-aged man dressed in brown pants and a heavy brown overcoat was sitting on a bench. A young man and a woman were hanging around near the fountain that stood in front of the First National Bank building. To her left, somebody lay on the grass, dressed in dirty clothing, apparently asleep. Gina stood there for a moment, taking it all in. There weren't many regular people out—the few she saw appeared to be scurrying between the buildings; delivery people, office clerks, men and women dressed in suits and business attire. They ignored the homeless as they went about their business. Gina looked around for cops. There were none in sight.

Luckily, her favorite bench was unoccupied. Gina drifted over to it and sat down. She rummaged in her backpack and pulled out the sign, which she'd created herself with a piece of cardboard and crayons. The sign read: PLEASE HELP! I AM TWELVE YEARS OLD, HUNGRY, AND HOMELESS. ANY LITTLE BIT WILL HELP. THANK YOU AND GOD BLESS.

She positioned herself on the bench and got to work.

She held up the sign.

As usual when Gina begged in the Financial District, time seemed to slow to a crawl. She sat on the bench, watching people out of the corner of her eye while looking pathetic and forlorn. The homeless barely noticed her. When the non-homeless walked by, she held the sign up and looked at them, hoping her expression would be enough to get one of them to stop. Today, it wasn't enough. The non-homeless ignored her, too. Some cast disinterested looks her way; others glanced at her then quickly looked away, as if embarrassed. A few times, Gina tried to engage them as they walked by. "Hello, sir, can you please help me?" By the time she got to "help me", they were already walking past, ignoring her completely.

She kept this up for three hours.

Three long, agonizing hours.

Through it all, Gina remained at her spot on the bench. Occasionally, she would get up to alleviate the cramps in her legs. She would stay near her backpack and pace back and forth, still holding the sign, watching out for the police or the homeless. Once, her backpack had been snatched by an old woman, who'd tried to get away on hobbled feet. Gina had given chase and managed to get the backpack away from the woman, but only after a fierce tug-of-war with her. The woman had smelled like a sewer and had cried the entire time, rivers of snot running down her nose to cake with the dried mucus that had settled along her upper lip. She'd also babbled something Gina couldn't understand. Gina thought she was saying something about a person named Eric. Gina had finally gotten the upper hand and given a violent tug on the shoulder strap. The homeless woman was caught off balance and fell.

Gina had told the old woman she was sorry, and had walked back to the bench. By the time she returned, someone had stolen her sign.

Now she always kept a more watchful eye on her backpack when she got up off the bench. And she never strayed that far from it—always staying within a few feet.

Morning eventually bled into noon, and as people exited the buildings on their lunch breaks, Gina put things into overdrive. She asked; she begged; she pleaded. Only once did she receive anything for her efforts—a middle-aged blonde woman, probably a secretary, had given Gina a twenty-dollar bill. Gina had thanked the woman and tucked the bill into her front pocket. That might buy food for them for one night. They would need a lot more than twenty dollars.

As the lunch hour ended, and people headed back to their office, the donations increased. A five-dollar bill here, loose change there, a few dollar bills from an office clerk; every little bit helped. Gina didn't put as much into her begging routine as she  normally would because of the competition—the young couple near the fountain were working the non-homeless too; so were some other homeless. They were all getting handouts. If Gina really put on the charm, she could outdraw them in donations. She'd done it before. And that was dangerous. That could make her a target for the homeless. She couldn't have that. And neither could Mom and Dad.

So she kept her routine as toned down as possible. Yes, she needed the help, but not enough to wind up with her neck broken in some alley. She'd heard what could happen to girls like her in the city—she wasn't immune from the bad things that happened out there. Dad had warned her. And she'd heeded his wisdom. Besides, this was all part of her act. She always made out. This was all part of the plan.

When lunch was over and the non-homeless were back in their buildings, the cops began to show up. Gina saw the first one out of the corner of her eye, a squad car on the corner of First and Lexington. She looked in the opposite direction on Fifth Street and State Street. Two cop cars there. Right on schedule. They always showed up after the lunch rush. And by three, if the homeless were still congregating in this section of the Financial District, they would move in and began rousting them to move on. Sometimes that could turn ugly.

Gina shoved the sign into the backpack, slung it over her shoulder, and headed toward Lincoln Avenue.

When she reached Lincoln she glanced back. One of the squad cars had pulled up in front of the brick path that wound through the Financial District and pretty soon another would join it. Most of the homeless had scattered, but the young man and woman were still hanging out in front of the fountain, seemingly defiant toward the police presence. Gina muttered under her breath. "Come on, get out of there. Don't be stupid about this. They'll just beat you up and that'll bring more of them and then that part of the district will be off limits."

She crossed the street and paused when she reached the other side. The homeless couple had started moving away, heading away from the First National Bank building, toward West Street. Three cops were strolling casually down the thoroughfare. The area was completely empty of the homeless now.

Gina sighed, feeling relieved. Good.

Gina shouldered her backpack and rummaged through her front pocket for the money she'd received today. Forty bucks. Her stomach rumbled. A dozen feet from where she stood was a cheap take-out place. A sign that read PIZZA, SUBS, SALAD was propped in the window. Gina smelled fresh marinara sauce. She glanced at the wristwatch she wore on her left wrist. Almost one-thirty. Plenty of time.

Gina headed to the restaurant and shut out the world outside and, while she was inside the warmth of the shabby interior, she felt a semblance of peace.

THE AREA WAS completely devoid of people by four o'clock when she returned to her bench.

Gina sat down, pulled her sign out, and set her backpack beside her. She glanced around casually. No homeless. The non-homeless had already left for the day and traffic had died down. Gina had watched things from the booth in that seedy little restaurant where she'd had a chicken Cesar salad and an Italian sub sandwich for lunch. She'd eaten half of each, then requested a box for the leftovers, which she'd placed in the largest compartment of her backpack. The food would stay fresh for a while. Her parents would be pleased.

She'd watched as people began to stream out of the offices to go home for the day. Traffic grew heavier, became clogged in places. The police were out in full force—she could tell by the more frequent patrols on foot and squad car. Watching the city come alive, she wondered how things might have been if her mother wasn't so deathly ill, if her father actually had a job. Would he be here now, hurrying to get home to his family like all these other people? She'd like to think he would. After all, he used to have a job. He used to be just like these people. But now he and so many millions were out of work. Why were so many out of work, unable to support their families, while so few people were able to keep their jobs?

It wasn't fair!

It was at times like these that she felt like crying. It shouldn't be like this, she thought. I should be doing my homework in a cozy house while Mom and Dad fix dinner and talk about the folks at the office. Gina remembered feeling secure and happy, and she wanted that life back again. Now it was a struggle to survive. Dad had tried everything to get work—he'd even done what he called "under the table jobs", but had stopped when the police found out and threatened to arrest him. It had something to do with a new law regarding unregulated work. And in the meantime, Mom got sicker.

Gina wiped the tears from her cheeks and gripped her sign. A wind picked up, blowing scraps of paper around. She glanced at the setting sun. It was closing in on five p.m. She hoped she could get at least another forty bucks before she had to head home.

And there was always the chance she could get lucky like last time.

Movement out of the corner of her eye attracted her attention and she glanced casually to her right. A lone businessman was heading down the path toward her, briefcase in his hand. Gina took a deep breath, trying to will the nerves down.

As the man drew closer, Gina held her sign up and went into character. "Excuse me, sir? Can you help me?"

The man glanced at her and shook his head. "Sorry," he said. He kept going.

"Please!" Gina put a sense of anguish into her voice, and it was real; heartfelt. If she didn't get what she needed from this man, she would be coming home with less than thirty dollars. A death sentence for her mother if she didn't have her pain medication. A death sentence for all of them if they didn't have money for heat in a few months. Unbidden, Gina started to sob. "Please, Mister, I'm really hungry and I don't know what else to do!"

That stopped the man. He looked back at her, clutching his briefcase. Gina couldn't tell what he looked like—her eyes really were blurred with tears now—but she imagined his features bore a mixture of sadness and embarrassment. "Please, I'm hungry and I'm scared and...I just want some money for some food. Please." She looked up at him. "Will you help me?"

"You want money for food?" The man asked.

Gina nodded. "Please?"

"I can't give you money. I don't have any."

"But..."

"I work, but I'm just getting by, too. I'm sorry." The man turned away.

Gina shot off the bench. "No! Wait!"

The man stopped and looked at her curiously.

"Just a few dollars...anything for a meal. Please?"

The man hesitated. It was obvious to her that he was telling her the truth. His suit coat was old and frayed, but still fit him well. His shoes were scuffed but still business-like. She noticed that his hair was slightly unkempt and the bangs fell about his forehead. He reminded her of her second-grade teacher, Mr. Mays. He brushed his hair out of his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said. "I really am. But I have a wife...a son..."

"Just a few dollars?" Gina let a sob escape her. "I haven't eaten in three days."

"Where do you live?"

"I don't live anywhere."

"You're homeless?"

Gina nodded.

"Where're your parents?"

"My mother's sick. She has cancer." She let the next sentence come out in a sob. "She's dying."

That did the trick. "Come with me."

Gina looked up at him. "Where?"

"You have to come with me if you want me to help you." He had taken a step away, back down the path he was treading. He gestured with a tilt of his head. "Come. We have to hurry. My car is in the parking garage on Seventh Street."

Gina gave the area a quick glance—nobody around, not even a cop—and got to her feet. She shoved the sign back into her backpack, slung it over her shoulders, and followed him.

She kept calm as he led her to the end of the path and made a right, heading toward Seventh Street. She kept a good five feet behind him. He didn't try to get her to walk with him, nor did he try to talk to her, but she knew that he was aware she was following him. She tried to hang back as much as possible, to be less conspicuous, but nobody seemed to be paying attention to them. The man didn't seem to care.

They entered the parking garage and Gina followed him up the stairs to the fourth level. There were no people in the parking garage, but there were plenty of cars. The man approached a tan sedan that had seen better days. He disengaged the alarm system and opened the driver's side door. Gina glanced around—nobody there, no security cameras anywhere—and approached the passenger side door.

The man looked over at her from over the roof of the car. "Go ahead and get in," he said.

"Why?"

"You need help. I'll take you to my house, make sure you get fed. We have enough food tonight for supper."

Gina nodded, heart pounding, and opened the driver's side door and climbed in.

Once inside the car, the man stowed the briefcase in the backseat. He sat behind the wheel, fastened his seatbelt, and pulled out his smart phone and keys.. Gina felt an adrenaline surge at the sight of the smart phone. It was what she was hoping for. She brought her backpack up and her right hand darted into the right side pocket for the butterfly knife. "Can I use your phone?"

"Sure." The man handed the phone over.

Gina took the phone and quickly thumbed through the apps. She found what she was looking for—the app to the man's bank account. She tapped it, then brought the butterfly knife out and handed the phone back to him. "Type in your password," she said, her voice and demeanor quickly changing as she held the butterfly knife against his stomach. "And do it now!"

The look on the man's face was one of stunned shock. "But...I thought..."

Gina pressed the tip of the blade against the man's stomach. He squealed, fumbled for the door, almost dropping the cell phone.

"Drop that cell phone and I'll gut you," Gina said, her voice pure venom. She leaned toward the man, all semblance of the helpless twelve-year-old begging for money so she could buy food completely gone. "Put in the password for your bank account."

"Okay, okay," the man said, the panic making his voice squeak. "Just...don't hurt me." He quickly typed the password in and offered the phone back. "I don't...I don't have any money in my bank account, though."

"Set the phone down on the console and don't move," Gina said. She continued to hold the knife at the man's belly. The man set the phone down on the center console of the sedan and remained in the front driver's seat, his breath coming in harsh gasps.

Gina picked up the phone. Once she had access to the account, she would transfer the money to a temporary dummy account she'd set up for this purpose. Tonight she would make another transfer to a cash center near the house and close the temporary account. In the morning, she would go to the cash center with the verification number and pick up the cash, minus their thirty percent. She'd done it before, and she'd never been caught.

Keeping the man held at bay with the knife, she quickly glanced at the balance in the man's bank account. She looked up at the man, fighting to keep the panic off her face. "You..."

"I told you, I have nothing!"

"But—" She couldn't believe what she was seeing. The bank account showed a balance of only $10.00 and some pocket change. That was combined checking and savings, too. She looked at the man again. "You came out of the First National Bank building. Nobody can get in there except employees. You work there. They won't let people who have low bank balances work at companies anymore. I should know. That's one of the reasons they won't let my Dad work anymore. So how..."

"I'm just like everybody else," the man said. He was fighting to stay calm. His eyes darted from the knife to Gina's face. "I'm unemployed...just like your dad."

"But how..."

"I faked my way into that building. Under an assumed name, a fake bank balance." He looked desperate. Scared. "I'm just trying to survive like everyone else. Please..."

The panic began to hit Gina like waves crashing on the shore. She felt anxious; cheated. She was at her wits end; Mom had run out of medicine, rent was due in three days and they were almost out of food. She could feel herself begin to lose it. "I need that money," she said, her hand gripping the handle of the butterfly knife. A sense of murderous rage swept over her. "You sonofabitch! You lied to me!"

"I'm just as desperate to survive as you!" the man said. He tried to back up against the driver's side window but couldn't go anywhere. Gina kept the point of the knife blade at his stomach. "Please," he begged, sweat beading on his forehead. "My wife and son...we haven't eaten in three days. I...I can help us both! I—"

"How the hell did you fake a bank account?" She screamed.

"I used to be a web programmer!" the man stammered. "I wrote this program...it spoofs the layout of bank websites. It even has a little database that runs in the background. I...I populated the database with fake dollar figures...gave it a transaction history. That's what they saw." He motioned toward the cluster of buildings in the Financial District. "I've only been working there for two days," he said. "They're going to find out that everything I showed them is fake, so I worked fast. Go ahead..." He motioned toward the backseat, where the briefcase lay. "Open the briefcase."

Gina's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You get it." She moved the knife up to his throat. The blade made a dimple in the skin. "Reach slowly..."

Teeth clenching, the man reached into the backseat of the car and grabbed the briefcase. He brought it to the front seat and set it on his lap. Gina kept the blade on him the entire time. "Go ahead," she said, gesturing to the briefcase. "Open it."

The man fumbled with the combination, his fingers shaking. Gina's heart pounded. If he was lying—

The locks snapped and the man opened the briefcase. He turned it toward her. "See? All unmarked bills. They don't even know I have it. I gained access to their vault this afternoon."

One glance told Gina all she needed to know.

Nestled in the briefcase were stacks of bills. She didn't know what denomination they were. What mattered was that there were stacks of bills in that briefcase, all bound together neatly. There could be twenty thousand dollars in there, a hundred thousand, a quarter of a million. It didn't matter. What mattered was that it was money. Cold hard cash. And it was more money than she and her parents could ever hope for.

"See, I was going to take this money, get my wife and son and leave," the man said, his voice fast clipped, nervous. His eyes were wide. "I was going to head out of state, maybe go down south. Southwest actually. California, if I can. Marlene and Tony, they don't know yet. I was just going to head home, get them, get a few things, then leave. Get some food once we cross the state line. Then just keep driving till we reach the west coast." His right hand began to dart into the briefcase, the fingers resting on the stacks of bills. "I can give you some of this. I know you're desperate, that your parents are probably worrying for you. If...if you don't live far, I can take you all with us. I'm just like you...just trying to survive. We can leave together and you can have half. You can— "

The knife flashed and the blade sank into the man's stomach. Gina pulled it out as the man gasped, eyes flying open in shock. The lid to the briefcase slammed shut. The blade flashed again, sinking into his throat. When she pulled it out, blood gushed out, splashing the lid of the briefcase in spatters. The man gurgled blood then slumped forward until he was hanging by his seatbelt.

Heart pounding, Gina put the blade back in her backpack and grabbed the briefcase. She opened it quickly, ran her hands over the stacks of bills as if to confirm it was all there. A sense of satisfaction swept through her, followed by a sense of relief. Finally! They would be okay. There was now enough money for not only food and heat, but maybe enough to get them out of their apartment, maybe even enough to get them west, to a better life.

Gina closed the briefcase and latched it. Then she got out of the car. She closed the door gently, looked around. Still nobody. She had to get out of there, and she had to do it fast, before security showed up.

Five minutes later, Gina was heading up Seventh Street to catch the seven-thirty bus back to her apartment.

WHEN SHE ENTERED the apartment thirty minutes later, she was elated. "Dad! Dad!" she called out. She closed the kitchen door behind her and locked it. The apartment was dark and she fumbled for the light switch as her Dad entered through the living room. "Dad! Look what I got!" She held the briefcase up.

Dad looked hopeful as he took a step into the kitchen. Gina set the briefcase on the rickety kitchen table, flipped the locks up and opened it. "Look!"

Dad looked in the briefcase for a long time, his features one of dawning amazement. He glanced at her. "Is that...is it real?"

Gina nodded, tears of joy streaming down her face. "Yes, Dad. It's real. I don't know how much it is but..."

"Gina?" Her mother stepped into the kitchen, looking curious. She was wearing her green bathrobe. While her pallor was still an unhealthy gray, she seemed strangely more animated. And she was walking, which was something Mom never did. Mom spent all of her time lying on the sofa—that's how sick she was.

"Mom!"

Her mother stepped further into the kitchen and the smile on her face dwindled. Her eyes roamed over Gina. "My God, Gina," she said.

Now her father was looking at her with that same expression. He took a step back. "No, Gina," he said. "Not again!"

"What?" Gina looked at her parents, confused. "What's wrong?" The feeling of elation, of relief, now suddenly turned into a one of dread. Her stomach felt hollow, empty.

"What's wrong?" Dad said. "Just look at you! Didn't you notice you had blood on your clothes?"

Gina looked down at herself. Her shirt and jacket were stained with the blood of the man she had stabbed. She looked at her parents. "I can explain..."

"You can explain?" Dad said. "How can you explain this? We told you to go beg for money. We didn't—"

"But I only did what you wanted me to do!" Gina protested.

"We didn't want you to kill anybody! My God, Gina...begging is one thing, but this..."

"But you said to get the money by any means possible," Gina said, her voice coming in fast clips. "You said the men that caused this, they deserve to die, they're killing you, killing Mom, killing us, that we need the money more than they do, and so I did. I got plenty of money, way more than last time! In fact—"

"Honey..." Mom approached her. Was that a look of disappointment in her eyes? "This...this isn't what we wanted. It's like your father said...begging is one thing, but this..."

"And to do it again?" Dad shook his head. Now he looked disappointed.

"But you told me to do it!" She screamed. "You told me to do anything it takes to survive and I did! I went out there and I saw my chance and I took it! Don't you understand? It was either me or him! Me or him!"

The shrillness of her voice snapped everything back and she started, blinking. She stood in the kitchen with bloodstained clothes, the briefcase open on the kitchen table. The light from the kitchen penetrated into the living room beyond where her mother lay shrouded in shadows. Gina blinked again. "It wasn't your fault," she said, her voice trembling. "Wasn't your fault you couldn't help me. I'm just...just trying to survive. I have to survive...please...don't be mad at me..."

Gina began to cry. The enormity of her emotions crashed into her and her knees buckled. She grasped for the table, which broke her fall. She sobbed; tears of rage and frustration and loss welled out of her, eclipsing all other emotions. She was just trying to survive! She was just doing what they'd told her to do. Why wouldn't they leave her alone?

The wind picked up outside, whistling around the eaves of the old apartment building. The sound of its shrieking cut through the din of her sorrow, and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. She was alone in the kitchen. Mom was still lying on the sofa, in the same position she always lay in. She hadn't moved. And Dad was in the bedroom. None of this had happened, except for the briefcase. That had happened. Gina looked at her hands, at the dried blood that stained them.

"I was only doing what you told me," she said. She rubbed her hands on her dirty clothes, not even looking at the shriveled-up form of her mother on the sofa where she'd lain for the last three years. The wind shrieked again and Gina shivered. It was going to get cold tonight. But now she had money to pay the heating bill. She would be okay. She knew that now. Her parents had taught her well.

Taking a deep breath, her emotions under control, Gina exited the kitchen, went through the living room past her mother, and entered the hallway. She went to her room, not even pausing to look in on Dad. There was no need too. He looked worse than Mom. Last summer hadn't worked out so well for him. At least the elements had been in favor for Mom; she'd mummified quite nicely.

"We'll use this money to stock up on some food," Gina said as she peeled out of the dirty, bloodied clothes. "Then maybe we can head west, to California. You would like that, wouldn't you, Dad?"

The wind whistled around the eaves in answer. Gina paused, listening. She smiled. "Of course! We'll leave tomorrow. You, me, and Mom. Just like old times."

Then, chattering happily with her father, Gina got dressed, cleaned herself up, and prepared to hunker down for the night.

Story Notes

I don’t remember where this one came from. I simply had this image of a young girl, around twelve years of age, give or take, living in a run-down apartment in a very large, faceless city, being forced to beg for money on the streets due to her unfortunate family situation. I knew the story would have to be set in a dystopian future. How far in the future this story actually takes place, I left vague for obvious reasons. This is one of those stories that basically wrote itself. I started with an image and everything just kind of came together.

I suppose most of this was influenced by global economic events and my own pessimistic view of things.

Despite the bleak outlook of this story, it’s my personal favorite out of the eighty or so I’ve done.

Ricochet

“YOU EVER WANT to just pick up and move somewhere else?”

“What do you mean?”

Nick leaned back in his chair, fingers resting in the home position on his computer keyboard. It was two-thirty in the afternoon on a Thursday, and the workday had slowed to a crawl. He and Ken Atkins were the only people in the department today. Jay was meeting with a client, and their boss, Mark, was down in Georgia on a business trip. On days like this when the work was slow, there wasn’t much to do except cruise the Internet and make idle chatter.

“You know,” Nick said. “Just make plans to skip town without telling anybody and then do it.”

“Good luck,” Ken said.

Nick smiled. The term “good luck” was used by Ken, Jay, and Nick as a catch-all phrase for “good luck in your job search”. It was an inside joke the three of them shared.

“It’s not like that,” Nick said. “It’s more in the line of what you mentioned to me when we were talking about that woman in Arizona.”

“Oh,” Ken said, his voice dropping. “That.”

“Yeah.”

Eight months after Ken started working for Logan Advertising, a woman served him with child support papers in his home state of Arizona for a child he never fathered. Ken said he’d never even met the woman. “I had just gotten married,” he’d told Nick on a day that was similar to this—slow workday, no web campaigns to put to bed. “I’m not the kind of guy that screws around like that on his wife. I know a lot of guys say that and they behave otherwise, but I’m serious. I don’t know who this chick is!”

The woman, who Nick later learned was named Rebecca Armstrong, maintained her claim that she’d had a torrid one-night stand with Ken, which resulted in an unintended pregnancy. Religious beliefs forbade her to terminate the pregnancy, so she’d bore the child, a daughter, and raised her as a single mother. Once Rebecca was on her feet financially, she’d sought the services of an attorney who began the process of tracking Ken down. “She claims to remember my name from our alleged night together,” Ken had told him. “And yeah, she has the physical description of me right, but...” He’d shaken his head. “There’s no way this could have happened. I take my marriage vows seriously. If Tina finds out about this, she's gonna freak.”

Nick could sympathize. If this had happened to him, his own wife, Karen, would not only have freaked out, she would've gone nuclear. Wives were programmed that way—go on the warpath at the first hint their man has committed some kind of transgression and ask questions later, after their husbands were bludgeoned and bleeding.

Well, that was Karen's MO. Nick didn't really like to think about that.

During the six-month process that followed Ken’s initial discovery of learning Rebecca Armstrong was suing him for child support, he’d been forced to hire his own attorney. He had to submit to a paternity test. Rebecca had listed Ken as the child’s father on the birth certificate. The DNA test came back in Ken’s favor—he wasn’t the child’s biological father (“And there’s no way it could’ve happened!” Ken had exclaimed when he told Nick on one of their afternoon discussions. “Tina and I had already moved out of Arizona when the child was conceived.”). However, Arizona law didn’t look at it that way—if he was named as the child’s father in the birth certificate, he was legally and financially responsible. The court found in favor of Rebecca, who Ken began referring to as “that bitch who’s getting half my paycheck.” Because Ken couldn’t afford the back and current child support, and because he wanted to avoid a jail sentence for failure to pay, he’d had no choice but to sell some liquid assets and take on a second job. His appeal was currently in legal limbo.

Nick and Ken had many a talk about the situation during company downtime—Ken was the agency's web programmer, Nick was the company’s web designer. At one point during the height of Ken’s struggle with the Arizona legal system, he’d said, “I wish I could just disappear. Just quietly get the things I care about most and go someplace where nobody will find me.” That was one of many things Ken said during this tumultuous time. He'd also said he'd wanted to make Rebecca Armstrong disappear, that he wished she no longer existed so he wouldn't be in this mess. All understandable for a guy being financially raped for a transgression he didn't commit.

Nick looked at his computer screen. The web browser was set to Google’s home page. He had just typed a search term in the text box: I want to move to California, but had not hit the Search button yet. It had been over a year since Ken had brought up the subject of That Woman to Nick. If anything, Ken had seemed to chill out about the situation in the last few months and accept it. He certainly seemed more calm, less stressed in the past few months. “I feel like you did back then. In fact, I just typed 'I want to move to California' in Google, but haven’t searched on the term yet.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmmm.” Nick could hear Ken on the other side of the cubicle wall that separated their workspace. It sounded like Ken was searching through something on his computer. “That bad, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s getting there.”

“That sucks.”

Nick and Ken had participated in a lot of quid pro quo during down time. Ken had told Nick about his problems with Rebecca Armstrong. Naturally, Nick told Ken about Karen.

Nick touched the left side of his face near his temple, gingerly inspecting the area with his fingers. He winced. It still hurt. He was surprised Ken or one of his other co-workers hadn’t noticed. They had noticed an earlier injury, when Karen had punched him in the face, resulting in a bloody nose and two black eyes. He’d told them he’d gotten up in the middle of the night and, disoriented due to the house being dark, walked into a wall. “Just admit it,” Bob Keene, their Senior Copywriter, had said in that joking tone of his, “your wife beat the shit out of you last night. Right?” Nick had grinned, trying to laugh along with the joke, but deep down he’d felt the shame of his situation being so goddamn obvious. Yes, Karen had hit him. She’d hit him last night too. When Karen thought he was being unreasonable, she hit him. It didn’t take much for him to be unreasonable in her eyes, and it happened once a month on average.

He’d kept the physical abuse he'd suffered from Karen a secret for years and had not told anybody, not even his closest friends outside of work until one afternoon when Ken had just finished unburdening about Rebecca. The time had seemed right, so Nick revealed everything. Ken had been aghast. “I knew wives-beating-on-husbands spousal abuse existed, but you sure never hear much about it. You really need to do something, man. See a counselor, go to the police—”

Nick had stopped him. “That’ll just make it worse.”

“Oh,” Ken said. That afternoon, the two men had left work early, met at a bar and drank several beers during further commiseration.

“You know, it wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Ken said from his side of the cube. “You’ve got to do something. Your son never wants to come home because of his mother, you never want to go home because of her, and you’re running yourself ragged. I can tell, Nick. How much sleep do you get every night?”

“Three or four hours.”

“See what I mean? Just do it.”

Nick sighed. “Maybe I should. Problem is, I don’t have the money to file for divorce. Karen will go apeshit.”

There was a musical chiming sound from Nick’s computer. “Don’t tell anybody I sent this to you,” Ken said. “And when you have the URL committed to memory, delete the email from your system. If you use this site at work, clear it from your browser history and cache after every use.”

“What is it?” Nick asked. He opened the email and saw that it contained a website URL. www.youranswers.com.

“Check it out.”

Nick clicked on the link and a new browser window opened. A white screen came up with a text box centered in the middle. There were no words on the screen indicating he was at a website called Your Answers, or youranswers.com. He glanced at the top of the browser screen and saw that whoever created the site hadn’t even bothered to name the index file correctly. It was simply labeled Untitled.

“So what is this?” Nick asked.

“It’s a search engine,” Ken said. “Just compare it to Google. Go ahead. Type that search term in and compare the results.”

Curious, Nick did as Ken suggested. He hit the Enter key. The screen went blank.

“Nothing’s happening.”

“Do you still have the Google window open?”

“Yeah.”

“Go ahead and search on the term there and wait for the results.”

Nick navigated to the browser window that still had Google open. He hit the Enter key. Google returned thirty-two thousand, five hundred and eighty six results. The top results were links to various message board postings in which people were asking how much money it cost to move to California.

“Shitty results from Google, huh?”

“It’s what you can expect with such a stupid search term,” Nick said.

“Go back to Your Answers dot com. You should have results there any minute.”

Nick navigated to the youranswers.com browser window. The screen was still blank. “Nothing’s happening.”

“All good things come to those who wait.”

A moment later, the search query returned a list of results. Unlike the Google Search, youranswers.com only returned seven results.

“Well?” Ken asked.

Nick clicked the first result, completely fascinated. He was now on a website called Five easy steps to move to California. “This is incredible,” he said.

“Like I said, clear your browser’s cache when you’re done.” Ken’s voice sounded cautious and there was something else too. Regret that he'd revealed the existence of this site? It was hard to tell. “And don’t forget to delete that email.”

“Yeah, right,” Nick said. He clicked back onto his inbox, selected the email, and deleted it. Then he deleted his trash. “Done and done,” he said.

Ken said nothing as Nick read through the web page his search query had found. As he read through it, he realized it contained the best information he’d ever found on moving across the country. In fact, it addressed everything from budgeting, to unexpected emergencies, to dealing with moving companies, buying a home versus renting, to a day-by-day itinerary for the move itself.

Nick spent the rest of the afternoon looking through the other links, which were similar. Some highlighted the pros and cons of moving to California. Others gave a historical view on moving to California from the perspective of those coming to the state from other parts of the U.S., as well as charting employment trends, careers, housing, and other economic factors. One website even included projections of the state’s future economic growth until 2050.

“Incredible,” Nick said. He backed out of the search results until he was at a blank screen. The text box sat there, beckoning for a term to be typed in it.

“Don’t get too carried away,” Ken said. Nick heard him stand up in his cube and gather his things. Nick glanced at the clock in the upper right screen of his monitor. Two minutes before five o’clock.

“I won’t,” Nick said. He clicked out of the Your Answer web window, cleared the browser cache, and then closed it.

“See you tomorrow,” Ken said. He waved at Nick and exited the building through the door that led to the rear parking lot, which was where the Creative Department was situated.

“See ya,” Nick said. He took his time gathering his belongings. He had a lot of things on his mind. Namely the thirty minutes or so he would have to peruse youranswer.com before Karen got home.

Nick left for home a few minutes later.

HE WAS ABLE to access the search engine before Karen got home from work. Billy was in his room doing his homework. Nick sat in the living room, his laptop open. He typed in the URL and the first search term he typed in was “How do I leave my wife without her finding me?”

The screen went blank. Nick waited. The left side of his face was tender and sore from where Karen had hit him last night. If he hadn’t ducked, she would have got him in the eye and he would’ve been in worse physical shape. This morning on the way to dropping Billy off at school, he’d asked his son if the boy had heard them fighting. “Yeah,” Billy had responded, his tone of voice low, ashamed. “I heard it when she hit you. I always hear it when she hits you.” That admission had made Nick feel like a complete failure.

Nick glanced at the staircase, then out the window at the driveway. It was a quarter till six. Karen could arrive home anytime between six and seven, depending on how late she stayed in the office and if she made a pit stop at the grocery store on her way home. Karen worked in the IT field as a Network Security Specialist for a financial firm. The work sometimes meant late nights. Dinner on weeknights was usually catch-as-catch-can. Billy hadn’t been hungry when they got home and neither had Nick. Father and son would probably snack later in the evening on bowls of cereal.

Nick’s eyes went to the laptop screen. A moment later, his latest search query was returned.

This time there were only three results.

Heart beating wildly, Nick clicked on the first link. The page came up.

Nick glanced out the window. No Karen. Yet.

Realizing he only had a small window of opportunity, Nick read through the website, which was titled How to successfully leave your abusive spouse and have them never find you.

Thirty minutes later, Karen pulled her car into the driveway. Nick closed the web browser, cleared the cache, and shut down his laptop. He had it stowed away and was in the kitchen preparing dinner by the time his wife walked in the front door.

JAY WAS IN the office the following day, so Nick didn’t want to mention anything about the search engine in his presence. Instead, he initiated a conversation with Ken via Skype Instant Message.

NICK: I did some more research with the help of that search engine last night.

KEN: Oh yeah? And?

NICK: Where did you find it?

Ken was slow to respond. Nick sat at his desk, trying to listen to the other side of the cubicle wall. Jay was over in his cubicle creating image files for an online ad campaign.

KEN: I didn’t just find it. Somebody told me about it.

Nick gave this some thought. He was under the impression that Ken was uneasy about discussing the search engine.

NICK: You mean...somebody told you about it the way you told me?

KEN: Exactly.

Nick’s next question was more direct.

NICK: Have you used it?

KEN: Yes.

NICK: What have you used it for?

KEN: Don’t ask.

Nick didn’t respond. He sat in front of his computer screen, his mind racing. Ken hadn't really mentioned Rebecca in the past year. He'd chalked it up to Ken finally accepting the situation, resolved that he couldn't do anything about it.

He’d also seemed less stressed-out in the past six months. As if his situation no longer existed.

Fingers poised over the keyboard, Nick thought carefully about his next question, afraid of what the answer would be. He was still trying to formulate it when Ken answered it for him.

KEN: Let’s just say that I used it to take care of my problem.

Nick read the answer, not breathing. His thoughts were interrupted by Jay, who called out. “Okay, men! This graphic is done! Where’s the next one? Hey, Ken! You see that video I sent you on Hulu?”

“Yeah, that was crazy!” Ken’s voice had taken on his usual happy-go-lucky tone and as much as Nick tried to get into his work, he found it hard to concentrate on his tasks for the rest of the day.

OVER THE NEXT three weeks, Nick did more research on youranswers.com in his spare time. He went to work every day and threw himself into it, which was the only way he could get through the day without letting the possibilities the search engine had to offer drive him crazy. He picked his son up on his way home from work, did chores around the house, and when Karen got home he tried to stay on her good side. Things seemed to go pretty well. Karen was in a good mood, and he tried to keep it that way by doing more around the house, more than he should, really, since many things Karen had previously done she no longer bothered with. One weekend he took his family out to dinner to their favorite steakhouse. He said nothing as Karen flirted with their young waiter. Billy cast a look at Nick as if to say, what the hell is wrong with her? Nick met his son’s look with one of his own. Not now.

During those three weeks, Nick used youranswers.com to make the following plans:

He was going to move to California. He’d already secured an alternate identity for himself and Billy thanks to the tips found in the comprehensive website he’d found titled How to leave your abusive spouse and ensure they never find you. He liquidated his IRA portfolio, minus penalties, and diverted the funds to his personal checking account (he and Karen had always maintained separate bank accounts). He’d also laid out plans on taking Billy out of school without Karen’s approval and knowledge. He had enough money in his savings to tide him over for at least six months. He even had a date planned for the move—two weeks from now, when Karen went to New York for the weekend with her mother. He'd secured a moving van that he was due to pick up that Friday. He and Billy would load it with their belongings and be hundreds of miles from the house by the time Karen arrived home late Sunday. When they left the house they would no longer be Nick and Billy Clapp—they would have new names altogether, along with new social security numbers.

They would start over, away from Karen and her abusive influence.

That’s what had settled it for Nick. Karen’s abuse wasn’t just centered on knocking him around every few months. Every other day she heaped verbal and emotional abuse on Billy. Their son was “stupid”, and “lazy”, and “fat”, and he was a “sissy”. Nick stood up for Billy every time and Karen would dismiss his protests with a “Don’t take everything so seriously! I’m just joking around with him! You know I’m just kidding, right Silly-Billy?” It obviously wasn’t okay to Billy, and the arguments would escalate to the point where Karen would scream at Nick, accuse him of portraying her as an unfit mother.

A week before their planned escape, after Billy had gone to sleep in his room down the hall, Karen tried to initiate sex. Nick tried to get in the mood, but Karen was too aggressive. She'd dominated the attempt, and when she kissed him she bit down on his lower lip, bringing not a burst of pleasure from him, but pain. His penis rapidly wilted and Karen pouted. "Don't I turn you on anymore?"

"Yes, you do," Nick said. He sat up in bed, trying to assuage her fears. "It's just...I'm sorry, I'm just tired and overstressed, and—"

Karen started to cry. She turned away from him. "You don't love me anymore! All you do is work and spend time in your office when you're at home and we never spend any time together!" Karen put her face in her hands and sobbed loud and hard.

Nick's attempt at calming her emotions, at finding a bridge for which to open a line of communication eroded when she became combative. He tried to remember a time when he really loved her—the early years of their relationship and marriage were wonderful. He'd really felt she was his soulmate. But then careers had driven a wedge between them and she'd thrown herself into her work in network security, then they'd had Billy and she changed. When it came to work, play, and raising Billy, everything had to be followed to a strict regimen. There was no room for compromise or error. This wasn't a sudden change, but gradual, and before he knew it their arguments became more heated and turned physical on her part.

She refused to listen to him, refused to talk, and instead told him how selfish and insensitive he was and if he loved her he would want her physically, not just emotionally, and then somehow the argument went to Karen picking at his faults, how he never cleaned the kitchen, always left a mess in the bathroom, never did anything around the house (none of them true) and when he tried to defend himself she became more loud, more combative, and when he slipped up and countered with a "Well all you do when you get home from work is sit on the sofa and watch those shitty TV shows", she ended the fight by kneeing him in the groin.

Nick fell to the floor, hitting his right temple on the bed frame on the way down. For a moment he couldn't hear anything. All he felt was white-hot pain spreading through his groin and lower belly. He felt a wave of nausea. For a long time he was unable to move, the pain was so crippling.

When he finally regained some of his senses, he noticed Karen had left the room. He could hear her down the hall in Billy's bedroom, talking to him in a calm, soothing tone. Billy sounded like he was crying. Nick gritted his teeth and tried to stand up. His stomach felt like it was going to revolt.

He wound up crawling to the master bathroom and shutting the door. He crawled to the toilet, threw up, flushed, and then lay by the commode for a long time, his arms draped over it. In time, he heard the pad of Karen's feet as she walked back to the bedroom. She slipped into bed without a word. Nick closed his eyes, the pain washing over him in waves.

He managed to get up and hobble out of the master bathroom, exiting through the door that led to the hallway. He made his way carefully downstairs, where he took something for the pain, put an ice pack on his swollen testicles and spent the rest of the night on the living room sofa.

KEN ATKINS WASN’T in the office when Nick arrived ten minutes late. He limped over to his cubicle and eased himself into his chair. Jay was already working in his cube, absorbed in his work. Mark was in his office with the door closed. Bob Keene was talking to Hal Enders, one of the other senior copywriters.

Nick turned on his computer and sighed as he settled into his seat. He hadn't slept well, and had gotten up to soak in cool water in the bathtub downstairs very late last night. This had helped soothe the swelling in his testicles. He'd gingerly inspected them with his fingers, trying not to cry out in pain as he assessed the damage. He wound up telling himself that he would make an appointment with his doctor when he arrived at the office.

Karen hadn't said a word to him this morning as he went about getting he and Billy ready for their morning routine. They'd left the house without saying goodbye. Billy had asked him if he was okay and Nick had lied and told him everything was fine.

Nick reached for the phone on his desk. He flipped through his day timer, located the phone number for his doctor's office and was about to dial when Mark entered their work area. "Ken's not coming in," he said. "He's been arrested."

"What?" Jay exclaimed.

All eyes turned to Mark, who looked pale from the sudden news. "I just got off the phone with his wife. He's been arrested for a double homicide in Arizona."

"That's crazy!" Jay said, glancing at Nick. "Ken wouldn't do that! What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know," Mark answered. "But a pair of detectives are coming here today to talk to us at ten."

What little they found out came secondhand from Mark, who learned it from Ken's wife. Ken was arrested for the murders of a woman named Rebecca Armstrong and her five-year old daughter, Jennifer. "When did this happen?" Nick asked Mark.

"Six months ago," Mark said, naming the date in question. Nick mentally rewound back to that time period. It corresponded with their time working with Stoner Bunting on a huge digital ad campaign for a major department store chain. The entire creative team had been pulling in ten and twelve hour work days, Ken included.

"That's impossible!" Jay said. "Ken was here!"

"I know," Mark said. He regarded each of them with a haunted expression. "And we are going to be truthful and allow the police access to every and any file they ask for so we can exonerate him. Ken did not commit this crime. It is physically impossible for him to have done it."

When the detectives arrived they interviewed each of them in the large conference room on the other side of the building. Nick didn't remember their names—he was too scatterbrained with shock—but he paid close attention to what they told him. Despite not giving out much in the way of details, they were very interested in hearing from Nick if Ken had told him anything about Rebecca. Nick shook his head. "No. He's never mentioned her to me before."

"Not even in passing?" The lead detective flipped through his notes. "His wife says he talked to you guys at work about her. About her paternity lawsuit against him."

"Oh, that," Nick said. "Well, yeah, he did talk about her. Not much, though."

"Tell us what he told you."

Hesitant, Nick told them the basics; how Rebecca had sued him for child support and claimed her daughter was fathered by him; how Ken's paternity test had proven he wasn't the father; how the state of Arizona considered him the father anyway due to his name being on the birth certificate and Ken's subsequent financial downslide of having to pay back child support while still keeping up with his current financial obligations. "He's been working himself ragged to pay for all this so he won't go to jail," Nick said. "There's no way he could have been in Arizona to do this."

"Are you sure there's nothing else Ken told you?" The lead detective asked pointedly.

"No."

He was in the conference room with them for thirty minutes. When they let him walk back to his work area, Mark had a talk with them. Later, that afternoon, the four of them had an informal meeting about it. "I gave them time sheet records that show Ken was here when the murders took place," Mark said. "They indicate they are going to issue a subpoena for Ken's computer records. We'll fight that on general principle."

"Can they really do this?" Jay asked. He was leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, nervously tapping his foot. "What kind of evidence do they have?"

Mark sighed. "They wouldn't tell me everything. They did indicate the crime scene evidence shows Ken was physically at the scene."

"What kind of physical evidence?" Nick asked. "Fingerprints? DNA?"

"Both."

Bob, Jay, and Nick looked at each other, stunned. Bob shook his head. "He was here. How can he be here and almost all the way across the country on the same day?"

"I don't know," Mark said.

NICK DID THE searches on youranswers.com later that night, after Karen and Billy had gone to bed.

When he slipped out of bed at two-thirty a.m., Karen was a vague lump beneath the covers, snoring loudly. Nick snuck out of the bedroom and headed downstairs, being careful not to make any noise. Once in the living room, he took his laptop out of its space beneath the end table by his chair and fired it up.

When the search engine was up he got right down to business. He typed, "Did Ken Atkins kill Rebecca Armstrong and her daughter Jennifer?" He hit the Enter key.

The search engine returned one link with lightning speed.

Nick looked at the screen, his heart beating wildly in his chest. That one link, denoted by a single underline that changed from blue to red when he placed his cursor over it, was ominous. There was no identifying text to accompany the link. Just that single line, beckoning him to click it.

Nick clicked the hyperlink.

The link took him to a website with an embedded Flash movie clip. There was no text anywhere else on the page. A moment later, the movie clip started.

The clip was in gritty black and white. The angle suggested a security camera mounted in the high corner of a suburban living room. A reasonably attractive woman in her early thirties dressed in baggy shorts and a tee shirt was seated on the sofa, watching TV. Nick watched, not breathing, and gasped as something in the shadows detached from the darkness behind her and entered the frame.

"Oh God," Nick said. He clamped his hand over his mouth. His eyes were wide, riveted to the clip.

There was no mistaking it. The figure that had come out of the darkness to stand behind the woman, who was clearly oblivious to the intruder in her home, was Ken Atkins.

Ken Atkins raised his right hand, clutching a large butcher knife.

The knife came down.

Nick fumbled for the cursor on the track pad as Ken began stabbing the woman. He clicked the stop button on the video clip. The frame froze mid-stab. Nick couldn't tear his eyes off the image.

"This is insane," he whispered. He felt his pulse race as he noticed the time stamp in the lower right hand corner of the clip. July 15, 2011, 10:35 PM. That was a Thursday. Nick remembered that day clearly. He and Ken had spent the afternoon working on a department store chain’s new web site redesign. The following day, after making significant progress, they’d gone out for Chinese food for lunch.

There was no way Ken could have done this!

Nick exited the browser, cleared the cache and Internet cookies, and then shut down his laptop. He stowed it away, then sat back on the leather sofa and tried to think things through.

The last time Ken had talked about his problems with Rebecca was close to a year ago. As far as Nick knew, Ken was still working his second job

As the months passed, he'd seemed happier. More relaxed.

Did Ken use youranswers.com to find a solution to his problem with Rebecca? And if he did, what search term did Ken use? Was that why he hadn't brought her up in conversation in almost a year? Did that explain his recent demeanor?

Nick realized he had to do something. He wasn't planning on killing Karen. He just wanted to leave as quietly and as painlessly as possible. Did Ken try to find a solution for his problem through the search engine using similar parameters and the result was the most convenient of solutions? For to eliminate the woman who'd brought on the lawsuit, as well as the child, all financial obligations would end for Ken.

Did Ken type in the term "How do I get rid of Rebecca Armstrong and Jennifer so I won't have to pay child support"?

Nick thought perhaps Ken had. And the results the search engine spit back had contained just the right solution, which Ken had somehow followed through on.

Nick sat in the darkened living room pondering this, his mind racing. He couldn't back out of his plans now, not while everything was already set in motion. He was just getting out of dodge. He wasn't going to take the kind of drastic measures Ken had. He didn't want to get rid of Karen. He didn't want her to come to harm, didn't want her dead. He just wanted out.

Everything was going to be fine.

Nick went upstairs and slid back into bed. Karen slept soundly. He tried to get back to sleep but he lay awake for a long time.

WITH ONE WEEKEND left for him to launch his plan, Nick felt he had to follow up on one important thing that had suddenly come up in the midst of the latest turmoil at work.

He was sitting in the visitor’s area at Lancaster County Prison, waiting for the guards to escort Ken over. Karen was out with her friends Debbie and Cathy, probably bitching and complaining to each other about their husbands. Nick had dropped Billy off with a friend on the way in to Lancaster. The visiting area was noisy, a bare white room with multiple chairs seated in front of privacy cubicles that looked out into another area where the prisoners came through. A glass wall with holes punched in the glass to allow for audible conversation separated the prisoners from their visitors.

A flash of movement caught Nick's attention and he sat forward. Ken was being escorted over by a guard, a younger man dressed in a black police uniform. Ken was wearing the standard orange prison jumpsuit. He had a week's worth of beard stubble on his face. As he sat down opposite Nick, he noticed how pale his friend and former co-worker looked. His eyes had a haunted appearance, as if they'd seen things they shouldn't have.

Ken nodded at him. "How you doing, Nick?"

"I should be asking you."

Ken shook his head. "What's it look like?"

"Have you been arraigned yet?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"I plead innocent. I didn't do this. What else could I plead?"

"Did they set bail?"

"Yeah. We can't afford it. My parents...they're trying to raise it, but they're having a difficult time doing it."

"I bet." Nick shook his head, still trying to grasp how everything could have turned out the way it did.

"Listen, I have something I need to tell you," Ken said.

"Sure, what is it?"

"Don't do it."

Nick almost asked, don't do what? but then he got the subtle message. Ken was looking at him apprehensively. He knows I'm going to follow through with the plans I found on youranswers.com. He also knows I haven't told the detectives about it...that Ken used it to solve his own problem. Because if they'd found out, there's a good chance I'd be in deep shit with Karen.

"Don't worry," Nick said. "I don't plan to do what you're worried about. I'll be fine."

Ken said nothing for a moment. His dark eyes never left Nick. When he spoke, his tone was low. Flat. "I learned about it from a woman I used to work with. Back at my old job." Ken's prior job before coming to Logan Advertising was at an Arizona company called Discount Tire. "She was in debt up the ying yang. Anyway, long story short, she wanted to make a million bucks. Thought it would get her out of debt, put some in savings for her kids college fund, which she didn’t have, and have some for retirement. She did a search on this term. The site showed her how to steal the money quite easily from a hedge fund manager."

"A hedge fund manager?"

"Yeah." Ken chuckled slightly. "Guys that make that kind of money, a million bucks is pocket change to them. She figured the mark wouldn’t miss it. Anyway, she did it. She quit her job. Unlike a lot of people, she didn't live large. Didn't go out and buy fancy cars and houses and stuff. Just paid off her debt in full, put some in the bank, and quit her job, started her own business. Not too long after that, she told me about the site. Anyway, years later, I learned she was the target of a financial crime that put her in an even deeper hole. She got popped big time. It ruined her family. It got so bad for them, she checked out." Ken placed his middle and index finger against his temple and pulled a mock trigger. "She couldn't bear what she'd inadvertently done to her family. It never would've happened if she'd just stuck it out, tried to get out of debt the old fashioned way."

"Her situation was different," Nick said, seeing where this was leading. "I'm not doing anything wrong. I’m just leaving a bad situation."

"I know. But you're using the site. I’ve figured it out now. You use it and follow through, whatever it was you did comes back to you. My friend got hit financially. I got hit this way. If you leave—"

"I have to leave," Nick said, his voice low and gravelly. He shifted in his seat. The pain in his balls had diminished greatly in the past few days, but they were still tender. An ultrasound performed at his doctor's office revealed that his testicles weren't ruptured, but next time he might not be so lucky. "I don't think you understand the hell my son and I live under. The constant physical and psychological abuse. The negative influence...it's all having a profound affect on Billy. He's...he's different now." Thinking about Billy and how he was dealing with Karen almost made him tear up. "I have to do it."

Ken looked at him silently. He nodded. "I understand. But be careful, Nick."

"I will."

The guard approached Ken. Visiting time was over. Nick got to his feet. "I'll be in touch."

"I hope so," Ken said.

Nick watched the guard lead Ken back out of the visiting area, then he left to go home.

NICK FOLLOWED HIS plans carefully.

He resigned from his job that Monday and requested a cash-out of his remaining vacation days. During the day he left the house as normal, taking his tote bag that contained his notes and his laptop. He spent his days either at the Barnes and Noble coffee shop following up on plans or making necessary trips to the bank to take care of things.

Karen left the house Friday after work with her mother to New York. The moment they were gone, Ken drove his car to a vehicle shipping company, then took a cab to the U-Haul rental company where he picked out a small truck. He drove it back to the neighborhood, parked it around the corner in the event Karen came home unexpectedly, and then waited for Billy to be dropped off by a friend. He told Billy that evening over take-out pizza what was going to happen.

"You mean we're leaving?" Billy looked at him with wide-eyed excitement.

"Yes. Tomorrow morning. You and me."

"And we're not telling Mom where we're going?"

"No."

"Yes!" Billy pumped his right fist in the air, then darted over to Nick and gave him a hug. The energy he felt coming from his son, the love, was overwhelming. It said, thank you Dad! Thank you for getting us out of this hell.

The next morning Nick followed the outline he'd plotted out thanks to the website he'd gotten from his search at youranswers.com. They packed two weeks of clothing, personal items that were near and dear to them, one of the televisions and VCRs, Nick's laptop, Billy's Game Boy console and the Wii Fit, some books and CDs. All this they packed neatly into the truck. They left the house and drove to the bank, where Nick withdrew his entire checking and savings account. He transferred two thousand dollars of it into traveler's checks. The rest he had converted into cash, which he placed in a secure briefcase they kept with them in the truck’s cab and took in to the hotel rooms they stayed at.

They made the drive to California in five days.

Their first night in California they spent in Barstow, a small town in the Mojave Desert. When Nick stepped out of their hotel room that morning and took in the warm, dry desert air he sighed in relief. They were free.

They settled in Redondo Beach, a small community in Los Angeles fifteen miles south of LAX. Following the instructions he’d printed out, they stayed at a small low-rent motel along the Pacific Coast Highway for a few days under his new identity, paying cash. Then he’d gone to the Social Security office in Torrance and explained that he’d lost his card and needed a replacement. He produced a birth certificate and the fake state-issued ID he’d obtained a few weeks ago. He left fifteen minutes later with a new social security card. From there everything else followed: driver’s license, bank account, which he deposited his money into, and from there it was a quick upgrade to digs—a small two bedroom apartment on Lucia Street, just off Beryl Avenue. With the new digs came new furniture and household items. Nick even purchased himself a new laptop—a MacBook Pro. He retrieved all his old data from the cloud account he’d set up months ago and set about getting his new digital life in order. He also bought a second TV—a flatscreen—and a DVD player that also played Blu-Ray discs.

He had Billy's name changed to Craig. Billy picked the name himself.

Things only got better after that.

He enrolled Craig in school as a freshman at Redondo Beach High. With Craig in school, he moved into an entirely different career. He’d always been interested in real estate and took a real estate class, the state exam, and got his broker license in eight months. He sold his first property a week later—a beachside home in Malibu. Five months later, he and Craig moved into new digs up the coast in the Marina del Rey area.

Things continued to improve.

Craig was apprehensive about school at first. He and Nick spent a lot of time at the beach talking about how he should approach it, and Craig took his father’s advice. By November he had new friends, was outgoing, at ease; his old self. Nick kept tabs to make sure his son wasn’t falling into the wrong crowd and he was pleased to see that wasn’t the case. Craig had made a complete rebound. No longer was he the shy, withdrawn kid afraid of his own shadow due to his mother’s nit-picking and constant psychological abuse. Now that he was away from the negative element, he was blossoming.

Seeing that had a profound affect on Nick’s own sense of self worth.

Nick started socializing with a few of his co-workers. One of them, a real estate agent in the office, he began to see on a more serious basis. Once he felt comfortable with Craig’s friends, they began to date. The woman—Beth—was a single mother raising a young son of her own. Craig and Beth’s son met and got along fabulously, Craig taking the younger boy under his wing like a surrogate older brother.

He didn’t even think of Karen. The only time he was tempted to find out what she was doing, if she’d raised the alarm due to his disappearance, was when he pulled the old laptop out to access information he forgot to save to the cloud before his move. After the file transfer, he Googled his former name and learned that she’d made a missing persons report in Pennsylvania on he and their son, and that there was a warrant out for his arrest. Yet with their new names, new locations, and slightly changed appearances—Nick had lost eighty pounds due to discovering body surfing and Craig had lost his chubbiness and traded it for a more muscular physique—there was little chance of them being found.

A week after the brief research into his former life, he proposed to Beth after talking it over with Craig first. He was overjoyed when Craig gave his blessing. “I consider her my mom,” Craig said, smiling, his eyes getting a little misty. “She...she’s great, dad. She’s the mom I should have had. She’s the wife you should’ve had.”

And Nick, knowing in his heart that this was true, could only fight to contain his own tears and hug his son close. Hard to believe that Craig was now almost seventeen years old. The shy, socially awkward boy was growing into a fine young man.

He never learned what happened to his old friend and co-worker, Ken Atkins, because he worked hard at burying that part of his past. He did, however, pass on the knowledge of the search engine to a colleague at a mortgage company he worked with, who was going through a problem with his in-laws. Nick told him about a resource that might help him deal with his problem—try it, you’ll find something there that will help you. Just be sure to keep it on the low down. Clear your browser cache and history. Don’t tell anybody.

Then one night he came home late from showing a home to a potential buyer.

He pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, noting that Beth and Craig had already gone to bed, which was unusual. It was only ten o’clock on a Friday evening. Craig had football practice the following morning, so he had to rise early, but he wouldn’t have turned in this early. Nick got out of the car and walked up the front path to the double glass doors, unlocked the house, and let himself in.

The house was dark.

“Beth?” Nick called out. Curious, Nick set his briefcase down in the entry hall and stepped through the foyer into the living room.

He stood in the living room entryway, letting his eyes get adjusted to the dark. The house seemed empty. “Beth? Craig?”

There was a noise from the bedroom down the hall.

Nick reached for a light, flipped it on and recoiled from the sight.

The easy chair was toppled over. Books had been flung out of the bookcase, and there was broken glass and dishes on the floor. Pools of blood saturated the carpet. Nick gasped, heart lodged in his throat. A spike of fear rose through him, pulsing strongly.

Karen stepped out of the hallway. She grinned at him. Her long hair hung in her bloodstained face. Her clothing was rumpled, bloodstained.

The butcher knife she clutched in her right hand made shallow cuts in Karen’s leg as she jabbed at herself.

“Karen! How...what...what are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing, Nick? I just killed your girlfriend and your son and now I’m going to kill you!”

“What?” The bottom dropped out of Nick’s world.

Karen stepped toward Nick. “Thought you could outsmart me? Guess you forgot who had the career as a Network Security Specialist.”

And as the implications became clear, and Karen moved in for the kill, Nick’s last coherent thought was that it wasn’t as simple as Karen planting some kind of IP tracking software on his computer. No. In the brief time he’d had his old laptop up and running, Karen had gained remote access to it and learned about the search engine. And she’d used it.

Story Notes

“Ricochet” was written to order in the summer and fall of 2011 for an anthology Ty Schwamberger was putting together with the provisional title Cadence in Decay. The stories were all to involve communications in some way (Skype, email, internet messaging, etc). Ty had assembled an impressive array of contributers: Ramsey Campbell, Gary Braunbeck, and Mike Oliveri are those I remember he was able to snag. The publisher was to be Mansion House, a British small press that specialized in producing limited signed hardcover editions, many of them hand bound.

I had the idea for “Ricochet” before Ty hit me up for a contribution, so I had a great excuse to actually write the story. The promise of money will do that to a writer. The idea came to me one day at my old day job, during a lull in productivity. I was goofing around on the internet and was amazed at Google’s search engine capability. It seemed all one had to do was type in a simple question and Google would ferret out the answer. Of course, the more I thought about this, the more nefarious my thought process ran. It didn’t take long for a story to come out of it.

One element that came out of the story quite naturally was the reversal of roles in spousal abuse that is depicted in the story. When spousal abuse is addressed in a piece of fiction, it is usually women that are the victims, usually because, unfortunately, they comprise the majority of domestic abuse victims. I read an article a decade or so back that touched on male victims of spousal abuse, primarily at the hands of girlfriends and wives. I know somebody who was a victim of such abuse from an ex-wife. It is something men will not talk about, and male victims face greater scrutiny, less resources to help them, and major legal obstacles.

Unfortunately, Cadence in Decay never saw publication. The publisher ran into some financial trouble, and I think they folded not too long ago. That was a shame. It would have been a good anthology, and a nice credit for Ty.

All was not lost, though. Another UK publisher came to the rescue and published the story in his magazine Splatterpunk. This is its first US publication, and its first book appearance.

Mutant

I WAS A kid when it happened.

Summer of 1988. Guns n’ Roses was the hottest band in the country and Ronald Reagan had been president for as long as I could remember. The nights were hot and muggy, the days dripping with humidity. We were twelve and thirteen years old and that summer seemed to last forever.   Because days have an uncanny knack for passing so slow when you’re a child, when you grow up, you wish they would be like that again...especially if you’re trapped in a dead end job like I am now.

But this isn’t about nostalgia. This is about the summer that Cathy Harrelson, Robert Banks and I burned down old lady Simpson’s shed in Reamstown, Pennsylvania.

Boy, did we get in a lot of trouble for that. I think my folks had me on probation until I was eighteen. Cathy Harrelson didn’t take punishment as well—she actually told the fire chief and the local police why we burned down Mrs. Simpson’s shed and they laughed at her. I remember when it happened; I felt Cathy’s shame as she came home with her parents. I was sitting on my front porch when their car pulled up (I wasn’t allowed to go beyond the front porch, part of my punishment for having taken part in the alleged arson) and I watched her walk into the house, with her parents herding her inside. She cast a look at me that seemed to say, I told them and they didn’t believe me. That look told me all I needed to know.

Of course there were other kids in the neighborhood who told the police the same thing, and for a while the cops and all the grownups in the area insisted we were lying, that we were making this up to cover our butts. There was no way we could prove it—all the evidence had been destroyed in the fire. So we let it drop.

But then I see what’s happening in town now, what will soon be happening all over the country, and I can only wonder.

I began to suspect something was amiss this morning when I found a dried up mouse in my driveway. For the past two or three days I’d smelled something awful, like a dead animal, but I never saw one nearby. We live near a farm, so I chalked it up to the breeze blowing the stench of a dead woodchuck our way. The smell surely wasn’t from the mouse; it had just suddenly showed up like that, already dead and dried up. To the casual observer it looked like road kill, victim of a neighborhood cat who left the animal somewhere to die, after which, it shriveled up and decayed into an empty shell of bones and fur-covered skin. But I'd seen something similar before, and when I saw it I drove my wife nuts looking for its killer. I looked around the house, inside and out, terrified that I would run right into it and it would engulf my face with its long legs and sink its fangs straight into the soft part of my neck, rendering me paralyzed while it drained me. My wife followed me around the house, annoyed at my behavior and my inability to explain what was going on. And I couldn’t explain. For one, I couldn’t find what I was looking for. Everything looked normal. The only form of wildlife I saw outside my house was a lone grasshopper sunning itself on the white picket fence in the backyard, and a garden spider perched in its web on the side of my house.

I couldn’t explain. She wouldn’t believe me.

How could she? Nobody believed us back then. They wouldn’t believe me even now that it’s making the news.

Some bonehead journalist dubbed it the ‘vampire disease’ because of the mass quantities of fluid that is drained from the body. A stupid name for it, really, because it isn’t vampirism that’s killing these people. There’s no such thing as vampires.

Well, in a sense there’s no such thing as vampires. At least the kind that are portrayed by Bela Lugosi or Peter Cushing or Brad Pitt.

But there are...well, let’s just say that...

Never mind.

I’ll get to that in a minute.

Let me start at the beginning.

But in the meantime, an observation, and a word of advice:

What makes the newspapers is just the stuff that skims the surface. Behind veiled words and official statements, there always lies something deeper. You will find that in any news source.

So remember that when you see those stories about the wasting illness. There’s more to it then people simply getting sick and suddenly wasting away. They aren’t reporting the whole facts.

Second thing: fire kills them. Even if you have to burn the house down to destroy them, do it. You never know if they’ve nested in your attic or basement, and if they have...well, that’s how they spread in the first place.

The day Cathy, Robert and I burned down Mrs. Simpson’s house? Yeah, that was our purpose. We were trying to kill it. Robert had successfully lit the thing on fire; it had taken root in Mrs. Simpson's storage shed, more an outbuilding that was crudely constructed on the side of her house, and once it caught on fire, like any living thing, it went berserk in its death throes. That was what caused the place to go up like a tinderbox.

We thought we’d killed it.

We were wrong.

We didn’t know we were dealing with more than one.

IT WAS CATHY Harrelson who saw it first.

“Mark! Davey! Come here, omigod! Hurry!”

I’d never heard Cathy scream like that. She sounded terrified. Mark and Davey weren’t there when we burned the shed down, but they saw the thing that morning and told the police about it afterward. I had been throwing rocks in the little creek at the side of the Miller's barn when we heard Cathy scream, and we raced toward the sound of her voice, heading toward Mrs. Simpson’s place.

Cathy was standing in the middle of a field where Mrs. Simpson’s property rested on. She looked terrified. Her brown hair blew in the warm, summer breeze, and her blue eyes were wide with shock. I was a year older than her, and Mark and I would be in eighth grade next semester at the local middle school, my final year of childhood innocence. “What is it?” I asked.

Cathy pointed, and at first I thought she was going to cry. Mark’s face instantly transformed from annoyance to a shared sense of fear. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“I was...” Cathy was panting. “I was in Mrs. Simpson’s...I was going to go into Mrs. Simpson’s shed because...a few weeks ago she told me...she told me I could go in there and...look around for those old books she told me she kept in there so...so I thought I’d...I’d...”

I knew what she was talking about. Cathy was a bookworm. Mrs. Simpson, who was the town librarian, had befriended her two years before and apparently told her she could help herself to the old books she kept boxed in her shed. But apparently something had really spooked her.

“Well, what is it?” Mark asked. He started heading toward the shed.

“No! Don’t go in there!” Cathy yelled.

I turned toward her. “It’s okay,” I said. “We’re not going to go in, we’re just going to open the door and take a look inside.”

Mark trotted over to the shed, and by the time I turned to follow him he had already opened the door. I caught his suddenly stunned face as I heard him say, “Holy fucking shit!”

The way he said it ... the way he stood there in front of the shed, eyes riveted on something, yet so full of horror...that image will stay with me forever.

Despite seeing Mark stand there like that, despite feeling my own sense of dread, I had to see for myself.

I headed toward the shed.

“Don’t!” Cathy said. “It’ll get you! It’ll—”

I got to the shed and stood next to Mark. I saw what he saw.

The shed door was standing wide open, letting the afternoon sunlight spill in the small eight-by-five room. The walls, floor and ceiling were of rough wood; tucked into the far left corner was a stack of boxes—the books Cathy was probably interested in poking through. I caught a glimpse of a rake and a shovel leaning against the far wall.

Spanning the length of the shed was the largest spider web I’ve ever seen, and sitting in the middle of the web was the biggest spider I’d ever seen.

Make a fist. That was the size of its body, minus the thorax; add in those eight spindly legs and you were looking at a spider roughly the size of a house cat.

No shit. We're talking about a spider bigger than those Goliath Bird-Eating Tarantulas from South America that are as big as dinner plates.

And it was sitting in Mrs. Simpson's shack, in a big-ass spider web that spanned the length of her shed.

I stared at it, simultaneously fascinated and terrified by it. Part of me wanted to step inside and take a closer look, but I was too scared.

"What is it?" Mark asked, his voice cracking.

"It's a..." I began.

"It's a spider," Cathy said, her voice a terrified whisper. "It's a spider, isn't it Jimmy?"

"It has to be," I said.

"Spiders aren't supposed to get that big," Mark said, his voice panicked. "Mr. Means talked about this in science last year. It has something to do with their lungs, that they can only get so big and past a certain size, they wouldn’t be able to breathe. This can't be real."

The three of us were standing in the doorway. I was able to get a better look at the spider now that we spent some time looking at it. I pushed the door open a bit further, letting sunlight into the shack and saw that its body was strangely...mutated is the best word I can describe. Its body looked puffy and swollen and a splotchy grey; parts of it looked jagged and diseased-looking. Its eyes were large, the two main ones bulbous looking. Its legs, as thick as crab legs, looked strong and sported fine tufts of hair. The web was large and sprawling and I could make out little wrapped bundles scattered about. At first I assumed they were large insects, leftovers from some discarded meal. It wasn't until later the following day, when Cathy’s brother learned about it and performed an act of animal cruelty, that I learned what they were.

We probably stared at that thing for five minutes in stunned silence. Finally, Mark stepped outside quickly and came back holding a stick.

I looked at him in alarm. "What are you doing?"

"I want to try something," he said. His tone and posture seemed to recover; he appeared braver now, almost his old self. He took a half step into the shack, holding the stick out in front of him. "As long as we don't get too close to it we'll be safe. I mean, it's just a spider, right?"

I glanced at Cathy, who still looked petrified. I didn't know what to tell Mark. I shrugged, still feeling a little scared.

Mark turned toward the spider and, holding the stick in front of him, he reached out and touched the tip of it to the far left center of the web.

The spider moved so fast it startled me. I jumped back, bumped into Cathy, and screamed. I think all of us screamed when the spider made a lunge at the stick.

It moved so goddamned fast.

One minute it had been sitting in the center of the web. The next it was shooting toward the stick, and I mean the instant that piece of wood touched the web. It dove for that stick the way a cat pounces on a mouse or a bird.

Mark yelled, dropped the stick and bolted out the door. The three of us ran, screaming our heads off, back up the street to Mark's house.

Mark's older brother, Robert, was fiddling with his car, a '68 Camaro that he'd bought at the Manheim Auto Auction with money he'd made working a job this past school year. Robert was four years older than us and was the definition of cool to those of us just entering puberty. "What's up?" Robert looked annoyed as we ran up the driveway. He took one look at us and that look of annoyance changed instantly to alarm.

The three of us babbled about the giant spider in Mrs. Simpson's shed.

Robert stood up and placed a socket wrench on the worn bench in the garage. His jeans were grease-stained. "There's no such thing as a spider that big," he said, his voice sounding instantly reasonable to me, a scared thirteen-year-old. "You guys are letting your imagination get away with you."

"I'm not kidding, the thing was this fucking big!" Mark said, holding his hands a few feet apart for emphasis. "You should have seen the way it lunged at the stick!"

"Well of course, dumb ass!" Robert said. "That's how they get their prey. A bug flies into its web and starts struggling, the spider swoops down and gets it."

"I don't think this thing is eating bugs," Cathy said. Her eyes were still wide with fright, her face pale and sweaty.

Robert wiped his hands on his greasy t-shirt. "Let's see how big this giant spider really is."

Robert followed us to Mrs. Simpson's house again. On the way, he asked where she was. Cathy told him she was working at the library. Robert nodded as we raced slightly ahead of him, excited and dreading what he would see.

The three of us held back slightly and let Robert step up to the still open shed door and peer inside.

Robert stared into the shed for a long time. He looked like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

After awhile he said, "Jesus!"

I stepped forward to take another look. I suppose in hindsight I did it to confirm what I had seen before, as if taking a second look would tell me that what I’d seen had not been a figment of an overactive imagination.

The spider had resumed its place in the center of the web. The stick Mark had touched the web with had fallen down and become caught in its strands. It hung about a third of the way down, dangling two feet above the dusty wooden floor. The afternoon sunlight cast brilliant splotches of light in the shed, making the spider more visible. I now saw that those strange lumps on its body were more pronounced, almost discolored. It looked like the spider was diseased or was some hideous mutation.

"Is that the stick you used?" Robert asked softly.

Mark nodded. "Yeah."

"And it went at it really fast?"

The three of us nodded.

Cathy, Mark, and I were huddled behind Robert; three little kids hiding behind the protective shield of their big brother. Robert hovered in front of the entranceway, peering inside intently. "Did you see those?" He pointed at the web. "Those lumps that are wrapped up?"

"Don't spiders wrap up their prey?" I asked. "You know, the bugs they eat?"

"I think those bundles are too big to be bugs, don't you Jimmy?"

I saw what Robert was getting at. One of the lumps was smack dab in the middle of the web. I couldn't think of any bug as big as the palm of my hand. The only thing I could think of that could have gotten trapped in the web, at that particular spot, was a bird.

Robert stepped back and took a quick surveillance of Mrs. Simpson's house. "Have either of you been inside this shack before?"

The three of us shook our heads. Cathy said, "I don't even think Mrs. Simpson's been inside for a while."

Robert stepped around the rear of the shed, than came back. "She has a wood pile in the back for her fireplace," he said. "And her house borders on those woods. This thing probably has it made sitting in that shack – it's the perfect haven for mice."

"This thing eats mice?" Mark squealed. He was looking scared again.

"You think those things wrapped in silk are bugs?" Robert asked, motioning inside the shack toward the spider.

Mark saw his older brother's point and shuddered.

Robert reached inside quickly and, with a swift motion, closed the door to the shack. "Let's get out of here. I want to call the school."

"Shouldn't we call the police?" I asked.

“I’m gonna call the school,” Robert said. He took a step back and started heading back toward the house. “I’m on good terms with my science teacher. He’ll want to see this.”

As it turned out, Robert’s science teacher at Cocalico High was pissed at him due to Robert’s suspension from school for drinking with Mike, Cathy’s older brother, off-campus. Robert came back from the house, a look of dejection on his face as he told us the news. “So what are we gonna do?” Mark asked.

We debated on what to tell Mrs. Simpson. Cathy wanted to tell her; she didn’t want her friend going into the shack to get a book and be attacked by the spider. Robert shot that down, saying, “If she wanted to get an old book, she would have by now and she would have seen that fuckin’ thing.”

In the end, after considerable debate, it was decided we wouldn’t tell anybody about the spider. Robert wanted to take pictures of it the following morning when the light was right. He made us promise not to tell anybody.

I dreamed about the spider that night. I dreamed that I was with Cathy and I had just made the move to hold her hand when I felt something land on the back of my neck. I felt a prickly sensation, like twigs scraping my back, and I realized it was the spider. It had somehow gotten out of the shed and was crawling up my back. I woke up, panting, the sheets drenched in sweat and realized I was dreaming. I lay back in bed, trying to catch my breath, looking up at the ceiling of my cluttered bedroom and I saw it the minute it descended on me, like a yo-yo unraveling swiftly from its string. The spider. It had been on the ceiling of my room, crawling the way spiders sometimes will in your house, and it just so happened to be right over my face when it decided it wanted to come down off the ceiling and it started lowering itself quickly, right on my face.

I yelled and sprang off the bed swiftly, waving my arms around frantically. I crashed into my bureau and got the light on, still screaming as my parents rushed in. “What’s going on?” my mother asked as I ran to her, babbling about the spider that had tried to get on my face.

That was the granddaddy of all nightmares. A nightmare within a nightmare. A quick look around the room revealed there was no spider, that it was all a horrible dream.

How I got back to sleep that night, I don’t remember. The next thing I remember is hearing Cathy outside on my front porch. My dad had already gone to work and mom was in the basement doing laundry, so I stepped outside to see her. My heart leaped in my chest when I saw her. There were tears streaming down her face. She hugged her thin frame, her blonde hair hanging about her face in tangled disarray. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s my brother,” Cathy said, her voice cracking. “He’s got one of the kittens Whiskey had. And he’s...he’s...”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. It should have occurred to me when Cathy put the words “her brother” and “kitten” together in the same sentence that Mike had found out about the spider, but it was still early enough in the morning that my mind wasn’t as sharp as it usually is.

“Robert told him about the spider!” Cathy cried. “Mike didn’t believe him, so they snuck over to Mrs. Simpson’s place last night and Mike saw it! I just found out a minute ago when he got one of Whiskey’s kittens and ...”

Cathy didn’t need to tell me the rest. Cathy had been trying to find homes for her cat’s six kittens since they were born three weeks ago. Two of them had found homes quickly, but there were four left and so far there had been no takers. Cathy’s dad told her he would drown them if they weren’t out of the house by the end of the week.

“We’ve got to stop him!” Cathy said, her blue eyes imploring me to help her. My resolve crumbled then. It always did when I was around her. After all, I had a schoolboy crush on her.

We raced over to Mrs. Simpson’s, which was a six-block hike. On the way over, Cathy told me that she’d tried to get her brother to give her back the kitten but he’d laughed and shoved her to the floor before running out of the house. He was probably over at the Simpson shed now. I hoped we weren’t too late, but when we rounded the corner of Briar and raced up to the Simpson property, I saw we were already too late.

Robert and Mike were standing by the open door of the shed. He was still holding the kitten. Yes, I know I just said we were already too late even though we got there before he could throw the kitten into the web, but he must have been astonished at what he was looking at. Cathy screamed, “Mike! Please don’t do it!”

That snapped Mike out of his temporary state of awe. He and Robert turned to us, and I caught a glimpse of shame in Robert’s eyes as we raced to the open door of the shed. Cathy rushed up to her brother and grabbed his arm. “Please don’t do it! Please let me have her!”

“Get away, Cathy,” Mike said. He easily pushed her aside; he was a good eight inches taller than her and strong. Mike was one of those kids every town seems to have; the kind the police know on a first name basis.

I was able to catch a quick glimpse inside the shed. The spider was still there, still hanging in that giant web, and still ugly.

“Give her to me!” Cathy cried.

Robert looked uneasy. “Come on, Mike. This isn’t cool.”

Then, with a sudden swift movement, Mike flung the kitten into the shed, directly into the web.

Cathy screamed.

For a minute time seemed to slow down. I watched as the kitten flew through the air. Had the spider web not been there, or had it been a normal web, the kitten would have sailed through the shed and hit the back wall and fallen to the ground, probably unhurt. Instead it got snagged in the web immediately. There was a jittery motion on the web as the kitten struck it and was caught and the spider, which had been sitting in the center of the web like a normal spider, immediately lunged at its prey so fast I was stunned. I saw a quick flash of what looked like razor sharp fangs as big as a full-grown cat’s claws, and then the kitten screamed.

If it hadn’t been for Robert, Cathy would have lunged into the web after the kitten to save it. Instead, he grabbed her and held her back. I’m ashamed to say I was so scared by seeing this that I took several scrambling steps back. So did Mike—apparently his act of animal cruelty resulted in something that stunned even him. Cathy screamed and struggled against Robert, who held her and kept her away from the shed. We watched as the spider’s long legs wrapped around the kitten and began spinning silk around it, rolling its convulsing prey up.

“Jesus,” Robert said, holding on tight to Cathy.

Cathy cried.

“Oh my God,” I said.

A few minutes later, as we sat staring at the spider devouring its prey, Mike finally spoke. “That was fucking cool!”

CATHY STAYED WITH me that morning. After Robert made sure we were okay, he led Mike away, muttering and swearing at him, telling him he was the biggest asshole on the face of the planet. I sat with Cathy on a patch of grass in a nearby field and tried to be consoling. I finally got the nerve to put my arm around her shoulders and she leaned into me, sobbing against my neck for a while. Then, she quieted down a little.

“We need to tell somebody,” I said. I don’t know how many times I repeated this, but Cathy only shook her head.

“If we call the police I’ll get in trouble,” she said. I knew immediately what she was talking about. Even if the police investigated and saw the giant spider and somehow managed to kill it (would they shoot it? Surely it was big enough to be shot with a .22), their follow-up would lead to Cathy’s house and they would have to talk to her father, and Cathy would get in trouble. Yes, I realize that flies in the face of all logic, but you didn’t know what Cathy’s home life was like. If Mike was bad news, her old man was worse.

We eventually went to Cathy’s house and snuck inside. Mike and Robert weren’t around, and Cathy’s dad was at work. Her mom was asleep on the sofa. The place smelled like cigarettes and beer. We gathered Whiskey and the rest of her kittens up and took them to my house. Thankfully, my parents weren’t around, so I was able to make a nest for them in an old worn basket my old cat, Frisky, liked to sleep in when she was alive (she’d died the previous summer; we never did get another cat). Cathy dashed back home and came back with a box of cat food. We got bowls down from the kitchen cabinets and prepared a little area in my closet for them, complete with water and food bowls, and Cathy found an old box outside and lined it with newspaper for their litter pan. When we were done, Cathy hugged me. “Thank you,” she said, the sincerity in her voice brimming with gratitude. “Thank you so much!”

We spent the rest of that day in a meadow bordering the woods, lying on our backs gazing at the sky, talking. Mostly we talked about the spider and what Mike had done, but we also talked about Cathy’s home life. This was the first time Cathy came out and confirmed what I always suspected, and hearing it verbalized was somehow more chilling than merely suspecting it.

“If I’d kept those kittens at the house, Mike would have fed them to that thing one at a time,” Cathy said. “You know that, don’t you?”

I nodded. “Yeah,” I said.

I sensed somebody approaching and Cathy did, too. We sat up and watched as Robert and Mark approached us on the grassy knoll side of the meadow.

“Where’s Mike?” Cathy asked.

They sat down beside us. “I don’t know and I don’t want to know,” Robert said.

“Why did you tell him?” Cathy asked.

Robert ignored her. He looked truly ashamed at having told Mike about the spider. He looked out over the meadow at the hilly area of Ephrata where the Brossman Business Center was. “Your brother is talking about catching that spider and taking it home as a pet.”

I shuddered at the thought and glanced at Cathy. Her face paled.

Robert turned to her. “I swear to God, Cathy, if I’d known he was going to do...what he did, I would have—”

Cathy turned away from him and Robert’s voice trailed off. We were silent for a moment.

Robert broke the brief silence. “He’s serious about catching that spider and taking it home. When I left your house, he was looking for a jar big enough to hold it in, but I don’t think he’ll find one.”

“You serious?” I looked at Robert now. “He really intends to try to catch that thing?”

“You’re damn right,” Robert said.

“He’s gonna get me,” Cathy said. She sat up with her knees bent, hugging her legs. “If he manages to get it, he’s going to take it home and he’ll eventually try something with it.” She looked at Robert as she said this. “You know that, don’t you?”

Robert nodded. He looked troubled. “Yeah.”

For a moment I didn’t understand. I knew Cathy came from a household of alcoholics, that the entire family was screwed up, that she was the only one in that house with any sense of decency, which was why I loved her so much. I could not understand how somebody like Cathy, who was smart and talented and beautiful and kind, could be allowed to live beneath the same roof with such utterly worthless pieces of shit excuses for human beings like her brother and parents.

Cathy turned to me and her blue eyes met mine. “Mike knows I’m scared of that thing now and I wouldn’t put it past him to use it to hurt me.” Her voice seemed to quaver as she spoke. “I’m scared, Jimmy. I’m so scared...”

Robert scuttled closer to her and tried to comfort her. “Listen, it’ll be okay. I can talk to Mike, maybe get him to—”

“What are you going to do? Tell him to not bother me? You know he’s not gonna do that! My parents aren’t going to do shit, and they’re not going to care what he does. If I complain, my dad will just kick my ass anyway. And I wouldn’t put it past Mike to wait until late at night to try something.” Tears began to well from the corner of Cathy’s eyes. “He’s always teased and tortured me with stuff—bugs, snakes...if he knows I’m scared of something, he finds a way to torture me with it. And that spider...if he even tries teasing me with it, tries faking me out by telling me he’s going to let it out...like if he doesn’t feed it for awhile and it’s real hungry and if he gets me or something, pins me down and holds it over my face while it’s in a jar...you saw how fast that thing is...”

I shuddered at the thought. I didn’t want to think about what could happen. I could imagine Cathy’s scenario too well. If a spider as big as a cat could eat a kitten—and I’d once seen a regular spider catch and eat a fly that was twice its size—why couldn’t this spider cause considerable damage to a human being?

The thought of that thing sinking its fangs into Cathy’s face as she screamed wouldn’t leave my mind and I reached for her hand. She let me, her fingers twining with mine.

It was Cathy’s idea to set the thing on fire. We talked about it for another hour or so and finally convinced Robert that a) his best friend really was a psycho and, b) if Mike could capture the spider he would hurt his little sister. I asked Robert where Mike was now and he said Mike had an appointment with his juvenile probation officer at noon, but would probably be back around two in the afternoon. That gave us just three hours to do something. I still wanted to tell the police, but Robert, Mark, and Cathy shot that down. Cathy was still afraid of the repercussions from her father, and Robert still thought he could convince his science teacher to come down and take a look at it. Mark was too scared to do anything except defer to his older brother. “I’ve been thinking about it,” Mark said. “Robert and I talked about it last night. It might be some kind of mutation due to what happened at Three Mile Island nine years ago. I mean...there was all kinds of shit going on here then. Our dad told us that around the same time TMI happened, some guys who worked there were busted by the state for illegally dumping radioactive material somewhere close by. I don’t remember exactly where, but it wasn’t far from here. And what if something got infected? You know...some animal or something, and it died, and then flies landed on it and laid their eggs and shit and...well, you know what happens next. Anyway, suppose these flies got infected or something, and what eats flies? Spiders. And nature kept going on its course until things just started mutating and then...”

“That’s dumb,” I said. “If that’s the case, how come nobody else has seen giant mutated flies or more of these giant spiders or something?”

“I don’t know!” Robert said. He shrugged. “It’s the only thing Mark and I could think of. How else could that thing get so big?”

“It looked sick,” Cathy said, still hugging her knees. “Did you see it? It looked all messed up and diseased-looking.”

“That’s my thought exactly!” Robert said. “Maybe this spider is just the first one, and if it is that’s why nobody’s seen anything.”

“And all its little brothers and sisters aren’t fucked up like this one?” I asked. “You know spiders lay like, five thousand eggs. Why aren’t there reports of people seeing more of these things?”

“I don’t know!” Robert said. He looked grave, concerned. “All I know is we’ve got to stop it. We’ve got to do something!”

That’s when Cathy proposed lighting it on fire. It was a good idea. I had fantasized shooting it with my .22 pump-action rifle, but I wasn’t sure if I could kill it with one shot. A shotgun blast might be better, but what if that didn’t work? What if, after shooting it, it just got pissed off and came after me? Fire seemed to be the better solution—you can kill anything with fire.

I wanted to call the police, but Robert, Mark, and Cathy firmly insisted the police wouldn’t do anything, and Cathy was afraid of getting into trouble with her dad. “Nobody’s going to believe us,” she said, staring down the hill at the town below. “And Mrs. Simpson isn’t going to want the police involved anyway. Besides, what if they don’t do anything? She’s going to find out and I know her...she’ll be curious about it and will want to see it and what if...” She let her question trail off but the three of us knew the implication of her question. What if the spider got Mrs. Simpson?

So we did it. We went to Robert and Mark's house and waited while Robert siphoned some gasoline from his old Camaro, then we headed to my house. We snuck inside and I emptied out a spray bottle of laundry detergent and Robert filled it with the gasoline. While Robert, Mark, and Cathy did that, I swiped a box of long kitchen matches from one of the cupboards and then, armed and ready, we made our way to Mrs. Simpson’s house.

It was just after noon. That day was oppressively hot. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as we drew closer to the house. When we reached it, Cathy checked to see if the old lady was home. She knocked on the door, and after five minutes jumped off the porch. “Coast is clear,” she said.

We traveled around to the side of the house and I checked to see if the water was running and there was a garden hose nearby. There was; Mrs. Simpson had one right against the side of her house.

We approached the shed in a neat, huddled-together bunch. Robert reached out and opened the door quickly. We jumped back slightly, almost expecting the spider to leap out at us and I was a little relieved to see it hadn’t changed its position much. The creature was still poised over the kitten, which was not only dead and wrapped in silk, but looked completely desiccated. I couldn't believe it had eaten the kitten so fast.

“How far will this thing spray?” Robert asked. His voice cracked; I’d never heard him sound so scared.

“Guess we should have tried that before we left,” I said.

“Spray bottles usually have a range of about three or four feet, maybe longer” Cathy said. A kind of hard reserve had set in her face. Her eyes were riveted on the spider. “It won’t need much. Just give it two or three squirts and that should do it.

Robert looked at the spider. “Shit.” I felt my own resolve drop at the sound of his voice. Robert sounded on the verge of backing down.

“Hey! What th’ hell you guys doing?”

I didn’t have to turn around to know who that voice belonged to, but I did anyway out of reflex. When I saw Mike at the end of the block, walking casually toward us, I felt my stomach drop into my bowels. “Jesus, it’s Mike,” I said.

“Oh no!” Cathy said, her voice trembling.

“I thought he had a probation appointment,” Robert said, looking stunned.

The arrival of Mike, whatever the reason, meant only one thing. If he saw what we were up to he’d do something to make us stop. And at some point Cathy would suffer for it. Either from her father, but most likely from her big brother who would no doubt find a way to trap the mutant spider and subject her to its awfulness.

That decided it for me. I couldn’t let Cathy be hurt.

I grabbed the spray bottle out of Robert’s hands and, in one swift motion, took three steps forward until I was standing at the threshold of the shed. I was perhaps four feet from the spider. I quickly sprayed gasoline over it, hitting it dead center. I don’t know how many times I squeezed the trigger of that spray bottle, but I know I must have got at least two or three good squeezes in there. By the time I stepped back—scrambled back with my heart in my throat is more like it—the stinging effect of the gasoline was having an effect on the creature. It raced madly up its web toward the ceiling.

“Burn it!” I yelled at Robert. “Do it now!”

Robert snapped out of his initial shock, then pulled one long wooden kitchen match out of the box I had taken from my house and got it lit with one stroke. He quickly took a step forward and leaned into the shed, tossing the match in a wide arc where it hit the giant web dead center.

The flames rushed up, seeming to billow out. I had been watching the spider the whole time and it had stopped its ascent along the top corner of the shed. The flames traveled along its trajectory and then the thing was a blazing fireball.

And then the spider jumped straight at Robert.

Robert screamed and jumped back. He collided into me and we almost tumbled to the ground. As it was, the minute I saw the spider jump at Robert, its body set ablaze, its eight legs waving torches, I almost stopped breathing.

The spider hit the floor of the shed about two feet from the door and ran into the outer wall. The four of us ran like hell away from the shed, screaming at the top of our lungs. Mike ran up to us, his stupid face bearing a what-the-hell-is-going-on look. And even though I didn't learn about this until later from Cathy and Robert, I thought at the time I was the only one who heard what was coming out of the shed as the flames grew stronger and everything in that shed began to go up in a great conflagration.

What had I heard? It was so low and deep it almost felt like the bass note of a synthesizer. I felt it more than I heard it, but it was a sound. Of that I have no doubt.

It was the spider.

Screaming.

Everything happened so fast, but I still remember everything so clearly, as if it happened in slow motion. I remember us running away from the shed, nearly colliding into Mike who noticed the smoke pouring out of the shed. "What the hell's going on? Are you guys burning down Mrs. Simpson's shed? Jesus Christ!" Robert grabbed Mike and spun him around, propelling him forward as we ran. I remember Cathy running next to me, her sense of purpose strong. I remember Mark having a good five-yard lead on us as he ran.

I remember turning back to glance at the shed as we ran away from that nightmare, and what I saw will be forever imprinted on my memory. As that tinderbox of a shed went up in flames, fed by the old wood and boxes of books, I saw the spider try to climb back up its web, its body burning fiercely, and I could have swore I saw something else...something large and dark and shapeless, sitting along the top of the far wall near the roof. Whatever it was, the spider was trying to reach it, and it wasn't until weeks later that I began to understand what it was and I realized we probably saved the world.

THAT’S HOW I got grounded and received a juvenile criminal record when I was thirteen.

We called the fire department, of course. We didn't want the fire to hop over to Mrs. Simpson's house. The blaze was quickly extinguished and it was Robert who insisted we go over and tell them what happened. "They'll believe us," he stated empathetically. "There'll be evidence."

Only thing was, there wasn't. The shack had been such a fire hazard that it burned to the ground within ten minutes. By the time the volunteer fire department arrived, the fire had pretty much burned itself out. A neighbor had spotted the blaze and was able to fight some of it from Mrs. Simpson's house (as it turns out, the old librarian's house only suffered minimal exterior damage). We watched as the volunteer fire department sifted through the ashes and we were later put under intense questioning by the fire chief and a policeman, who put the three of us in the back of his squad car. For once, Mike looked relieved that he wasn't going to be the one riding in the back of a police car.

My parents gave me holy hell and forbid me to see Mark, Robert or Cathy, even when school started. I was also forced to give up the kittens we had hidden in my closet— mom took them to the local SPCA and Whiskey was returned to Cathy. I felt my father's disappointment and have felt it ever since but I don't care. I know we did the right thing.

Naturally, we told the police and the fire chief why we burned the place down. Robert insisted they look for evidence, and they made a half-hearted attempt to. But the fire had burned so fiercely that everything was destroyed. Had there been anything alive in that shed, it would have been reduced to ashes. Robert insisted they test the ashes and that's where the police drew the line. They told us to stop using this lame excuse and just fess up—we burned the shack down because we were bored, and it was summer, and we were just a bunch of stupid kids, right? The more we stuck to our story, the angrier the police and our parents became until finally they just threw their collective hands up and stopped arguing with us. I'm sure it didn't help that Mike supported our story—he claimed he saw the giant spider, that he'd even fed one of Cathy's kittens to it—but Mike was such a psychotic freak show that it destroyed any credibility we might have had. My folks and Robert's got together and made Mrs. Simpson a settlement offer to avoid the cost of a lawsuit, which she accepted. As for Cathy's parents, they figured it was inevitable their daughter was following in their son's footsteps and merely shrugged the incident off. Besides, they had more important things to worry about, like their Friday and Saturday night fights and their drinking.

It felt like I was on probation and in hock with my parents forever, but in reality it was only for a year. And despite my folks’ order to stay away from Cathy, I couldn’t. We saw each other at school, and as much as I tried to resume our friendship, to be even closer to her, I could feel she was backing away from me. Maybe it was because we shared an incident that had so deeply wounded her she didn’t want to be around me anymore, because seeing me reminded her of it. Whatever the case, we drifted apart slowly, but I still loved her. I suppose I always will.

Cathy never finished high school. By the time we were in eleventh grade, she had all but dropped out and was running around with the local chapter of an outlaw motorcycle club—I think it was the Pagans. Mike finally wound up in Lancaster County Prison on an attempted murder charge.

As for me, I was afraid to go into the woods for years. Finally, I made a trek into the woods near the spot where what I just described happened. I looked everywhere for something out of alignment, anything weird, and didn’t find anything. I even ventured close to where the rumored toxic dumpsites were and found nothing. No mutant bugs, no giant squirrels, no oozing pits of vegetation, no purple bunnies for that matter. In short, if the area I explored had been used as a dumpsite for the nuclear plant, somebody had done a good job of cleaning it up.

I left the area after high school but wound up back in town again after my wife wanted to move out of Philadelphia.

I thought the passing of time had erased the threat. I was certain what we had done back then—destroying the spider by burning down Mrs. Simpson’s shack—had been the best thing to do.

But something happened. I don’t know what, but...somehow...whatever it was that caused the creature we saw to mutate in the first place...whatever that was...it never went away.

The day I saw the newspaper article was the first clue.

New Case of Wasting Illness Discovered in Pennsylvania.

The victim in this story was a minister of a church in a small town in central Pennsylvania about one hundred miles from where I live now. He’d lain down to sleep one night and was found by his adult son, who’d stopped by to pick him up for church.

He was found completely wasted away, all the fluids of his body sucked out of him.

Doctors are baffled. They don’t know much about the illness yet and they claim it’s rare, whatever it is, but they do know a few things about it. It can strike anybody at any time, without warning, and it leaves the victim completely desiccated. Usually the victim’s family finds them this way, their fluids sucked out of them, leaving lifeless husks. One minute they’re healthy, next minute they’re dead shells.

Like the empty shell of that mouse I found in my driveway this morning.

I’m writing this inside my house, on my laptop computer. I have my family inside with me. I think I’ve convinced my wife a little bit about what’s going on, especially when I very carefully took a second look outside and saw the other spiders—the first one I saw that I had mistaken for a garden spider earlier was still sitting in its perch. She realized something was up when I came back from my second trip around the house and asked her to very carefully take a look outside at the grounds of the house. “Look carefully,” I said. “On the porch, the side of the house, between the trees in the backyard and the garage. Tell me if you think it’s unusual for us to have that many spiders in one location.”

She did, and when she came back inside she said, “So there’s a bunch of spiders. Big deal! It's summer-time!”

“How many did you see?”

“Ten or twelve.”

I led her back outside and together we counted more than twenty spiders. They all looked like they were normal garden spiders, large, fat, ugly things with bodies as big as your thumbnail, with red-black bodies and long spindly legs, sitting in large webs. I could understand one or two in the general vicinity...maybe three...but over twenty?

I’d never told my wife about that incident from so long ago, and I spent this morning telling her. When I got to the part about the shapeless mass I saw inside the shed shortly before it went up in flames, she saw the implication right away. “Its egg sack,” she said, her face going pale. “Oh my God!”

“After spiderlings hatch, they release strings of silk that act as balloons,” I said, bringing up what I later learned from memory. “The breeze carries them away to new locations, where they spin their webs and start life. But some of them...some of the spiderlings stay behind and build nests close to where they were born. And they...”

So we sit in the living room with our kids, wondering how fast it will all go down. I’ve since gone out and crushed all the spiderlings that were outside the house, but who knows how many more are out there? And who knows how many got away?

I found their mother lying on the ground amid the grove of trees in my backyard. She was already rotting, hence the smell of spoiled meat that I noticed a few days ago. I left the body out there. I’m hoping the officials from the Department of Agriculture, who I’ve just called, will be able to do something, and I hope this time I’m not too late.

Story Notes

Years ago, back in the Stone Age (late 1980’s), William F. Nolan gave me some advice on writing short stories, especially horror fiction. He said (and I’m paraphrasing), “If you’re afraid of heights, write a story in which one of your characters is deathly afraid of heights. Or if your character is afraid of spiders, write a story in which your character is deathly afraid of spiders. Make that spider as scary as you can. Exploit that fear to its greatest, and when you do that you will have an effective horror story.”

Twenty years later I took his advice in this story (actually, I’ve taken his advice on most everything I’ve written since that little pep talk. And if you haven’t read William F. Nolan’s short story collections, you should). Spiders creep me the hell out. They always have. I can remember as a kid being simultaneously awed by the size and beauty of an orb-weaver spider’s web, but there was no way I was going anywhere near the thing sitting in the center of it, waiting for its dinner.

For whatever reason, spiders are one of my phobias. I don’t mind looking at pictures of them or seeing them on TV, but in real life, forget it (one caveat to this: I think tarantulas are pretty neat; it must be because they’re furry). I’ve destroyed things in my house and in my car trying to kill the goddamn things (the spiders, not the tarantulas). And yes, I know spiders perform a useful ecological function. However, they should perform that function outside and away from my house, not inside my house. Spiders found inside my house are fair game for getting squashed or eaten by my dog. Plus, having been unlucky enough to have been bitten by a black widow spider, I am not looking forward to repeating that experience, nor am I looking forward to being bitten by a brown recluse and having the flesh melt off my body.

Growing up in California I’ve had my share of spider encounters, but it wasn’t until I moved to Pennsylvania in 2001 that I realized that, for some reason, the east coast is home to more giant mutated spiders than the west coast. I’ve seen ugly mutated spiders with spikes sticking out of their bodies out here (the inspiration for the spider in this story). I’ve had the pathway off my back deck completely blocked by giant orb weaver spider webs and have had to use brooms and other implements to knock them down so I can leave the house.

Needless to say, my arachnophobia inspired this story, especially my musing after one summer where we had a tremendous amount of garden spiders around our house. At one point we had a lot of field mice running around due to the farm across the road from us. The mice probably came from the barn. One time I found a dead field mouse that had been completely sucked dry, as if all its insides were drained. Weirdest thing I ever saw. I immediately thought a spider had eaten it, but realistically I knew that was impossible (some of the larger tarantulas would eat a mouse, but they wouldn’t leave it in the condition I’d found it in). This story came from those musings.

Captivity

“EXCUSE ME...RICK Sycheck?”

Rick was on his way to his hotel room to hide out from the convention throng when he heard his name being called. He turned around, already formulating a response in his mind. Sorry, I’m going to my room to rest for a while. Instead of the expected gaggle of fans clutching armfuls of books for him to sign, two guys and a woman greeted him.  While they were dressed rather casually, there was something about their demeanor that set them apart from the rest of the convention attendees. Maybe it was because they weren’t bearing books for signature.

Rick was in Kansas City, Missouri for the World Horror Convention. Thanks to his newly found fame in the small pond of SF/Horror fandom, Rick was now in high demand at such gatherings. So far, he’d only accepted one convention invitation, to be the Guest of Honor at this year’s WHC. The con had started out okay, but it was beginning to wear on him.

“Yeah?” Rick asked.

“Sorry to bother you,” one of the guys said. He was tall and lanky, with blonde hair, wearing a bulky jacket. His male companion was short and stout with brown hair. Both appeared to be in their late twenties or early thirties. The woman appeared to be in her mid-twenties maybe, with shoulder-length auburn hair. Attractive.

Rick’s gaze lingered on her a minute and he could tell she noticed by her smile. His gaze swept back to the tall lanky guy. “What’s up?”

“I didn’t get to talk with you at the autograph party last night,” the guy said. He held out a hand. “I’m Lance Grey. I’m a journalist.”

Great, Rick thought. Another journalist. He shook Lance’s hand disinterestedly as Lance introduced his friends, Don Tristano and Tracy Little. He shook hands with Don and Tracy, the first warning signs already going off in his head. “Listen, I can’t talk right now,” Rick said, the rehearsed script flowing immediately to mind. “I’ve had a long day of panels and I’m beat.”

“Oh, hey, no problem,” Lance said. His good-natured grin suggested he was not a professional journalist, especially of the tabloid variety, which he still wasn’t used to. “I know you’ve been talking to a lot of reporters lately and we don’t want to talk to you about a story. We have something we want to show you.”

“Well, that’s good,” Rick said. He relaxed a little at the comment that they didn’t want to interview him for a story. Rick was tired of giving interviews. Tired of the limelight. Ever since the attacks on Baltimore and DC two years ago, his life had been a whirlwind of media interviews, book tours, signings, and all the nonsense that went with them. Things had started good; Simon & Schuster had immediately contracted him for a book, part memoir, part tell-all about both the Phillipsport and DC attacks by the Clickers and Dark Ones. The money had been great. What hadn’t been so great was the media fallout. In a way, Rick was still suffering from it.

He’d almost cancelled out at the last minute on being the Guest of Honor at this convention. The organizers had signed him up shortly after the DC incident when he’d been thrust back into the limelight. Kansas City was perfect. It was in the middle of the country, far enough away from the ocean. He had not anticipated certain aspects of his life to spiral out of control. His girlfriend, Janet, leaving him last winter. His ex-girlfriend and the mother of his daughter, Ashley, spurning his attempt at trying to rekindle their failed relationship. Worse yet were her attempts to keep his daughter from seeing him. She claimed it was to keep Melanie away from any negative influences. Rick had blown a gasket. The economic recession was affecting business at his bookstore, and he’d been forced to close it a year after the DC incident. Thankfully he had his book deal with Simon & Schuster, otherwise, he would be in serious financial trouble.

“I’ve got to admit,” Rick started, “I’m dead tired. Whatever it is you want to show me...”

“It won’t take much of your time,” Lance said. “We’re just down the hall from you.”

“Okay,” Rick agreed. “But then I’ve got to get to my room and take a nap.”

“No problem, man,” Lance said.

As they stepped into the elevator, Rick asked them what they wanted to show him. “It’s a surprise,” Tracy said with a grin, a knowing twinkle in her eye.

“The last time somebody wanted to show me something in their room at a WHC, it was a groupie who wanted to demonstrate her ability to down a bottle of beer without holding it in her hands,” Rick said. His eyes flicked to Tracy’s ample breasts, then to her face. “Please tell me you aren’t going to try a similar stunt.”

Tracy laughed. “Not at all. And I’ve never tried anything like that. I don’t think my boobs are big enough.”

“Sure they are, Tracy,” Don quipped.

As they rode up the elevator to the sixth floor, they made small talk. “How’s the con going for you?” Lance asked.

“Okay,” Rick said. To be truthful, it sucked. There were only a handful of genuine fans of his work in attendance. The rest of them had come to the convention in the hopes to get his memoir signed and to pump him for information on the Clickers/Dark Ones. Rick didn’t want to talk about that anymore.

“You had a big line at your table last night,” Tracy said.

“Bigger line than Clive Barker’s,” Don added.

“If you ask me, it should’ve been the other way around,” Rick said.

“Your books are great, man!” Lance exclaimed. “Baron Semedei was my favorite!”

“Thanks.” Despite the majority of the attendees who sought him out wanting him to sign his memoir, there were some old school hardcore fans in attendance that were genuinely interested in his fiction, which including a few who told him they’d been reading his work since his fiction began appearing in magazines like Night Cry and The Horror Show back in the 1980’s. They’d come bearing tattered and well-read copies of his first four novels, all paperback originals, as well as anthologies and magazines containing his short fiction. It was nice to sign those battered copies.

The elevator let them off at the sixth floor and Lance led the way down the hall.

“Are you back to working on novels again?” Tracy asked.

“I’d like to. Unfortunately, the only thing editors tell me readers want is more books on the Clickers. Publishing really sucks now.”

“Oh yeah?” Lance asked.

“Hell yeah! The last novel I sold was shortly before the first Clickers invasion, in the early nineties. Publishing was imploding then, but it was nowhere as bad then as it is now. With a few exceptions, the mid-list paperback industry has disappeared. All editors want to buy these days are tell-all biographies and bullshit self-help books. If you’re a blowhard like Rush Limbaugh or Sean Hannity, they want you to write these worthless political screeds that they can sell to illiterate morons. And don’t get me started on fiction. All they want now are Twilight and James Patterson knock-offs. Plot by the numbers thrillers. People do want to read about the Clickers and Dark Ones, and now that this book has been a hit, my publisher wants more non-fiction material like this from me. No wonder writers of my generation have either moved to writing for film or television or jumped to comics or graphic novels...or got day jobs and are content with publishing with a small press.”

“That bad, huh?” This from Tracy. They’d stopped at a door halfway down the hall.

“Absolutely.” As Lance fumbled with the key card, Rick continued on his rant. “Being on the best-seller list is no picnic, either. I used to yearn for it, but now I wish that when Simon & Schuster made me their offer, I’d turned it down. Ever since that goddamn book came out I’ve had nothing but dumb reporters and even dumber paparazzi following me around, trying to provoke me.”

Lance got the door opened and they entered. Rick followed them in, not really paying attention to the details of the room. Typical con abuse: half-unpacked suitcases lying here and there; bags of books on the desk, the table, the nightstands, the twin beds. A sheet was draped over a large stack of what appeared to be coffee table books on the table. Rick was thirsty for a beer. “You got anything to drink?”

“Beer’s on ice in the tub,” Lance said.

Rick stepped into the little bathroom off the entryway. The bathtub was filled with ice and a case of various beers, imported and domestic. Rick selected a bottle of Sam Adams, twisted off the cap, and took a long pull from it.

“Hey, what’s that shit about you threatening some couple at a bookstore signing you did?” Don asked.

Rick stepped out of the bathroom. Don was standing near the table, a curious look on his face. Rick shrugged. “You want the truth? I was on a twenty-city, fifteen-day book tour and my publicist had kept me up the previous night because he insisted we go to dinner after our signing because he wanted to make favorites with the local Borders Bookstore Manager. Chick was as dumb as a rock. I have no idea how she got her job because she clearly couldn’t tell you what a book was if the latest Dan Simmons novel hit her on the head. I’d had too much to drink, the flight to the next city was murder, and I got zero sleep. Next city I get to, this...” Rick struggled to put the anecdote into the proper words. “...this couple showed up at the signing. They seemed okay at first, didn’t make that much of an impression. But they hung around until everybody else was gone and I engaged them in small talk, just to be friendly. That was my first mistake. The guy was a wanna-be writer and kept asking me the usual questions—How do you get published? How do you get an agent?—that kind of shit. I was polite. They showed up at the next signing in the next city a few hours away and I started to get worried. Then they tagged along when my publicist and I went out to dinner. He actually thought it would be a good idea if we let them sit with us, even though I just wanted to be left alone that night. Then, when I went to my hotel room that night they followed me.”

“They followed you?” Tracy frowned.

“Yeah. Said they wanted to talk more, and I politely told them that it was great to meet them, but I was tired and really needed to get some sleep and that’s when it turned ugly. They got mad. The wife was going on like, “how dare you treat my husband that way’, that they’ve supported me ever since my first novel, that I should be grateful I was getting this much attention from their fans. I told them I was grateful for them but that I didn’t want to be their buddies and that they should just go home. The argument got louder and uglier and I told them to go home. I went into my room and slammed the door.” Rick paused. “Next thing I know, they’d called the police, told them I’d threatened them with bodily harm.”

“What did the police say?” Lance asked. It looked like all three of them were enjoying this story.

“It was clear to the cops that they were crazy,” Rick said. “My publicist heard the commotion and came down. He showed the officers the dust jacket photo on the book and explained what was going on. The police told the couple they’d be arrested on a stalking charge if they didn’t leave the hotel immediately. They left and started posting a convoluted and totally false version of the story all over the Internet saying I’d threatened to have them eaten by a Clicker.” Rick laughed at this. “Right. Like I have physical access to one of those goddamn things.”

Lance, Don, and Tracy chuckled and traded glances.

“Anyway, the stress had really gotten to me.” Rick shrugged. He took a sip of his beer. There was more to his problems than that, of course, but there was no need to go into that now. He did not want to mention his arrest for DUI, or being busted for cocaine possession. That last had been pure stupidity on his part. He’d been in LA, at a party in the Hollywood Hills. His newfound fame had garnered film interest in some of his older novels and one of them, Thirst, was optioned by a well-known producer. He wasn’t even the slightest bit buzzed when he left the party, but he was popped by LAPD as he turned left onto Hollywood Boulevard from the hills. He’d been holding a miniscule amount of cocaine in a tiny zip lock baggie.

“So what is this shit you want to show me?” Rick asked again. He took another swig of his beer.

Lance grinned. “Ready to see this?”

“Yeah. What is it? It isn’t an old issue of The Horror Show or New Blood, is it? I know you guys have wanted a collection of my short fiction—” He stopped. For the first time, Rick had the sense they didn’t bring him here to show him something literary related. “So, what is it?”

Lance moved over to the table where the sheet was draped over the large stack of coffee table books. “Well, we’re not only big fans of yours, but we’re also amateur herpetoculturists.”

“What’s that?”

“We collect reptiles,” Tracy explained.

A cold chill passed through Rick as he eyed the sheet-draped object. “So you want to show me a turtle or something? A baby python? What?”

“It’s like this,” Lance began. The sheet had yet to be removed from the rectangular shape on the table, which Rick was now beginning to think was not a stack of coffee-table sized books, but rather a small aquarium. “In addition to book collecting, I’m into collecting rare, venomous reptiles.”

“Venomous?” Rick asked, turning to Lance. They wanted to show him a rattlesnake? A Gila monster?

“I have eye-lash vipers, various pit vipers like Gaboon vipers and Desert Horned Vipers, I’ve got various cobras like speckled and spitting, even a King Cobra.”

“Lance even has a Black Mamba,” Tracy said, grinning. “It’s the largest specimen in private captivity.”

“Eleven feet,” Lance said. “My King Cobra is pretty big too. Fifteen feet. He can be a handful.”

“You keep these things in your house?” Rick asked. He was looking at the three of them as if they were totally insane.

“They’re kept in secured vivariums,” Lance explained. “My King Cobra has a room all of his own in the back of my house. Guys that keep large pythons like retics and Burmese, they usually keep them in a room-sized enclosure.”

“The trouble is, people who keep King Cobras forget that they’re ambush hunters like large pythons,” Tracy said. “So they’ll keep them in smaller enclosures. Their keepers get careless, will open their cage one day, and if the snake is in a pissy mood and they aren’t paying attention—wham! They get nailed.”

“Exactly,” Lance said, nodding. “When they have their own room you have the space to work with them, to maneuver them where you want them to go.”

“I’d want to maneuver them out of my house,” Rick said. He was eyeing the aquarium again. He wasn’t afraid of snakes, but had never seen their allure as pets. Back in his old life, a friend of his had kept a boa constrictor and a Burmese python as pets. They were nice animals, but they weren’t Rick’s cup of tea when it came to pets. He preferred dogs and cats.

Lance continued. “Most guys that are into what is known in herpetoculture as ‘hot herps’—venomous reptiles—will have the standards; rattlesnakes, copperheads, water moccasins, maybe some of the pit vipers and cobras: green mambas, eyelash vipers, Gaboon Vipers, spitting cobras. A relative few will have species like the various kraits or tiger snakes or a King Cobra.”

“But you do?”

“Absolutely. I’ve got a Jarararcusso—”

“A what?”

“Jarararcusso,” Lance said, pronouncing the word slowly. “It’s number ten on the most venomous snakes in the world list.”

“No shit?” Rick eyed the sheet-draped object on the desk again. Why did he have to have such insane fans?

“I’ve got a banded krait, a Fer-de-Lance, a yellow-jawed Tommygoff—”

“That’s a dumb name for a snake,” Rick said. He took a casual sip of his beer.

“Yeah, but they have an irritable disposition and they strike with little provocation. Their venom is hemotoxic, extremely painful and hemorrhagic, which means it causes profuse internal bleeding. It also causes massive tissue destruction. If you get a bite on an extremity like a leg or arm and you live, you’ll most likely lose whatever body part that was bitten.”

“Lovely.” Rick took a casual step back from the table.

Tracy and Don noticed his sense of alarm. “Don’t worry!” Tracy said. “We don’t have one here!”

Lance chuckled. “It’s cool man, we don’t have any snakes here. Honest. I’m just giving you a little background info.”

“Lance even has a banded krait, a Philippine cobra and a North-West Australian Taipan,” Don said.

Rick frowned. “Aren’t those the kind of snakes that Steve Irwin guy, the Crocodile Hunter, was always picking up by the tail? I always expected him to get nailed by one.”

Lance nodded. “Yeah. The North-West Australian Taipan is the world’s number one toxic land snake of all. You get bit by one of those, you can die within minutes. Fortunately, they’re generally very docile. Mine’s a sweetie.”

Rick shook his head, took another sip of beer. “I once had a pit bull. She was a sweetie too. Very docile, very loving. My neighbors were afraid of her, though.”

“Exactly! If you treat animals right, they’ll respect you.”

Tracy spoke up. “In addition to the Taipan, Lance owns what may be the most venomous snake species in the world.”

“That’s right,” Lance said. He turned to Rick. “Not many guys that are into venomous species will even try handling a Taipan. But I can’t think of anybody that has a Hydrophis belcheri.”

“A who?”

“A Faint-banded Sea snake,” Lance said.

“It’s the most toxic snake in the world,” Don said. “Even more toxic than the Taipan.”

“They live in the Indian Ocean,” Lance said. “They’ve been found near the Philippines, New Guinea, Australia, the Solomon Islands. I keep one in a two-hundred gallon salt-water tank with feeder fish. They’re very easy to handle and docile. Usually fishermen get bitten by them when they get caught in their nets.”

“And you have one?”

“Absolutely!” Lance smiled. “But that’s not the most venomous thing I have in my collection. Check this out.” Lance stepped toward the table and removed the sheet that covered the shape that Rick first mistook as a pile of coffee table sized books.

It was a small aquarium. A fifty gallon one, judging by Rick’s dimensions. His ex-girlfriend, Janet, kept a fifty-gallon aquarium for a pet ball python she’d had for the past fifteen years. Rick actually liked the ball python. It was very mellow.

“So what do you think?” Lance asked. He was grinning.

Rick looked into the aquarium. He was aware that Lance, Tracy, and Don were grinning, were waiting for some kind of reaction from him, but Rick didn’t know what it was. He had no idea what he was supposed to be looking at. The aquarium they’d uncovered was relatively unremarkable; the bottom was half water and half gravel, the water about six inches deep on one side. The gravel portion had a little fake palm tree and a rock enclosure with a hole in it—a hidey spot for whatever critter was supposed to be housed inside. Rick bent over and leaned closer to the aquarium to see what was inside. “You brought me up here to look at a frog or something?” He’d heard some frogs were highly venomous; they had toxic skin.

“No, not a frog, something better!” Lance motioned toward the rock. “Look inside the hidey rock.”

“Oooh, he’s coming out!” Tracy squealed in excitement.

Something in the hidey rock moved. A flash of red. Segmented legs moved. Was it a spider? A tarantula of some kind?

The claws were the first thing that emerged from the entrance of the hidey rock and the moment Rick saw them, he froze. It seemed that his heart was a solid lump in his chest. His breath was held, the room in suspended animation as the creature crawled out of the hidey rock, propelled by the eight segmented legs that scuttled like a crab...or a scorpion...

“What the...” Rick breathed.

“Is that cool, or what?” Lance exclaimed. His voice brimmed with pride. “I nabbed this little guy behind my place in Virginia, during the height of Hurricane Gary two years ago.”

Rick’s heart raced in his chest as he watched the Clicker come out from beneath the hidey rock. Its segmented tail was the last to emerge; it curled over its back, the stinger poised and ready to strike. The Clicker itself was a small one, about the size of a human hand. It seemed to look at them with its stalked eyes and began to snap its claws together.

Click-click! Click Click!

“From what I’ve been able to read and study on these things, this one’s a baby,” Lance said. “It was crawling in my yard, heading toward my creek when I saw it, and I slammed a bucket over it to catch it, used a rake to swipe it in there. It was too small to climb out and I had an extra aquarium in the basement.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Rick asked. He looked at Lance, Tracy, and Don with wide-eyed disbelief. His panic was coming through loud and clear, screaming at him that he had to get the hell away from these people and he had to do it now!

“It’s okay,” Tracy said. Rick wasn’t even aware of her light touch on his arm in an attempt to soothe his nerves. “Like Lance said, we’re experts. We’re careful, we know what we’re doing.”

“You sure?” Rick countered.

“Their venom is hemorrhagic, hemotoxic and neurotoxic,” Lance said. “I’ve run tests on it myself. It’s about one hundred times more potent than the sea snake’s. It doesn’t even start with shutting your system down; it immediately acts as a hemorrhagic and begins massive tissue destruction. From my observation, the victim dies of shock more than the effects of the neurotoxic or hemotoxic strains in its venom.”

“What did you test it on?” Rick asked. His heart was still racing and the door seemed awfully far away from him.

“Feeder rats mostly,” Lance said. “I’ve got to feed this guy something.”

“Lance is extremely careful when it comes to handling it,” Don said.

“Hell yeah,” Lance said. “I wear protective covering and a face mask. I pick it up with a snake hook to remove it from its aquarium when I clean it. When I feed it, I simply drop live prey inside the cage. No need to pre-kill its food.”

Don was rummaging around in a briefcase for something and Tracy had taken a step back, her excited smile plastered back on. When Don found what he was looking for, he handed it to Lance, who nodded. He turned to Rick, his features happy-go-lucky and without a care in the world. “Anyway, I’d be extremely honored if you would sign the label I’ve pasted on the side of the aquarium.” He held out a black sharpie pen to Rick.

“What?” Rick looked at Lance as if he’d lost his mind.

“Would you sign the aquarium?” Lance held the pen to Rick and motioned to the large white label affixed to the upper right hand corner of the aquarium. “It would be fucking awesome if I had the signature of the guy who named these things to—”

The creature snapped its claws together again, creating a mad cacophony. Click-Click! Click Click!

And then the anger boiled out of Rick in a sudden flash of fury. He shoved Lance away from him. Lance stumbled back and hit the wall. The pen dropped to the floor. “Man, get the hell away from me!”

Lance’s happy-go-lucky demeanor changed instantly. The smile turned to a scowl. “Hey fuck you, man! Who do you think you are?”

And that’s when Rick punched him in the face.

The blow sent Lance crashing back into the wall. Rick stepped toward him and grabbed Lance by the front of his shirt. He would have punched him again if Don hadn’t grabbed him and pulled him back. “Hey! Cut it out, man!”

“Hey, get your hands off me!” Rick fought Don off. Behind them, Tracy yelled, her voice panicked. Lance staggered to his feet, his nose a bloody mess, his eyes narrowing pits of anger. Don hooked his right arm around Rick’s throat and Rick drove his elbow into Don’s stomach. Don groaned, releasing his hold and Rick let loose another volley of punches at Lance. The two grappled, swinging their fists. Lance’s blows failed to connect, but Rick managed a few well-placed blows to his opponent’s abdomen, his jaw, and his face again.

Once again, Don tried to separate them but this time Tracy joined him. Don’s grip was more solid now, his anger clearly evident this time. “Get the fuck out of here!” He yelled. “Fucking nut bag motherfucker!”

“I’ve called the police!” Tracy screamed at him. “And hotel security. They’re on their way now!”

Rick shoved Don away from him and glared at Tracy. “Good! I’m glad you did. They’ll be really interested in that thing in the aquarium, don’t you think?”

That seemed to get them. Tracy gasped, her gaze darting toward the Clicker in the aquarium. Don glanced at the aquarium, too. Lance was standing in the corner, holding his hands to his bloody face. Rick glared at the three of them and shook his head. “The three of you can go to hell as far as I’m concerned. I’m out of here.” Rick stepped toward the door.

Don chased after him. “Get back here you asshole!”

Rick ignored him. He opened the door and stepped into the hall. Don followed him, shouting curses. “Stop! You’re not going anywhere!”

Rick turned around and punched Don in the face. Don staggered back and recovered quickly. He launched himself at Rick, who pushed him away. Rick hit Don again, his fist connecting with his shoulder. Don threw a few punches of his own, all of them falling short. Rick bobbed and weaved, blocking Don’s punches while trying to land another one. He didn’t even notice hotel security until a voice behind him said, “Hey you guys! Stop that!” A second later three well-built guys were pulling them apart. It took two of them to hold Rick back. Rick went willingly with them, shooting Don a venomous gaze. “Go ahead, take a look in Room 242,” he told the beefy security guy who had a grip on his upper arm.

Lance stepped out of the room. He was still holding his bloody face. “I want that scumbag arrested!”

By then the police had shown up and the metal bracelets wound up around Rick’s wrists. “Why are you arresting me?” Rick angrily shouted at the officer. “I’m the guest of honor at this convention! If you’re gonna arrest somebody, arrest them! They’ve got a Clicker in their room, they’ve got—”

“Save it,” the arresting officer told him as Rick was escorted to the elevator. “You’re being arrested for aggravated assault. Now shut the hell up and let me do my job.”

Rick didn’t shut up. He protested all the way down to the first floor. He loudly proclaimed to the World Horror Convention attendees who were assembled in the hotel lobby and the outlying bar what was going on. “Room 242!” He shouted. “Crazy bastards brought a baby Clicker with them! And I’m the one being arrested!”

It wasn’t until he got to the Kansas City police station that he was able to make his phone call. On the drive over he learned from the arresting officer that Lance Burke, the man he’d beaten up, was the brother of one of the convention organizers. The convention itself was pressing criminal charges against him. “They say you went apeshit in his room,” the cop said from the front seat. “I know you’ve been under a lot of stress lately. I see news stories on you in Entertainment Tonight.”

Rick said nothing. When he was escorted inside the police station he asked to use the phone and he made his call.

He supposed he was the only man in US history who’d ever phoned a sitting President of the United States from a police station.

He was patched through to Livingston after a five-minute wait. Told Augustus what had happened. “When this is over, you need to take a vacation,” Livingston said calmly. “Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I understand.” Rick did need to get away from it all.

“I’ll make arrangements to have you released,” Livingston said. “I’ll have a car pick you up to take you to the airport. When you get home, pack your bags. The driver will take you back to the airport and give you a plane ticket. Be on that plane.”

“Where to?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just be on it.”

“What about those three bozos?”

“I’ll have them taken care of.”

Livingston was true to his word.

Rick was released from custody thirty minutes later. Two men in dark suits met him in the lobby. They introduced themselves as Onyx and Diamond. They drove him to the Kansas City airport; Rick wasn’t entirely surprised to see that they’d retrieved his belongings from the hotel. When he got to the airport, they escorted him inside. Diamond handed him a ticket to Fargo, North Dakota. “You’ll be met by our associates,” he said.

Rick boarded the plane and flew to Fargo. When he disembarked, he was met by another team of government agents, a man named Amethyst and a woman named Ruby. They drove him to his home (which seemed emptier now that Janet had left him for good) where he quickly packed. Then he went outside with his suitcases and got into the Lincoln Continental that was waiting outside for him where he was driven back to the airport.

Throughout the journey, his handlers never said a word about what happened. Rick dozed occasionally. He tried to see what was on the news as he was at the airports, but apparently the fracas at the hotel had not been newsworthy enough to be picked up. Or maybe Livingston and his people were simply too good at covering shit up.

He was pleased to see that the plane ticket that was handed to him was a one-way trip to Las Vegas, Nevada. “What the hell am I going to do in Vegas?” Rick asked.

“Have fun,” Ruby said. “Remember, what happens in Las Vegas, stays in Las Vegas.” She handed Rick a large manila envelope. “Have a safe trip, Mr. Sycheck.” She and her silent partner turned and walked away.

Rick went through airport security and found his departing gate. He sat down to wait for his flight. As he waited, he opened he envelope. Inside was a smaller envelope stuffed with cash, mostly large denominations. There was also a VISA card with his name on it. Most of the manila envelope was taken up with this morning’s newspaper. Rick took it out, scanned the first page and saw a yellow post-it note affixed to it. Look at Page 23, it said.

Casually, Rick flipped to page 23. What they wanted him to see was halfway down.

Author Involved in minor skirmish

Kansas City: Horror Author and one of the heroes of the Clickers invasion, Rick Sycheck, was involved in a minor scuffle with several fans at the World Horror Convention on Saturday.

Mr. Sycheck was Guest of Honor at the convention, which was being held at the Kansas City Marriot in downtown. According to police, Mr. Sychek left the convention immediately after the scuffle. No arrests were reported.

Rick read the article again. There was no mention of Lance, Tracy, or Don. No mention of the baby Clicker. Rick frowned.

So what happened to it?

Rick turned the possibilities over in his mind throughout the long flight to Las Vegas. He couldn’t sleep. He sipped bourbon as he slouched down in his first class seat, chasing the scenarios in his mind. As far as he knew, it wasn’t illegal for private citizens to keep Clickers; as of six months ago, they’d been exterminated. Lance Burke and his friends had probably been detained by the government. The baby Clicker might even be in some government lab by now. Surely they wouldn’t let Lance, Tracy, and Don go away scott free.

When the plane touched down in Las Vegas, Rick disembarked with the rest of the passengers and was met by another pair of dark-suited government agents. They escorted him to baggage claim, waited while he collected his things, then drove him to one of the nicer hotels and casinos on the strip. Rick checked in and was happy to see that his room was a double suite.

He almost didn’t notice the DVD sitting near the large flat screen television.

There was a note affixed to the front of the plain wrapped DVD. Play me.

With rising trepidation, Rick slipped the DVD into the player that was set near the flat screen TV. He turned the flatscreen on and settled back on the king-sized bed to watch.

The screen grew fuzzy, then focused on a large room that was bare.

The baby Clicker was busily picking scraps of what looked like raw congealed hamburger off the gravel floor in its claws and stuffing them into its beaked mouth. Its stinger arched over its back. The ground was stained with large spots, as if something had congealed and settled. Rick watched, curious, as the thing continued to feed. “Why the hell did you film this thing eating hamburger?” he asked aloud.

The Clicker finished the last of its meal and paused. It began clicking its claws together again, waving them in the air as if it were demanding more. A voice spoke from off stage. “That’s the last of it.” Rick didn’t recognize the voice, but it was male, a deep, rich baritone. It spoke again, this time seemingly directed at Rick. “And that was the last of them. All has been taken care of. They won’t be missed.”

Rick stared at the screen, mouth agape in shock.

“And now we can eradicate the last Clicker on US soil. Thank you for serving your country, Mr. Sychek.” The barrel of an automatic weapon emerged in frame. It was pointed directly at the baby Clicker, who didn’t seem to notice.

The gunshot blast was deafening.

Rick started at the sound. The shot completely obliterated the baby Clicker, spraying water, gravel, concrete, and crustacean meat.

Then the screen went blank.

But audio remained. “Your work is done, Mr. Sycheck. Enjoy your vacation.”

Rick sat on the bed, watching the blank screen for a moment. He couldn’t believe what he’d just seen. He restarted the video and watched it again.

And again.

Now he was certain.

Lance, Tracy, and Don had been taken care of all right.

And all evidence to their demise had been blown away by a single gunshot.

Story Notes

This story was written in late 2009 for the lettered edition of Clickers III: Dagon Rising by myself and Brian Keene. I think we were originally supposed to collaborate on a story related to the Clickers series for the lettered edition, but Brian was up to his neck in deadlines and couldn’t devote time to this, so I did it. This represents my first solo story ever in the Clickers universe.

Clickers III takes place in a completely different setting than Clickers II, although it does contain some of the same characters. The main character from the first two books, Rick Sycheck, is conspicuously absent. It was suggested during editorial meetings after the first draft was turned in to the publisher that we bring Rick in to the book just to give it that verisimilitude between the other books, so we wrote him in the last chapter. That still didn’t explain what happened to Rick between the events of Clickers II and Clickers III. This story explains all that.

There really is a subset of herpetoculture—people who collect and breed reptiles in private captivity—who breed and collect venomous reptiles (“hot herps”). Some of these people are pretty goddamn careless too. I remember one incident that made the news when I was living in California—a young woman was found dead in her home after she'd frantically dialed 911. All the furniture had been moved away from the wall. It turned out she’d been bitten by a boomslang (one of dozens of highly venomous snakes she’d kept). The snake had escaped from its enclosure. The reason the furniture was pulled away from the walls was due to her efforts to find it. Well, she found it. And apparently the venom had worked so quickly she’d passed out while on the phone with 911. She didn’t even have the anti-venom for that particular species.

Based on my experience and observations of herpetoculture, the antagonists in “Captivity” are pretty much as described. And I have every reason to believe if Clickers (the lobster/crab hybrid creatures in the books invented by myself and Mark Williams) were real, a subset of these people would want to keep one as a pet. And just like in real life the dumbasses wouldn’t have anti-venom for it either. However, if Clickers were real, I don’t think there’d be need for anti-venom anyway. Your flesh would melt off before it could be administered. Still, that wouldn’t stop some of these dopes.

Witness

AFTER TWO WEEKS of being on the road, Richard Fraser felt a sense of peace when he reached the Lancaster, Pennsylvania city limits.

The minute he entered Amish country he felt calm. He had been to Lancaster County three times in the past. He’d spent more times in Lancaster than the other cities he’d briefly settled in. He didn't know what it was about the city that appealed to him. Perhaps it was the open country roads on the outskirts, the rich land dotted with farms. Or maybe it was the tiny communities outlying the main city, each its own little village where middle-class families lived in relative picket-fence splendor. Lancaster City itself was a town he had grown to love. It was steeped in history; many of the buildings and neighborhoods dated back to the eighteenth century. The city was large enough to support a thriving art community, theatre, a respected private college, and a bustling nightlife, yet it still retained a small town feel to it. Perhaps the number one reason for his feeling of peace whenever he spent time in Lancaster was one of a spiritual nature; when he was there he felt safe. He felt safe in mind, body, and spirit.

He felt that God was protecting him whenever he was in Lancaster.

That meant a lot to him. Because for the past seven years he felt that God's adversary was always one step behind him, which was why he moved around so much. He was a drifter, taking odd jobs here and there, never staying in one place longer than seven months. He felt it was the only way to keep them from finding him.

Only now he felt good, better than he’d felt in months. Getting back to Lancaster probably had something to do with it. The first time to the city he’d stayed at the Grace Baptist Church and Mission off Market Street and was impressed by it. Out of all the homeless shelters run by churches he had stayed at, Grace Baptist was one where they made you feel special, where they made you feel that God loved you, that you weren't just another homeless person.

He had hopped a Greyhound bus from Springfield, Illinois where he’d spent two months working in a soup kitchen. Now as the bus rumbled into the city limits he gathered all his worldly possessions—neatly contained in one corduroy knapsack—and got ready to get off.

Once the bus pulled into the Greyhound terminal downtown, Richard got off and began the four mile trek to Market Street where the Grace Baptist Church and Homeless Shelter was located. He was fairly confident he could get a bed there for at least a week until he found a job and saved enough money to pay for lodgings at a motel.

When he got to the church he saw it had changed. It was now called the Lancaster Church of God.

He stepped inside and found the office. A pleasant looking man with short blonde hair was seated behind a desk looking over some paperwork. He looked up at Richard and smiled. "How can I help you today?"

"I was just curious about the change," Richard said, motioning outside. "Last time I stayed here this was the Grace Baptist Church. Is it still run by the same people, or—"

"Yes, it is," the man said, rising from the desk and smiling. “We’ve just had a slight name change. I take it you once stayed in our homeless shelter?"

Richard nodded.

"And are you in need of a place to sleep now?"

"Yes," Richard said, shifting from one foot to the other nervously.

"We can accommodate you," the man said, stepping around the desk, holding out his hand. "I'm Pastor Matthews. I just started here a few days ago myself."

Richard shook the pastor’s hand. It was warm and strong.

Pastor Matthews led Richard out of the office and through a hallway, which he knew led toward the homeless shelter. "You know the drill here. You have a week, after which if you haven't found a job or lodgings we will try to help find one for you. Meals are at eight a.m., noon, and five p.m. We ask all lodgers to pitch in at the center, whether it's kitchen duty or helping the grounds keepers. Sound okay with you?"

"Fine," Richard said.

Richard found himself liking Pastor Matthews very much. That night he helped out in the kitchen. Later that evening, as he sat outside the church drinking a Coke, the pastor stepped out, noticed Richard seated there, and sauntered over. "Everything all right so far?" Pastor Matthews asked.

"Couldn't be better."

"Mind if I have a seat?"

"By all means, help yourself."

Pastor Matthews lowered himself down on the bench and for the next twenty minutes they engaged in light banter. When was the last time Richard was in Lancaster? What was it that he liked about the city so much? Oh, yes, Pastor Matthews said, he knew exactly how Richard felt. He agreed it was a beautiful city, filled with wonderful people, lovely architecture, and the surrounding Pennsylvania countryside was as sweet as can be. Richard found himself drawn into the conversation and before he knew it he was telling the Pastor about his travels, the places he had seen and lived in, the odd jobs worked at. Pastor Matthews nodded along, adding anecdotes about his own experiences. Before Richard knew it the sun was going down and he found that he’d sketched out his entire itinerary over the past seven years to a total stranger.

Pastor Matthews rose to his feet and rubbed his back. "My, but it got dark quick. I didn't even notice the time, I was having so much fun talking."

That brought a tinge of nervousness to Richard. He hoped he hadn’t revealed too much personal information so quick. Richard smiled. "Yeah, it crept up on me, too."

Pastor Matthews turned to Richard and held out his hand. "I'll see you tomorrow, Richard. Have a good night."

"You too." Richard watched as Pastor Matthews headed down the darkened walkway to the parking lot across the street where he got into a dark-colored vehicle and drove away.

The following day was hot and sticky, and Richard stayed close to the church. He heard there was a crew needed for night-work to repair Route 30, but when he reached the main office all the positions were filled. Richard spent the rest of the day at the church helping out in the kitchen. Later that night he had another conversation with Pastor Matthews outside. And like the previous evening, he found himself telling the pastor a lot of things he hadn't spoken of in years.

At first he was afraid he would spill the beans and tell the pastor about why he had really hit the road, but instead he found himself talking about his past before that horrifying incident occurred. He told Pastor Matthews about his days at UCLA film school, his apprenticeship at Sony, the independent film he’d made. He told Pastor Matthews about the screenwriting gig he got that netted him five grand per week. He told him everything except why he’d walked away from it all.

Pastor Matthews never asked.

The following three days passed with a sort of lucid tranquility. Richard rose early, had breakfast, checked out the classifieds, answered employment ads, went on job interviews. In the evening he had supper at the shelter and a talk with Pastor Matthews as the minister headed out the door. Richard felt relaxed and free around the clergyman. He felt he could trust Pastor Matthews with anything.

On the sixth night as they sat outside talking, the subject once again came to Richard's time in Los Angeles and the successful career he once had. He was talking about the spacious luxury condo he’d had in Studio City, the Lexus he drove, the beautiful women he’d dated, when Pastor Matthews suddenly asked, "So what happened?"

Richard sighed. He knew that things were coming around to finally telling somebody about what’d happened. He supposed he’d subconsciously wanted to tell somebody for a long time, and that since meeting Pastor Matthews he’d been giving out subliminal signals that he wanted the minister to ask him about it. He felt he could trust the man, so he took a quick look around and turned to Pastor Matthews. "Can we go to your office? I'd rather tell you privately then out here in the open."

Pastor Matthews frowned and rose to his feet, his features concerned. "Of course."

They headed back into the administrative wing of the church and Richard felt safer once they were in Pastor Matthews' office. The Pastor closed the door behind them and motioned for Richard to have a seat. Richard sat down and Pastor Matthews took a seat behind the paper-strewn desk. "Okay, Richard. I'm all ears."

Richard took a long sip of the Coke he was drinking. "It's a long story. It's disturbing at times, and what I have to tell you might make you look at me different. You might think I'm crazy, but it's all true."

Pastor Matthews looked serious. "If you don't want to burden yourself by telling me, I'll understand."

"I want to tell you," Richard heard himself saying. He felt a rush of emotions bubble to the surface. He felt he had to tell the pastor, had to get it off his chest.

"I'm listening," Pastor Matthews said.

Richard thought about where to begin and decided to start at the beginning.

"A few weeks before I...left to be on the road, I was house-sitting for an acquaintance at the studio I was working at. It was a home in the Trousdale Estates, and the house overlooked a small canyon. It was a beautiful house. I stayed there with a woman I was seeing, a...a porn star who was somewhat well known in the adult entertainment industry. Anyway, to make a long story short, one night we were up at the house, in bed. The master bedroom overlooked the canyon and...well, there was a large window over the bed that overlooked a beautiful view of the canyon and the back yard of the house below us. We had the bedroom lights off and we were just, you know..." He gestured vaguely.

"I get the picture," Pastor Matthews said.

Richard nodded. "And when we were done we just kind of laid there for a moment, catching our breaths, letting the cool air from outside seep through the open window. And that's when we both heard the sound.

"We sort of looked up and peered out the window down into the backyard below us," Richard continued. "And...I guess the best way I could describe it was that it first appeared that the people in the house below us were throwing a party. There were twelve or thirteen people in the yard gathered together in a circle. They even had a bonfire burning. Then...then they brought the girl in. She was naked and...two of them pushed her down on the ground and tied her wrists and ankles down with rope. She was gagged, but you could tell she was struggling. It wasn't fake at all. Tiffany and I were just sort of watching in shock as the group started moving in unison, like they were participants in some religious ceremony. They were all dressed in black robes with cowls over their heads. Then one of them—I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman at first, but I later saw that it was a man—came with a knife." Richard paused, licked his lips, his eyes wide with the memory. "He knelt beside her and stabbed her. Just drove the knife into her chest and began cutting. Then he reached into her chest and...he pulled out her heart, held it up as the people around him chanted in a sort of singing voice, and then he took a bite out of it." He closed his eyes, his breathing coming heavier now, his body trembling. "He passed it around to the others and they all took bites out of it. It was like some gross sort of communion."

"My God," Pastor Matthews murmured. His eyes were wide with shock.

Richard was barely paying attention to Pastor Matthews. His only concern was finally telling somebody the truth; this was the first time he had spoken of the events in such detail. "I was horrified. Tiffany was just beside herself. She almost screamed and I put my hand over her mouth and had to hold her down to stop her from going crazy. I kept thinking that if they heard us they would kill us. I got her calmed down and she wanted to call the police and I couldn't agree more. I called 911 and told them I had just witnessed a murder, told them where it happened, and then we just sat in the hallway and waited."

There was silence for a moment. "The police came?" Pastor Matthews asked.

Richard nodded, took another sip of Coke. "About thirty minutes later a squad car came to the door. By this time I’d managed to get Tiffany in some clothes; she was just hysterical. And I managed to get dressed myself. The cops were...well, they were pretty pissed off. Said they had gone to the home I’d reported seeing the murder at and they didn't find anything. They told the owners that an anonymous call came in about a murder that had taken place in the backyard of their home. The people that owned the home were obviously shocked. In fact, they invited the officers inside to look around. They all went into the backyard and...there was nothing." He looked up at Pastor Matthews. "No sign of violence, no blood, no evidence that a bonfire had been ablaze...in short, nothing! I asked the police if they had the right house and one of them rather sarcastically said, 'there's no other homes in this part of the canyon that your residence overlooks'. Then he went over to the balcony, looked down and said, 'yep, that’s the house.' Then his partner said that Tiffany and I oughta be taken in for filing a false police report.

"I had to do some real fast talking to talk them out of it," Richard continued. "Even then, they almost arrested us. Tiffany was still in shock and was sitting on the sofa in a robe crying. That's when I was able to tell the officers that it was Tiffany that told me she’d seen the murder, that she was...that she had some mental problems and was under the care of a psychiatrist. I...I told them that I hadn't actually seen anything but that I believed Tiffany because she’d never lied to me before, that her mental state had been improving but that this must have been a sign that it was coming back." He looked down at the floor. "They believed that one; either that or they didn't want to waste their time with us anymore. They left and, once I got Tiffany under control, we left as well."

"Why did you leave?" Pastor Matthews asked.

"By this time I was so shaken up by what I’d seen and what the officers failed to find, that I felt like they—the people at the house—would be traveling up the hill any minute to find out who fingered them. So I grabbed Tiffany and some clothes and we got the hell out of there. I drove out the back way, heading north along Mulholland Drive to the valley, figuring if they were on their way they would be heading north up the road and we would miss them." He sighed. "It was a close call, but not close enough. We checked into a motel for the night in Sherman Oaks."

Pastor Matthews didn't need to prod Richard anymore for the rest of the story. "I didn't know anything about the owners of the house below my friend's place. I wasn't entirely sure that we had...been found out, either. I stayed up and watched the motel parking lot as Tiffany slept. The next morning we figured the best thing for us to do would be to stay at the motel. I didn't want to go back to the house, house-sitting gig or not. Three days later my friend and his wife returned from their vacation." He paused. When he spoke again his voice was lowered, afraid. "Two days after that they disappeared."

"Disappeared?"

Richard nodded. "I found out about it a week later. By then I was fairly confident nobody had seen us at the motel, so I drove Tiffany and I over to my place. She was still very frightened, but as the days went by she got less paranoid. We talked about what we'd seen and we both agreed we hadn’t been hallucinating; we had witnessed a ritual sacrifice, probably a satanic sacrifice, and we’d gotten away without being seen. We were confident that the people at that house knew nothing about us, so Tiffany returned to her condo a few days later.

"When I heard that Steve and Elizabeth were missing I was petrified. I knew who was responsible and I felt like I was to blame. They had gotten them...they had gotten Steve and Liz and killed them to keep them silent. They thought that Steve and Liz had...that they thought it was Steve and Liz that called the cops when it was really Tiffany and I." Richard felt like crying and he fought back the tears. "I was so scared. The police came and asked me a bunch of questions and I evaded them as much as I could. I didn’t want to be pinned to making that original phone call. The minute the cops left I went to North Hollywood to visit a friend of mine who’s a walking encyclopedia when it comes to occult lore. I told him what I’d seen, and after asking me a bunch of questions he finally gave me an answer that made some sort of sense."

"And what was that?"

Richard sighed. He took another sip of coke. He felt better now, more reassured. "He told me there was a group that...well, they were a secret society of devil worshippers who migrated down to LA from San Francisco in '68 or '69 and eventually went nationwide in the early seventies. They were a splinter group of a cult called the Children of the Light. Charles Manson apparently had ties with them. Anyway, my friend said that the goal of the group was to supposedly bring in the Anti-Christ to fulfill the biblical prophesies related in the Book of Revelations. I thought it was a bunch of bullshit at first, but my friend Mark told me that a guy he knew in Hollywood knew somebody who was a cult member back in the sixties. This guy told Mark that they’d actually performed some sort of ritual in which they actually called up the devil himself and brought a woman to him."

"Brought?"

"Yeah, brought." Richard looked at him, his features grave. "They brought a woman to him and the devil supposedly impregnated her. They kept her chained in a basement dungeon and fed her and stuff, and then apparently the baby was born and they took it." Richard shrugged. "Of course, Mark said the guy himself was pretty much a nutcase. Drugs had really fried his brain. He was like this forty-year old waste-case junkie. But Mark thought there was some truth to the story, based on some physical evidence collected by various journalists over the years. Mark said the guy told him that this group was pretty serious about this biblical stuff...that they really believed they were building up Satan's army for the final battle of Armageddon. That they were carrying out sacrifices and rituals to appease the Dark Lord and that they were still out there, that they had infiltrated society all over the world, that some of the most wealthiest and influential people in the world were part of this secret society."

Pastor Matthews was looking at Richard as if he had just stepped off a space-ship. Richard rushed on with an explanation. "I didn't believe any of it either! I tried calling Tiffany and she wasn't answering the phone. I had to talk to her about it, see what she thought. So I drove to her place and found that it had been broken into." He choked back the words he was going to say, then blurted it out: "I found her dead in her bedroom. Her eyes had been plucked out of her head, she’d been raped—"

"You don't have to go any further," Pastor Matthews said, leaning forward, his features kind and caring.

Richard closed his eyes and willed back the images that had haunted him for the past seven years. "I have to, Pastor. I...that's when I left town. I just got in the car and drove. I didn't even go home to get my stuff. I just drove until I ran out of gas, which was somewhere in Arizona." He lowered his voice. "I got out of my car and walked to the next town. I had my credit card and a hundred and fifty dollars in my pocket. I spent the next few days taking out cash advances on my credit card until it was maxed out, then I dumped the card in a ditch. I took a bus to St. Louis and have been on the run ever since."

He could tell that Pastor Matthews didn't believe what he was saying. The way the pastor looked at him told him that much; he was being looked on in pity. The homeless drifter with a mental problem. He didn't care what the minister thought of his story. All that mattered was that he’d finally told somebody after over seven years of keeping it to himself. He had finally confided in somebody.

"You don't believe me," he said.

"I didn't say that," Pastor Matthews replied.

"But I can tell by the look on your face. You think I'm crazy."

Pastor Matthews shook his head and smiled. "Not at all." He leveled a serious, sympathetic gaze at Richard. "I understand that you went through a pretty rough time...I don't doubt your story at all. It's just that—"

"It's unbelievable. I know."

Pastor Matthews sighed. He ran his hand through his blonde hair. "Put yourself in my shoes, Richard. If you just heard the story you’ve just told, what would your reaction be?"

"But you're a minister!" Richard exclaimed. "Didn't what I just say make sense to you? The Anti-Christ is on the earth! Armageddon is at hand! There is a secret, underground society of devil worshippers out there who are a threat to everything you believe in! They—"

Pastor Matthews held up his hand. "Hold on a minute. I've heard a lot of theories regarding the rapture and the end times, and to be perfectly honest God Himself said that we will not know the day, nor the hour. To insinuate that a group of devil-worshippers actually conjured Satan up in earthly form in order to impregnate a woman to bear the Anti-Christ smacks right out of a horror movie like Rosemary's Baby." He looked at Richard with a gentle expression. "I am by no means demeaning your story, but you must think about this logically. If you are so afraid of this, why run? To be afraid must obviously mean you are a Christian, and if you are a Christian you must know that as long as you have faith in God, and that Jesus is your Personal Savior, He will protect you." He smiled, his calm blue eyes reflecting hope and compassion. "The Lord doesn't abandon those who come to him."

"I know," Richard said, his head hung. Various emotions were boiling inside him. He looked up at Pastor Matthews. "And...well, when all this happened I wasn't a believer. I didn't believe in anything, really."

"And now?"

Richard shivered. "I don't know what to believe."

Pastor Matthews seemed to think about this for a minute. "If you don't believe in the spiritual elements of your story, then you must realize that what you witnessed was a crime. This is why you are on the run: you are afraid that whoever killed that girl, whoever killed your friends and your girlfriend, Tiffany, will eventually find you. Correct?"

Richard nodded.

"I've heard stories from various pastors and ministers that there is a vast satanic conspiracy," Pastor Matthews continued. "Most of the stories are so sensationalistic they are ludicrous. Some Christians claim that ten thousand people are ritualistically slaughtered every year by generational Satanists, which is absurd. If there were such a conspiracy, the secular world would have known about it long ago. Remember that whole baby-breeding rumor from the late nineteen eighties? You may have heard about it."

Richard shook his head.

"It was a conspiracy theory of the grandest scheme. According to those who promoted it, Satanists were impregnating young girls and women and then ritualistically killing the infants as sacrifices to the devil. Depending on who you believed, the number of babies killed was either a few hundred or a few thousand a year. There were women that came on talk shows claiming they were once breeders for Satanists, that it was something that had been going on for generations. All one with any rationality had to deduce was that logistically it is impossible for such a thing. If the number of women being kept as breeders were as large as those promoting this crazy idea were true, it would require large facilities to accommodate the women. It would require a large staff to guard and maintain the facility, storage for food and other items, and the medical personnel required for deliveries and pre-natal checkups. Such buildings, even in remote areas, would eventually attract unwanted attention." Pastor Matthews smiled reassuringly. "So you see, that is just only one of their little fallacies taken apart. There are no such thing as generational Satanists who are hiding in the underground of society, masquerading as upstanding citizens. It's true that there are truly evil people who are probably inspired by the devil; I can even accept the possibility of a small group of Satanists who would be so overcome with evil as to perform a random act of senseless violence. But an organized, worldwide group to remain so hidden and undetected for so long? Never!"

"Mark never said anything about them being like that," Richard said.

"Nevertheless, the story appears to stem from the same urban legend."

"How do you explain what I saw then?" Richard asked, looking at Pastor Matthews. "I know what I saw; I wasn't under the influence, I wasn't...crazy like you're suggesting. How do you explain that?"

Pastor Matthews looked grim. "It could be possible that the perpetrators cleared up any obvious evidence of murder quickly before the police arrived. I guess what you claimed to have happened very well could have."

Richard felt a small sense of vindication. "So you believe me?"

Pastor Matthews shrugged. "You surely sound sincere. I guess I would say I have to believe you."

"What do you think I should do? I mean, they did kill somebody. Even if they were just a bunch of nuts who belonged to some wacky cult—even if all this underground Satanist stuff isn't real like you said—maybe there are truly evil people out there that could be capable of this. Maybe part of what Mark said was right; maybe there are a group of people out there who think they're bringing on Armageddon."

Pastor Matthews was nodding to Richard's reasoning. "Yes, that's a very good point. And if that's the case, they sound dangerous."

"Exactly! So what should I do?

"What do you think you should do?"

The question threw Richard for a loop. "I don't know," he said after a moment. "I've already gone to the police. They didn't believe me the first time. For all I know, the people that killed that girl could be looking for me."

"Why not take the story to a journalist? Especially one who is already working on the theories I have just explained? A journalist might be able to expose your story to a public who would not be so quick to dismiss your story. In fact, there is one such journalist who has made a career of writing books about such conspiracies. Charles Manson, Son of Sam, the killings in Mexico and Florida, he's tied them all to this same vast Satanic conspiracy you're suggesting. His books have sold millions of copies in the secular world, I might add. He might be the perfect person to talk to. Just think of what he could do with your story if you tell it to him? Why, he would have the proof he needs! An actual witness to a satanic ritual! Actual proof of this vast, underground satanic movement working to 'bring about Armageddon' as you say. It might not only be the catalyst needed to convince a wide number of people, it might prompt the authorities to act on investigating and stopping the criminal activities this group is accused of taking part in: namely murder, conspiracy to commit murder, and probably a host of other crimes."

Richard nodded. The idea sounded good to him. He wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. "It sounds good." He looked up at Pastor Matthews. "I'll think I'll do it."

"Really?" Pastor Matthews looked surprised. "You'll contact this journalist and tell them exactly what you told me?"

Richard nodded vigorously. "Yes, I will."

"That's what we were afraid of."  The voice came from behind him and Richard rose and spun around, his heart leaping in his chest. A man and a woman dressed in black had suddenly materialized behind him, and as Richard turned back to Pastor Matthews in confusion he noticed that the atmosphere had grown still. Pastor Matthews stood up behind his desk, the expression on his face wearing a new mask, this one dark, cunning, and evil. Richard stepped back, eyes darting to the two new figures in the room (how the hell did they get in? I didn't hear the door open, how—) as they advanced upon him, their expressions dark and sinister.

"We've been looking for you for a long time, Richard," Pastor Matthews said, stepping around his desk toward him. "We knew we'd find you. Nobody escapes the Dark Father's wrath."

Pastor Matthews raised his hand, pointing his finger at Richard as he backed up against the wall. His mind was racing for a way to escape, something to say to keep them away from him. Pastor Matthews stepped closer. "Few know our secrets because it's better that way. We are only called to do our part. For no one will know when the final hour will be upon us. But even those of us who are Christians are sometimes called to do the Dark Lord's bidding in accordance with God’s plan.”

Richard’s last thoughts as his body was suddenly engulfed in flames was that, in the grand scheme of things, even evil served its purpose.

Story Notes

I have a sneaking suspicion the bones of this story were laid down when I was still living in California and was initially written between 1997 and 2000. The reason I say maybe is because I tend to riff on the same theme when working on a novel and I would have written the early draft of They during this period. I suppose I could verify this by checking old floppy diskettes (remember those?), but that would require hooking up an older computer that still has a floppy disk drive in it.

Anyway, I'm almost positive I wrote an original draft of this story during that time period. I probably sent it out to the various markets of the day and never sold it. Eventually it was redrafted and sold in 2005 to Astounding Tales, an online pulp magazine (no relation to the 1930's pulp which later morphed into Analog); it was subsequently sold to Dark Discoveries magazine where it made its debut on actual paper in their Spring 1996 issue.

Astute readers will recognize the unnamed devil-worship cult in "Witness" is the same one in my novel They. At the time I wrote this story (and the novel), I had no idea they were the same cult. Around 2008 as I was writing my novella Do Unto Others, I realized the devil-worship cult in that story was the same group. This shadowy organization now lurks in the background of a number of my stories and novels, so I guess you could say these works represent a shared world.

Balance

IT ALL STARTED when I woke up one morning to find myself in a bed that was not my own, in a room I’d never been in before, with a woman I did not initially recognize, looking down at me.

Recognition set in a moment later when she said my name. “Doug!”

“Lucy?”

“The one and only!” She kissed me on the forehead.

The feel of her lips on my skin was real. It told me I wasn’t dreaming.

I sat up. The covers slipped down my body and I quickly took in my surroundings. The room was small, the walls a grayish white. The bed I was lying in was large, the mattress worn, the sheets rumpled. There was a large unfinished oak bureau on the other side of the room, one of those stationary bikes that, by the thick layer of dust that covered it, only got sporadic use, and a laundry basket stacked with clothes.

“It worked!” Lucy squealed happily. Her hands were clasped in front of her as if in prayer. Then, with another sudden squeal, she launched herself at me and enveloped me in a hug.

I moved away from her, tried to escape her affections, and stumbled off the bed and onto the floor. I was confused. The last thing I remembered was reclining on the sofa downstairs in my home, vaguely aware that I was falling asleep. I’d put the kids to bed a few hours before that. It had been a long day, and I’d sat downstairs in the great room watching boring reality shows while Andrea worked on PTA stuff in her office upstairs. She’d given me a kiss before she went upstairs to bed. I remember staying downstairs because I wasn’t tired; sometimes I just can’t sleep. I must have fallen asleep on my living room sofa. It wouldn’t have been the first time I’d done that.

So how the hell did I wind up in the bed of an old girlfriend? Lucy Murphy?

Who I hadn’t seen in fifteen years?

I pinched my thigh. The pain resonated sharply. Beneath my bare feet I felt the shag carpet. I took a step back and my butt hit the cold glass of the sliding glass door that probably opened out onto a tiny balcony. I had the distinct feeling I was in an apartment.

This was not a dream.

This was a real.

“What’s going on?” Even the cracking of my voice was obvious. Lucy moved more gracefully this time, more carefully, as if she realized she’d scared me that first time and was taking pains to avoid a repeat occurrence. She took my hands. The sensation of her hands in mine was real. So was her smile, so full of warmth. Of happiness.

“It’s okay,” she said. “It worked and everything’s going to be fine, Doug. We’re together now. We’re together.”

“But—”

“Shhh.” She put a finger to my lips, stepped closer. I could sense her body heat.  “I’ve missed you so much.”

And then she was in my arms and I was holding her, my mind whirling in a thousand directions, too stunned to react, too shocked to push her away. How could I? What was happening was impossible.

Somehow, in the middle of the night, I’d gone to sleep in my house with my wife, Andrea, upstairs working in our home office, our kids asleep in their rooms down the hall from our bedroom, and I’d woken up in the bedroom of my old college girlfriend, Lucy Murphy, who I’d broken up with fifteen years ago.

I REALIZE THAT to those of you reading this—prosecutors, detectives, social workers and psychiatrists —this admission will seem to you like a confirmation of whatever diagnosis you've come up with. After all, my actions the past six months have supported your diagnosis, at least according to what you’ve witnessed. Andrea’s statement to you, the phone records that were pulled telling a very clear story that, in your mind, makes me guilty of a long and continuous campaign of terror and harassment against her.

All I ask is that you read this statement in its entirety and when you’re finished go to Lucy’s apartment. Go outside and around the back, near the trash dumpster. Behind that dumpster, in the little space between our apartment building and the fence, about ten paces in, I’ve buried something. Dig it up. You’ll find a steel box with no lock. What’s inside that box will contain all the proof I have.

Let me finish my story. But first, some background.

I WAS NINETEEN when I met Lucy Murphy. We were in college.

We dated for two years. For a while things got pretty heavy between us. We never officially moved in together, but I was at her place so much that I practically lived there.

Lucy was fun, lively, pretty, and the life of every party. She could walk into a room of morose wallflowers and in thirty minutes have them completely out of their shells and trading jokes and imbibing in drinking games.

She was also a heavy drinker. I didn’t see it at first. I was a weekend partier myself and I just figured Lucy was simply a girl who liked to have a good time. It wasn’t until she started missing classes due to all the late night partying that her grades started slipping. I was easing out of the heavy college partying and getting more into my studies, which was business management. I wanted to get my BS and then go for my MBA. Lucy was an English major, but I think all she really wanted to do in college was party.

Due to my focus on my studies, and Lucy’s lack thereof, we began to drift apart. We still saw each other, but we were arguing more. I was concerned about her drinking. I was also becoming jealous of her flirting with other guys, which always happened when she’d had one too many. Most of the fights we had were about this. She never stepped out on me (at least as far as I know), but that wasn’t the point. She was advertising when she shouldn’t have been. And that’s about as bad as doing the actual deed, in my book.

So we broke up. Or, rather, I broke up with her.

She didn’t take it well.

IN THE DAYS following my waking up in Lucy’s bedroom I came to learn the following:

Somehow, through means only understood by her, Lucy was able to bring me back into her life as if we’d never been apart.

And everything I’d accomplished in our time apart had been obliterated.

Somehow the clothes I’d worn the night before when I fell asleep on the sofa, when I was home with Andrea and the kids, had been transferred to Lucy’s sphere of reality. Then, with Lucy pleading with me to stay with her, to please don’t do anything stupid, I ran out of the apartment into a street I didn’t recognize. Lucy yelled at me to come back. I ran down the street, a lower middle class suburb. Once I reached the main drag, I recognized a few vague landmarks. I was roughly ten miles from where we’d gone to school. My home and life with Andrea was fifty miles south. I slapped at my pockets, found my wallet, and slipped it out. There was cash and something else...

I pulled out my driver’s license and the photo that glared at me was unrecognizable at first. It was the eyes that gave him away. Cynical. Beaten down. Depressed.

Me.

I was looking at a photo of me as I would have looked had I stayed with Lucy.

I started running down the street until I found a phone booth. I called 911, told them what was going on.

The police brought me back to Lucy’s after verifying with her that, yes, I did live at 18 Lincoln Avenue, in Apartment 33, with her, Lucy Murphy. They also verified that I had a job as a warehouseman for some insurance company and when I heard that I had to hold my breath to keep from screaming. During the years we were dating and going to school, I'd held down a part-time job at a warehouse at Free State Insurance.

Despite my protests, the police left me at Lucy’s apartment. One of the officers suggested to her that she get me help. In fact, he almost took me into custody for my own protection but something in me gained some sense of sanity. I didn’t want to be in a mental ward. I realized how this was looking to them. If I was going to help myself, I would have to do it by unraveling how I’d gotten here. And the only way to do that was to break through to Lucy and somehow convince her to send me back.

When the police left, I pleaded with her to tell me what she’d done. She gave me that grin I knew so well, the one that suggested she’d just pulled off the best practical joke of her life. All she said was, “Let’s just say I’ve been working on getting you back into my life for a long time and I am not about to give you up now.”

That first week I learned that things hadn’t gone very well for Lucy since we broke up. She’d dropped out of school before she could officially flunk out. She later left her job at a sports bar she’d worked at and drifted through several low paying jobs and low rent apartments. She chased after a lot of guys, trying to recapture what she and I had with men who were a little too free with their fists. She got into drugs. Hard stuff, like meth and crack. Somehow, she was able to pull herself out as fast as she fell into that particular rabbit hole, but the damage to her self-esteem was already set. She spent the next ten years drifting from apartment to apartment, job to job, and boyfriend to boyfriend. She never married, never had children.

“Things would have been better if we’d stayed together,” she told me at one point. We spent a lot of time on her worn sofa talking. I later learned she’d taken a week’s vacation from her job as a secretary to prepare for my emergence into her world. She’d anticipated my reaction and wanted to be there with me for my adjustment. “We would have been happy, Doug. Things wouldn’t have gotten so bad for me.”

I played devil’s advocate by asking her how that was so. Her explanation was vague. I realized then that she’d brought me into her existence for her own selfish reasons. She didn’t care that by doing so she’d disrupted my life, that she’d probably affected Andrea’s life forever. My children no longer existed, all the people we’d come in contact with and developed relationships with...all changed forever. All the impact and influence we’d had on people’s lives, good and bad, were now gone as if they'd never happened.

I tried explaining this to her and she always countered with, “You were happy with me in college! We used to have fun! Don’t you want that again?”

“But...Lucy...we were changing so much the last six months we were together, there’s no way we would have—”

She stopped me with a kiss.

She tried that a lot at first. And every time I would push her away and say something like, “Are you out of your mind?” or, “Lucy, I’m married now!” or “Lucy, it’s over between us, it’s been over!” She never got the message. I finally broke down toward the end of her week-long furlough from her job.

Lucy and I spent the final two days of her vacation holed up in her apartment living on take-out food, beer, and bottled water. Lucy had clothes for me—at first I thought she must have picked something out for me prior to my emergence into her life. Finally, on Monday morning, she rose early, kissed me, and stepped into the shower. When she came out she said, “Aren’t you going to get up?”

“Huh?”

“You have to get up and go to work.”

“Where do I work?”

She gave that little half-sigh/half-laugh thing she used to do. “Where else, silly? You still work at the warehouse.”

I really am in hell, I thought as I got out of bed. I walked to the cramped closet and opened it. Sure enough, five pairs of blue coveralls and work shirts were hung up in a neat row. The work attire of my college days. Had I stayed with Lucy, I would have never left that dead end loser job.

The thought of not even going to work came to me and left just as quickly. The past few days I’d settled back into what had been my old life with few difficulties. It was like climbing onto a bicycle after having not ridden one in a decade.

Walking down to the corner to catch the bus that would take me to work...it just came to me.

Sitting in the bullpen in front of the warehouse supervisor’s office to wait for the start bell with my fellow comrades in blue collar...it just came back to me.

I was pleased and a little depressed to recognize some of the guys I’d worked with in my college days were still there. The guy that ran shipping and receiving, Steve Hedke, was now a supervisor. One of the guys I used to work with picking items for shipment, John Rizzo, was now a Team Leader. Somehow I’d been elevated to the leader of my own section of the warehouse, which I apparently ran very efficiently. I eyeballed my work area and within minutes that particular job function came back to me. I was finished before noon and, as if I’d never lost my touch, I loafed around and pretended to work for the rest of the day.

I took the bus back to the apartment and let myself in with the key Lucy had given me that morning.

Lucy wasn’t home from work yet.

I headed straight to the battered Dell PC Lucy kept in the dining nook, booted it up, and managed to gain Internet access. I typed in Andrea’s name followed by her maiden name in Google.

I didn’t get any significant hits, but I did get a hit on one of those ‘Find Anybody’s Address’ websites that, for a fee of $40, promised to provide me with Andrea’s current residence, phone number, and job history. The teaser link verified what I already knew about her – it showed a former location in the city of Costa Mesa, where she’d grown up.

I wondered if her parents still lived there.

I didn’t follow through that night. Lucy came home about an hour later and asked how my day had gone. I told her it was fine. As we watched sitcoms that night, I wondered how this was possible. How was it possible that this alternate version of myself had been absent from the lives of my former co-workers at Free State and then suddenly been thrown into their mix, as if I’d never been gone? I couldn’t get over how my co-workers seemed to accept me as if I’d never left. The same could be said about my ID/Driver’s license, my wardrobe, the things that were presumably mine in Lucy’s apartment.

Over the next several days I would arrive home before Lucy, get on the computer and do web searches for various aspects of my life with Andrea. The company I worked at, Kaiser Development Systems, was still a powerhouse and had obviously done fine without my presence. I wondered what the reaction of my former co-workers would be if I popped by unannounced at a meeting? Would they recognize me?

On the third week of my stay at Lucy’s, I called my parents. They hadn’t moved from their home since I’d left, and I assumed they’d stayed at the same house in this existence too. Mom answered the phone. She recognized me right away, asked me how work was going. I told her it was fine, then asked if she’d heard from Andrea.

Mom had no idea who I was talking about.

I was on the verge of reminding her, telling her about her grandkids, and wisely shut my mouth. I don’t remember what I said. Some mumbled excuse, I guess.

In talking with Mom, though, I could tell things were different in a world where I’d never left Lucy. In my world with Andrea, Mom and Dad were enjoying retirement. They traveled. They doted on their grandchildren. They pursued hobbies. Not anymore. They were taking care of my younger brother, who was a quadriplegic, something I pieced together during the course of our conversations. When did that happen? I wanted to ask. Mom blathered on about taking Jim to his physical therapy classes, and Dad’s job at the Auto Club (why hasn’t dad retired yet?). I nodded and kept up my end of the conversation as if I’d known all along this stuff was happening and then begged off, telling Mom that Lucy was coming home. At the mention of Lucy’s name, I detected a slight change of inflection in her voice: disapproval. “Okay. Well, have a good week, Doug, and take care of yourself. Be careful.”

“I will,” I said.

I told Lucy about that conversation and asked if she knew what was wrong with Jim. She claimed she didn't want to talk about it, that it still upset her to even think about it. I let the subject go.

The next day I researched Jim’s accident via Google searches. According to the police blotters in the news sites I found, Jim was driving under the influence when he hit another car, killing the driver. He was left physically disabled, charged with vehicular manslaughter, and received a two year suspended prison sentence.

He’d been driving to a party, following his brother and his brother’s girlfriend, Lucy Murphy, in their car.

No wonder Mom hadn’t sounded so enthusiastic to hear from me. Much less hear Lucy’s name.

I still had no idea what was going on with Andrea, but I was determined to find out. My parents obviously hadn’t fared so well, my brother Jim less so, and it was all because of my decision to stay with Lucy. The choices I’d made had rippled outward, affected all those who were close to me. The question was, how did that affect Andrea?

The next day I paid $40 at one of those ‘Find Anybody’s Address’ websites and obtained Andrea’s current address and phone number.

I got directions to her house from mapquest.com.

Then, three weeks later, when Lucy was comfortable that I was slipping into a semblance of complacency, I called in sick to work one morning, took the bus to a car rental agency and an hour later found myself behind the wheel of a Ford Focus, heading south to Costa Mesa.

I’d told Lucy that I was going out with the guys after work (“Shawn’s wife is throwing a party for him”) which dovetailed nicely with Lucy’s own schedule that day; she had to pull in overtime at the office she worked at. The extra time would provide me with plenty of opportunity to hopefully encounter Andrea personally.

I found her apartment and saw it was a nice luxury building. Andrea had lived well before we’d met and married, so it didn’t surprise me that she was living large in this version of her life. I parked the car down the street and watched the building.

Around five-thirty a blue Saab pulled in to the subterranean parking structure. I recognized Andrea immediately. I got out of the Ford, ran to the driveway, and managed to slip in before the gate could close.

I didn’t want to scare her, so I hung back while she parked her vehicle. Seeing her get out left me with a lump in my throat. Her hair was longer and styled differently, but the outfit she was wearing was dead-on still her. She hadn’t changed much; or, correction: I hadn’t changed her much.

“Andrea!”

She turned at the sound of her name and her pace to the parking lot’s exit quickened. I jogged after her and called her name again and said, “Wait!” I didn’t notice her hand dart into her purse.

“Andrea, I know this is going to sound weird, but hear me out for a minute.” I had just approached her, was about to touch her shoulder, when she whirled around and brought a can of mace up.

“Get away from me!” She yelled.

I stopped, held my hands up. “Listen, Andrea, you don’t understand!”

“You slipped past the gate and I don’t know who the fuck you are,” she said. “I understand plenty. Now back the fuck off!”

Yep, she hadn’t changed all right. She was still assertive, a no bullshit kind of woman. I stepped back and tried again. “You don’t remember me?”

“I don’t fucking know you!” She was backing up toward the exit gate now, finger still on the mace trigger.

“Doug Thompson,” I said. “We met at the mixer Corporate Financial put together at the Hilton in Pasadena—”

If she remembered that, she didn’t show it. Her back was almost at the gate now.

“You have a daughter named Alisa and a son—”

“You’re insane.”

“Your parents live on Chestnut Street in Costa Mesa.”

That got her. “What?”

I let my emotions get the best of me. I stepped toward her, trying to appear gentle and non-threatening. “I know this is going to sound weird, Andrea, but...in another life...you and I are married and—”

I never got a chance to finish. She let me have it with the Mace. My eyes began to sting and I screamed, doubled over in pain.

Andrea retreated to the safety of her condominium’s secure grounds and now that the gate to the parking garage was closed, I was trapped. I moaned in pain, eyes squeezed shut, my hands and fingers trying to rub the mace out of my eyes and the next thing I was aware of, the police were there.

I was arrested for trespassing and harassment. Lucy didn’t have the money to bail me out.

Neither did my parents, for that matter.

I did tell everything to one of the detectives that questioned me. He listened to my story with concern, left the room, then returned later and told me that Andrea had never heard of me, had never met me, and, furthermore, her parents had never heard of me. He summed things up by telling me that I’d been employed by Free State for fifteen years as a warehouseman, that I’d maintained the same address with Lucy Murphy for five years, that she and I had been together for close to fifteen years and had never married. “Where did you learn that from?” I asked.

“Lucy,” the detective told me.

I think I went crazy then. I remember yelling, demanding that I see Andrea, that I could clear everything up. To make a long story short, I was brought in for a psych evaluation and later released.

Back in our apartment, Lucy told me that there was no use fighting it. “You’re with me now,” she said. “For better or for worse. Don’t fight it, honey. When you fight it you just make things worse. Just...relax and everything will be the way it was and we can be happy.”

I didn’t want it the way it was. I wanted things to go back to the way they were before I was drop-kicked into this nightmare.

A few weeks later I went back to Andrea’s condo complex. Once again, I was arrested. This time a good public defender had the case thrown out on the grounds that a restraining order wasn’t filed against me, so technically I wasn’t stalking Andrea.

I got Andrea’s email address, her home phone number, her new address. The Internet is a really wonderful tool if you know how to use it. I spent the month documenting our life together in emails and letters, telling her how we met, our courtship, our lives together. I told her about our children. I told her things about her life, about her parents, that only somebody close to her would know. Her parents hired some big shot lawyer who filed a restraining order against me. I was arrested again for waiting outside of Andrea’s office building, hoping for a glimpse of her as she left for the day.

Through it all, Lucy wouldn’t give in. It was like I was the rebellious child and she was the stern parent pulling on the leash, making sure I didn’t hurt myself too badly while I flailed around and tried to break free. I’m sure she felt I would eventually grow tired of this and give in. But I wasn’t. I wasn’t going to give up on my kids...on my life...

I couldn’t give up on Andrea.

Things were going to go bad for her.

If there was one thing my following her around had done, it was getting familiar with her social life. And what I saw wasn’t very comforting.

I realize that in this new world, Andrea isn’t my wife. So to see her with another man creates pangs of jealousy. Like every good stalker, I began to obsess over her boyfriend. I copied his license plate number and ran a background check.

Mervin Osborne was a Harvard Business School graduate with a condo in Newport Beach and a VP position at Sachs Investments in Mission Viejo. Andrea had been seeing him for two months when I learned through my extra-curricular spying that Mervin had been convicted of spousal abuse from a previous marriage, and was a suspect in a murder the authorities could never pin to him – that of an old college girlfriend.

When I learned all this I was surprised. The Andrea I knew was strong and wouldn’t take shit from anybody. Hell, she bossed me around in our marriage. The Andrea I knew was not the kind of woman to be a punching bag for some yuppie with a cushy job.

But then I thought of that dark, edgy past she had when I met her. I remembered her being thrilled with danger, of always being the first to take risks in anything – rougher than usual sex, driving fast, sky diving and other daredevil activities. Some of that edge was tamed when we settled down, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized that without me, that edge never would have been tamed. She would have sought more danger.

She might have even learned to like it.

The more I dug into Mervin’s background, the more I stole time away from the apartment to follow them around in a battered old Ford I picked up used for a thousand bucks. On one occasion Andrea wore dark sunglasses for an entire week. Sunglasses were never her style in my world and they weren’t in this one, either, until the week she wore them. The week they came off I noticed the slight swelling around her eyes as she and Mervin went out on the town.

He was beating her. And she was still with him.

A week or two later, Andrea’s left arm was in a cast.

One week she didn’t show up to work. I later learned she’d been in the hospital due to injuries suffered from a fall.

The Andrea I knew would never have put up with this.

The Andrea I didn’t know obviously saw something in this violent relationship. She saw something that attracted her to it the way heroin attracts a junkie. She would want more until it killed her.

There was no way I could let this happen.

Lucy watched this all from afar with a sense of detached amusement. My obsession with Andrea was like most people’s obsessions with certain TV shows or novels. Lucy recognized this; she seemed confident that I was never going to be released from her world, so she remained content that I would stick around. Why not? By this time I had been with Lucy for over a year and hadn’t left yet. I’d certainly had plenty of opportunity. We’d even resumed our sex life. What else could I do? I had to maintain some semblence of normalcy.

I knew what I had to do. I had to find a way to go back to the world I knew. If I could go back, I could change everything.

I could save Andrea.

I wasn’t out stalking Andrea every night. Most nights I was at the apartment reading books. Surfing the Internet. At some point I got curious about what Lucy had done to bring me into her world, so I started investigating. That’s when I started poking around the apartment when Lucy wasn’t home. The closets, desk and dresser drawers. I even poked around under the bed and sofa. Eventually I found it.

The steel box that contained the book...

But it wasn’t the book that captured my interest, although in hindsight it would set off alarms of excitement with any antiquarian (it was a big, dusty, old leather-bound volume). What caught my interest was the comb. And the baseball cap.

I’d owned them when I was an undergraduate ...when Lucy and I were dating.

I don’t remember them turning up missing, but then I was at her place so much I’d left my belongings there numerous times. I’d never thought anything of it. I’d left shoes, clothing, books, CDs, all manner of things at Lucy’s apartment. I suppose it was possible that I’d left a comb and a baseball cap there.

It was from those items that she was able to get a lock of my hair.

I knew that the lock of hair was an important ingredient from the crude drawing in that leather-bound book. Lucy had even marked the space in the book with a piece of paper. I couldn’t read the text (and I was impressed that Lucy had remembered her Latin from college to be able to decipher the ritual that was described), but I knew I’d found the formula to my being here. A spell, one designed to ensnare the person of your desire into your world and make them yours.

The following day I found an online translator and typed the Latin phrases into the parameter box. The results it returned confirmed it.

And now I had the spell. And I knew what I had to do to get back into my world.

So, as you can see, I wasn’t stalking Andrea. It may look that way to you, but I was following her in an effort to try to get a personal effect from her. Her purse, her coat, even a hairpin. You see, I need a lock of her hair.

I’ve come close several times. In all those cases the police were called and I was arrested.

Despite whatever dark powers she used to return me to her plane of existence, she couldn’t kill my need to return to Andrea. She couldn’t curb my undying love for my children, the life I’d lived before she so crudely snatched me out of it.

It was that need that propelled me, that drove me to follow Andrea around to try to obtain a lock of her hair. It wasn’t just to satisfy my urge to return home. I had to do it to save her from her boyfriend.

You see, if I’d stayed with Lucy, Andrea would have wound up with this guy. And the way he’s treating her, it’s very possible he could—

I know you think this is crazy, but it’s the truth! The evidence is still in that box, only I’ve taken it outside of the apartment and buried it where Lucy won’t find it.

Please! You’ve got to believe me! Go to the apartment complex and dig where I told you to earlier. That will back up my story. You might think it’s insane even after you’ve seen it and, if you do, I can’t convince you otherwise. But please, please do something about that bastard that calls himself Andrea’s boyfriend. He’s bad news, he’s dangerous, he’s—

NARRATIVE ENDS HERE.

Statement of Detective Trent Jorgenson:

Following Doug’s written statement he was taken to his room and given his medication, after which he fell into a deep sleep. Upon reading his statement, I dispatched a squad car and a team of detectives to the apartment complex he resides at with his common-law wife, Ms. Lucy Murphy. Equipped with a shovel courtesy of the landlord, we dug in the spot as instructed and found nothing.

Lucy Murphy was very cooperative and, unlike Doug’s depiction of her in his statement, proved to be pleasant, neat, clean, attractive, and very sober. We observed a very neat apartment with no signs of abuse or neglect. Lucy Murphy did not strike me, or my officers, as a woman teetering on the brink of alcoholism. A further background check on her shows that she’s held a position at Free State Insurance as a Middle Manager for the last ten years. Her colleagues describe her as professional, good natured, and funny. She readily admitted to being a heavy drinker in college, but eased off completely once she began her career. As for her brother-in-law John, and Doug’s claims that drunken driving turned him into a quadriplegic, that is about the only known fact in this narrative. It is an act Lucy regrets deeply.

We are still waiting for the psychiatrist’s diagnosis of Doug’s condition, but it is clear that Lucy is expecting the worst. While Lucy is clearly an ambitious, driven woman, Doug was the opposite. Doug’s criminal record notwithstanding, his employment record, while steady, showed a man who never aspired to be anything more than a warehouse worker. Likewise, his academic record shows he dropped out of college in his junior year and simply never returned. It was Lucy who carried the relationship emotionally and financially.

Regarding Andrea Black and the criminal charges that were followed up on in relation to her murder: we are going to recommend not filing murder charges against Doug due to the arrest and subsequent confession of Andrea’s boyfriend, Mervin Osborne. Friends and family of Andrea adamantly claim that they’ve never met, nor heard of Doug, but that didn’t stop me from poking into their respective lives deeper. You would have too if you’d learned anything of Andrea’s life. Doug had her pegged precisely, from her family background, to her employment, to her personal life. He knew things only somebody who’d known her on a personal level would. But he didn’t know her completely. He hinted at it, but even then, I was under the impression his depiction of her was fabricated. Still, the parts of her he merely speculated on bears an uncanny parallel to Andrea's personal life, which led to her untimely and violent death.

He never knew that Andrea had a dark side, one that involved alcohol and drug abuse and an attraction to violent men. It was that dark side that led to her murder by Mervin Osborne.

This is an unfortunate and tragic case. If circumstances had been different, maybe Andrea and Doug would have made a good couple. They might have balanced each other out.

Strange how things work out.

Story Notes

The seeds of this one stem from a nightmare I had back in 2007. I had gone to bed and when I woke up I was in a strange room with a woman who’d been a very good friend of mine in the late 1980s sitting there by the bedside, as if waiting for me to wake up. It freaked me out. It was almost exactly as described in the opening scene of the story.

I jotted the idea down and thought about it over the next few months. The woman in question had been a friend, but we’d also tried the dating thing for a brief period and decided we were better at just being friends than dating, if you can dig that. If you’re fortunate to be involved in a good, stable, long-standing relationship, you tend to look back at former partners with either a shudder (“what was I thinking?”) or with amusement ("well, that was fun while it lasted"). Sometimes, if you’re honest, you will look back on some with the notion that, while that person might have been nice and all, they just weren’t right for you. Had you stayed with that person, your life probably wouldn’t have turned out for the better. Things would have been out of whack. Good couples balance each other out. Pair up with the wrong person – even if the person in question is wonderful  – and it can throw off that balance. And no matter how much you may love that person, they just won’t be right for you.

That was the theme I had in mind when writing “Balance” and this was all based on that initial dream. I thought about the woman in the dream and tried to imagine what my life would have been like had things become serious for us and we’d eventually gotten married. It would have been a goddamn disaster. And I say this with utmost respect for this person; to this day we have remained friends. She’s married to a good guy and they have a family, and I’m happy for them. I’m even friends with her on Facebook.

But if the two of us had been sucked into a weird time warp where we wind up married? That’s what I wanted to explore. Of course, the more I thought about all the “what ifs”? I had to think about the other side of the equation – what if I’d never met my wife? What would have happened to her?

Needless to say once I put that into the equation, things got interesting for my characters.

You might say they got too interesting.

The Smile

The following is an excerpted transcription from the tape-recorded statement of John Datlow, who is Witness #1 in the investigation of murder suspect Charles Williams, taken April 9, 2010 in Interrogation Room #1 at the Lancaster City Police Department. Present are Detective Julie Mowry, Shield #E5876, and Detective Paul Harris, Shield # E8965, both from the Homicide Division.

MOWRY: Tell me about Victor Collins and Mary Beth Martin. What are they like as neighbors?

DATLOW: They’re good people. Very quiet. Mary Beth is one of those people that’ll do anything for you. Whenever I go out of town on business, she takes care of my mail, waters my plants, feeds my cat.

HARRIS: So they’re not the type of people that would have enemies?

DATLOW: Not at all.

HARRIS: Have you ever noticed anything unusual about them?

DATLOW: Not really. They’ve never caused trouble or raised attention to themselves. Their refrigerator went bad two weeks ago and when they cleaned it out, the smell was something fierce. That was the only time they annoyed me. Other than that, perfect neighbors.

MOWRY: Describe what you heard this evening.

DATLOW: Well, its like I told the officers that responded to my call...it was late. I was actually in bed asleep when I heard a bunch of crashing sounds next door. Like a fight, you know? And I heard a bunch of yelling, just real loud voices.

HARRIS: Did you recognize the voices?

DATLOW: No sir. I didn’t.

HARRIS: How many voices did you hear?

DATLOW: It’s hard to tell. Maybe...five?

MOWRY: Male or female?

DATLOW: All men.

MOWRY: And they were shouting?

DATLOW: Yeah. It was like, all of a sudden I hear a lot of voices going, “motherfucker this!” and “motherfucker that!” and a lot of banging around. One voice kept shouting, “Any motherfuckers show themselves, they gettin’ shot!”

MOWRY: Did you see the men in question?

DATLOW: No, I didn’t.

MOWRY: Did you hear any other voices?

DATLOW: No, I didn’t.

MOWRY: You did not hear Mary Beth or Victor?

DATLOW: No ma’am.

HARRIS: What happened next?

DATLOW: That’s when I heard one of the guys start screaming. Then I heard gunshots.

HARRIS: What was he screaming?

DATLOW: He said, “What the fuck is that? Oh shit, what the fuck is that?” Like in a really panicky voice. He sounded scared to death.

HARRIS: And the gunshots came after he said this?

DATLOW: Yes.

HARRIS: How many gunshots did you hear?

DATLOW: A bunch. I’d say twelve. They came real fast, like bam-bam-bam-bam-bam!

HARRIS: What happened after that?

DATLOW: That’s when I called you.

The following is an excerpted transcription from the tape-recorded statement of Louis Jackson, who is Suspect #3 in the investigation of murder suspect Charles Williams, taken April 9, 2010 in Interrogation Room #1 at the Lancaster City Police Department. Present are Detective Julie Mowry, Shield #E5876, and Detective Paul Harris, Shield # E8965, both from the Homicide Division.

MOWRY: What did you guys take before you set out tonight?

LOUIS: Take? The fuck you mean, what we take?

MOWRY: Your boy Dose was reeking of chronic when we booked him. So was your boy Chester. And Top Hat? Well, we know all about Top Hat and what he’s been into.

LOUIS: That’s bullshit. Top Hat wasn’t on nuthin’. He’s been clean since April.

HARRIS: We’ll see about that. The drug test we ran on him should tell us what he was on tonight.

LOUIS: I told you Top Hat wasn’t on nuthin’ tonight!

HARRIS: That’s not what it sounds like.

MOWRY: It almost sounds like that time he was busted over on Prince Street about eight months ago. Remember that?

HARRIS: I do.

LOUIS: The fuck you talkin’ ‘bout?

MOWRY: That’s right...you were serving a six-month stretch for parole violation. You weren’t around when that happened.

HARRIS: Why don’t you tell Louis about the last time his buddy Top Hat saw weird shit while he was flying on ice.

LOUIS: I told you, man, Top Hat wasn’t loaded tonight. None of us were. Okay, Dose was smokin’ weed, but shit man, that’s nuthin’!

MOWRY: Last year, Top Hat thought it would be fun to smoke crack all day and then strip down to his underwear and head down King Street to Domineco’s to pick up a cheesesteak. He got as far as the corner of King and Lime Street before units responded. By the time we got there, he was racing up and down Lime Street, ducking behind cars, hiding behind trash dumpsters and shouting that the ghosts in the cemetery were chasing him. You know...the cemetery that borders Lime Street?

LOUIS: Yeah.

MOWRY: He was convinced that ghosts and zombies were coming out of the cemetery, that they were literally walking the streets of downtown Lancaster. Every time an officer approached him he’d scream and let loose with these lame-ass karate moves. He was flailing his fists and legs everywhere. Finally, a bunch of officers swarmed him. It took four cops to hold him down and get cuffs on him. He was screaming the entire time to call the police, that zombies were attacking him and were trying to eat him.

LOUIS: Yeah, well...

(The sound of Louis chuckling)

LOUIS: ...that was then, this is now. Top Hat been clean for two months. He ain’t on that shit anymore. He’s even goin’ to NA.

HARRIS: Whose idea was it to rob Mary Beth Martin’s house at 84 New Street in Lititz?

LOUIS: Wasn’t anybody’s idea, man. It was just random.

HARRIS: But you did set out that night to commit a home invasion robbery, correct?

LOUIS: We weren’t settin’ out to do no home invasion.

MOWRY: That’s not what Dose says.

LOUIS: What’s that nigga say?

HARRIS; That you and Chester came up with the idea of pulling a home invasion robbery tonight. That you decided to drive out of the city and into the country and hit up a little suburb. Didn’t matter which one because people that live in the country all leave their doors unlocked at night.

LOUIS: That’s bullshit.

HARRIS: Why is it bullshit? You got popped two blocks from the house you hit.

LOUIS: That ain’t shit.

HARRIS: Your homie Top Hat is looking at doing life for murder.

(There are ten seconds of silence on the tape)

LOUIS: He kill them people?

MOWRY: You going to talk to us?

(There are seventeen seconds of silence on the tape. There is the squeak of wood and linoleum as Louis fidgets in his chair)

LOUIS: What’ you wanna know?

HARRIS: Whose idea was it to target this particular house?

LOUIS: Wasn’t nobody’s, dog. We just picked it ‘cause it was there.

MOWRY: Is that how you picked the other places?

LOUIS: What other places?

MOWRY: Home invasion in Manheim two weeks ago. A smash and grab at an antique store in Adamstown last month. Home invasion in Reamstown two weeks before that.

LOUIS: Don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout those.

MOWRY: The victims know all about you, though. They picked you and your crew out of a lineup.

LOUIS: Bunch of double-talkin’ bullshit.

HARRIS: Hear us out, Louis. We’re not interested in you. We know you didn’t actually see anything. We already have it on record that Top Hat was the shooter and that your other homie, Dose, saw what happened in that bedroom. All we want to hear from you is your version of what happened. You’re already in custody for participating in the home invasion. You can’t tell me you weren’t involved, ‘cause you were. So don’t bullshit us.

LOUIS: I ain’t bullshitting you but I’m telling you straight up, I went in there with no intention of anybody gettin’ shot.

HARRIS: I hear you. So tell us what happened.

LOUIS: It was supposed to be straight up. Bust in, bang shit around, yell at whoever was in there to get on the fucking ground or we’d shoot ‘em in the face, take their shit, get the fuck out. Maybe smash someone in the mouth if they acted up. No shootin’.

MOWRY: So the guns were to scare ‘em.

LOUIS: Straight up.

HARRIS: Why that particular house?

LOUIS: Dose picked it. He’d ganked the place across the street a year or two back and noticed the folks who lived in the house we hit tonight. Said the white chick that lived there looked like one of them Amish people.

MOWRY: She was Mennonite.

LOUIS: Same fucking thing. They all wear those white napkins on their heads and them funky-ass long dresses. Bitches look like they’re from the pioneer days or some shit.

HARRIS: So the victim’s house was chosen because you thought she wouldn’t fight back.

LOUIS: Damn straight.

HARRIS: Did you know if she lived alone?

LOUIS: Dose said she had a boyfriend. Some yuppie ass white boy.

HARRIS: And you did not consider him a threat?

LOUIS: Fuck no!

MOWRY: Tell us what happened during the home invasion.

(There is almost a full minute of silence on the tape, interspaced with the sound of a chair leg scraping the linoleum floor)

LOUIS: We got there and waited outside in Dose’s ride. The lights went off in the bedroom and Dose said, “That’s it.” We put our masks on and headed over. Pepper kicked in the door and we were in. We was supposed to be in and out in two minutes. Just sweep the living room and den while Top Hat and Dose took care of the bedrooms and the people in the house.

HARRIS: Who was supposed to take care of the occupants?

LOUIS: Top Hat.

HARRIS: How was he supposed to take care of them?

LOUIS: Just scare ‘em and shit. Hold them there, make sure they didn’t do nothin’ stupid.

MOWRY: And Dose was supposed to do a sweep of the bedrooms?

LOUIS: Yeah.

HARRIS: Okay, so you bust in there and set your plan to action. What happened next?

LOUIS: Hard to say ‘cause it happened so fast. I was like, buzzing off the high, you know I’m sayin’?

MOWRY: Your drug test came back negative. You mean the adrenaline high?

LOUIS: Yeah, that’s it. I’s just high off the adrenaline ‘n shit. It’s like, that shit’s better than crack, you know I’m sayin’? So, I’m like, “C’mon man, let’s do this real quick like and get their shit and get the fuck out of here yo?” And we bust in and go to town, and Pepper and me’s sweepin’ the living room and dining room and shit and I see this fucking antique chest. I’m thinking ‘there’s gots to be shit in there’, you know I’m sayin’? My grandma keeps expensive jewelry and shit in a chest just like it. Pepper, he’s unplugging the DVD player ‘cause it’s one of them pricy things with Blu Ray and all kinds of jacks for shit you could hook up to it. Top Hat and Dose had already gone upstairs and I had this bag—we all carried these plastic garbage bags to carry the shit in. I had this bag out to fill it with shit from the dresser and I hear this screamin’ from upstairs, fucking Top Hat going, “What the fuck is that? Oh fuck, oh shit!”, and he’s saying this over and over and he sounds petrified! And then suddenly there’s this “boom-boom-boom!”

HARRIS: That’s when he shot them?

LOUIS: Yeah. I didn’t know it was Top Hat, though. I just knew one of ‘em is shootin’.

MOWRY: What happened then?

LOUIS: I like, turned to Pepper and said, “What the fuck’s goin’ on?” Top Hat, he’s still yellin’ and shit and I hear Dose go, “Yo man, whass up, what tha fuck you doin’ man!” And all this time I can hear Top Hat yellin’ and he banged into the wall upstairs, then I hear him running down the steps. Muthafucka almost fell down the stairs comin’ down.

MOWRY: What did he do when he reached the bottom of the steps?

LOUIS: That nigga was gone! He just took off out the door!

MOWRY: What about Dose?

LOUIS: About the same time Top Hat is fallin’ down the stairs and shit, I hear Dose go “What the fuck is that shit?” Real loud, like. Then he starts runnin’ down the stairs. When he got to the bottom he looked at me and said, “We’re getting’ the fuck out, yo!”

MOWRY: That’s when you left?

LOUIS: Damn straight!

MOWRY: You didn’t go upstairs to check on the victims?

LOUIS: Hell no!

MOWRY: So you have no idea what Dose and Top Hat saw?

(There are twenty-five seconds of silence on the tape. When Louis answers, his voice is low, trembling with fear)

LOUIS: No. I don’t.

The following is an excerpted transcription from the tape-recorded statement of William Baxter, AKA Dose, who is Suspect #2, in the investigation of murder suspect Charles Williams. It was taken April 9, 2010 in Interrogation Room #1 at the Lancaster City Police Department. Present are Detective Julie Mowry, Shield #E5876, and Detective Paul Harris, Shield # E8965, both from the Homicide Division.

MOWRY: I know this is upsetting to you...what you saw.

DOSE: You don’t know the half of it, man.

HARRIS: Did you see Top Hat shoot them?

DOSE: Nah. I didn’t see that. I heard the shots.

MOWRY: Where were you when he shot them?

(There are thirty seconds of silence on the tape, followed by the faint sound of sobbing)

DOSE: I was in the other bedroom...I was...I just wanted to get enough shit to fence! I got a little girl, she got cancer...her mama don’t have health insurance. She works but she don’t have health insurance. I just wanted to get enough shit to fence so I could help—

MOWRY: The state of Pennsylvania has a special program for the children of uninsured parents. Your...(the sound of shuffling of paper)...ex-girlfriend? She can sign your daughter up for the state insurance program.

DOSE: They live in Baltimore. They don’t have that down there.

(There are fifteen seconds of silence on the tape)

MOWRY: So you were in the bedroom when Top Hat shot them?

DOSE: Yeah. And when he shot them I was like....it scared tha shit outta me, cause we weren’t supposed to do that shit, know I’m sayin’? I run out just as Top Hat comes flying out of that room. He crashed into the hallway, was screaming some shit like ‘Oh my God, what the fuck is that, what the fuck was that bitch smiling at me for?’ and he just...he just flies down the steps. Mothafucka fell all the way down them.

HARRIS: Did you go after him?

DOSE: I did, but first I looked in that room. And...and...

(There are thirty seconds of sobbing on the tape)

DOSE: It happened too damn fast. I...I...just looked and got the fuck out.

HARRIS: From what your boy Louis told us, it appeared you saw what happened in that room.

DOSE: No! I didn’t! I swear I didn’t see anything!

MOWRY: Calm down. It’s okay.

DOSE: No, it’s not! You don’t understand, it...it...

HARRIS: Tell us what you saw, Mr. Baxter.

DOSE: It was...it happened too fast but...it was horrible. First thing that hit me was the smell.

HARRIS: The smell?

DOSE: Yeah. Like spoiled meat. I held my breath and took a step in the room and saw...well...I think I saw that they were dead. The woman...she...she was awake and looking at me and her boyfriend he was...he was all fucked up and shit. Like he was melted or some shit.

MOWRY: Are you sure he was dead?

DOSE: Motherfucker had a big hole in his chest and he was flat on his back.

HARRIS: And it looked like he was melted?

DOSE: That’s the only way I can describe it, man! Dude looked like he’d been spread out all over the bed. I mean, maybe my mind was playin’ tricks on me because of the lighting and everything that was happening, but all I know is that when the bitch next to him sat up and smiled at me I got the fuck out of there!

The following is an excerpted transcription from the tape-recorded statement of Henry and Ella Beth Martin who, when they were alerted to the crime against their daughter, Mary Beth, arrived at the Lancaster Police Station and demanded to speak to the lead detectives on the case. When it was evident they had seen the suspect’s car in the vicinity of the crime scene prior to the committal of the crime in which they are being charged, they were formally questioned. They are labeled as Witness #2 and Witness #3 respectively. The excerpts of their questioning in the investigation of murder suspect Charles Williams was taken April 9, 2010 in Interrogation Room #1 at the Lancaster City Police Department. Present are Detective Julie Mowry, Shield #E5876, and Detective Paul Harris, Shield # E8965, both from the Homicide Division.

MOWRY: I know you’re upset Mrs. Martin, but if you can just tell me when you last saw your daughter without resorting to hysterics.

ELLA BETH: I am not hysterical! That...man...Victor...he’s led my daughter away from the family!

HENRY: You have to understand, Detective. Mary Beth was a good girl. She was raised in the church and was very devout. Her boyfriend is not at fault in any of this.

HARRIS: In any of what, Mr. Martin?

ELLA BETH (to her husband): What do you mean that monster is not at fault?

(There is arguing on the tape. Detective Mowry restores order by telling them to stick to the facts and not their emotions)

HARRIS: Can you begin by describing to us what you saw two nights ago?

HENRY: Ella Beth and I decided to drive by and...we wanted to see how Mary Beth was doing. That’s all.

MOWRY: So you just wanted to drop by her house?

HENRY: Yes.

MOWRY: How long has it been since you’ve seen her?

(There are fifteen seconds of silence on the tape)

HENRY: You have to understand. Before...any of this happened...what I’m about to tell you...our daughter....Mary Beth...well, there’s been an estrangement.

ELLA BETH: That man took her from us!

HENRY: Now Ella!

MOWRY: I understand you’re upset. We would appreciate it if you would answer the questions and not interrupt your husband as he is talking.

(There is a brief discussion in which Detective Harris instructs them on the rules and protocols of questioning, and then the interrogation resumes)

HENRY: The short version is this, Detectives. Mary Beth was a respected member of the family and the church and she decided to move out and find her own way. It is not uncommon for children raised in our order to do this.

MOWRY: Your church is Old Order Mennonite?

HENRY: That is correct. We know a lot of families...we have a lot of friends whose children leave home and even leave the church. On the surface, it would seem that Mary Beth’s case is no different.

(Ella Beth objects and Detective Mowry is heard telling her that if she interrupts again, she will be escorted out of the room. Ella Beth quiets down and questioning resumes).

HENRY: I admit, I shared my wife’s concern with Mary Beth’s boyfriend. Still do, to a certain extent. On the surface, her young man is a nice fellow. She brought him to the house a few times. My missus...she’s upset because she and Mary Beth were very close. She feels betrayed. I felt betrayed myself.

MOWRY: I understand, Mr. Martin. Your daughter has been living away from the house for two years then?

HENRY: Yes. Like I said, she moved out on her own. She was still attending church, but she got a job at a place in downtown Lancaster. Corporate Financial or some such. She met Mr. Collins there. They started seeing each other. We had...we had other plans for her life.

ELLA BETH: She was supposed to join our ministry! She was supposed to marry the son of our dear friend, Herman Green.

HENRY: I admit that Mary Beth moving out really...it really threw a wrench into things. It caused great division in our family, Detectives.

MOWRY: Is it fair to say that your daughter’s growing independence caused a strain in your relationship with her?

ELLA BETH (shouting): It wouldn’t have happened if that man had not come into her life! She’s not only changed, you’ve changed, Henry!

HENRY: I’ve changed?

ELLA BETH: Yes! When Mary Beth first started dating Victor you and I were against it. You more so than I! Don’t you remember?

HENRY: Well, I...

ELLA BETH: You went so far as to tell Mary Beth that she was no longer your daughter! You saw the wrongness in Victor. You saw the...the evil!

HENRY: I saw no such thing.

ELLA BETH (shouting): You did! We both saw it! We both saw that he was influencing her! She has changed overnight and now so are you!

(There are a few minutes of arguing again. Detective Mowry and Detective Harris tell Ella Beth she has to leave the interrogation room. It is at this point that Detective Mowry escorts Ella Beth out of the room. The questioning of Mr. Martin resumes.)

HENRY: I’m sorry for that. My wife thinks Mary Beth has changed. I used to think that myself, but in the past few weeks I’ve got to thinking about it. She’s my daughter. My flesh and blood. She was always an independent child, yet very loving. She had a good heart. Maybe she just...became worldlier in her ways. One of our elders, Amos Stoltzfus, ministered to me about it. He said that the Lord has guided her down another path, one in which her mother and I were not meant to understand. I prayed about it and as I did, I began to see he was right. The Lord opened my eyes. He showed me that Mary Beth is still my little girl. Sure, she’s changed, but we all undergo changes in life. Right?

HARRIS: Of course. Change is inevitable. It’s what makes us human, Mr. Martin.

HENRY: Ella’s views on this...what she says about Victor as evil...I don’t know what to make of that, Detective. Before my daughter met Victor, she was a good woman. She lived for the church, lived for her Lord. She dressed modestly in accordance to our customs. She continued to do so even when she moved out on her own, even in the beginning stages of her courtship with Victor.

HARRIS: Mr. Collins is not from your faith, then?

HENRY: No sir, he is not. That concerned us. What drove us...what is driving Ella into such hysterics is Mary Beth’s physical and spiritual changes. She dresses worldlier now. She’s stopped attending services. She’s turned her attention from God and family to this man, Victor.

HARRIS: Tell me about tonight. You stated earlier that you decided to drive by to see how your daughter was doing. Did you do this with the intention of actually paying her a visit?

HENRY: In my mind, yes...I wanted to eventually muster the nerve to knock on her door and speak to her. Apologize. The last time we spoke there were...bad words between us.

HARRIS: So two nights ago you and your wife drove to her house in Lititz. Correct?

HENRY: Yes.

HARRIS: And what did you see? Did you observe anything unusual?

HENRY: I parked across the street, three doors down. Ella Beth was...well, you see how she is tonight. She was that way two nights ago, too. Wanted to march over to Mary Beth’s and knock on the door and speak some sense into her. I talked her out of it. Persuaded her we had to take this slowly. Our first concern was to get an idea of how she was doing. So we’re sitting there in our car talking about this, and that’s when this other car pulls up across the street, almost diagonally across from us.

HARRIS: Can you describe this vehicle?

HENRY: It was a Toyota Corolla. A recent model. Very nice. It had those big wheels. You know...the kind kids like?

HARRIS: Wide rims?

HENRY: Yes.

HARRIS: Did you see the occupants?

HENRY: Not at first. Their windows were rolled up. But I could hear they were playing that rap music? The music was...well, it wasn’t that loud, but the beat...it was so deep and heavy that you could almost feel it.

HARRIS: Did you get a look at the occupants?

HENRY: Not at first. Our main focus was on the house. Ella and I watched the house and we noticed Mary Beth was home. The light was on in the living room and the dining room. Both overlook the front of the building. We couldn’t see anybody inside. The curtains were drawn over the windows, but we could tell she was there. Her car was parked at the curb outside.

HARRIS: How long did you sit in the car?

HENRY: About ten minutes.

HARRIS: Was the other car still parked across the street?

HENRY: It was. A few other cars drove by. There was a pedestrian or two. It looked...well, it seemed pretty normal.

HARRIS: You eventually did get a look at the occupants of the Toyota though, correct?

HENRY: I did. I’m not sure Ella Beth did. And I only got a look at the driver. When the car pulled away, the window came down and the driver leaned his elbow out. He didn’t look at me as the car drove past. I could tell there was a guy in the passenger seat. If there were people in the backseat, I didn’t see them.

HARRIS: But there was definitely a passenger?

HENRY: Yes, there was, but I didn’t get a good look at his face. I did get a pretty good look at the driver.

(There is a sound of paper being shuffled across the table).

HARRIS: Take a good look at the men in these photos. Do you recognize any of them?

(There are two minutes of silence on the tape)

HENRY: This one.

(A tapping sound is heard on the tape)

HENRY: I’m almost positive this is the guy that was driving the car.

HARRIS: You sure?

HENRY: Absolutely.

HARRIS: What about the other men in these photos? Have you ever seen them?

(There are twenty seconds of silence on the tape)

HENRY: No....no, I haven’t.

HARRIS: Thank you, Mr. Martin. You’ve been a great help.

HENRY: I wish none of this had happened. This has upset Ella Beth so much.

HARRIS: Your wife’s relationship with your daughter has really been affected by her relationship with Victor Collins, has it?

HENRY: It has. But it has become more than that now. She and Mary Beth have grown apart in so many ways. She thinks our Mary Beth...has changed.

HARRIS: Changed how, Mr. Martin?

(There are ten seconds of silence on the tape)

HENRY: Into something that isn’t...isn’t natural...

The following is an excerpted transcription from the tape-recorded statement of murder suspect Charles Douglas (A.K.A. “Top Hat”), labeled as Suspect #1. It was taken April 9, 2010 in Interrogation Room #1 at the Lancaster City Police Department. Present are Detective Julie Mowry, Shield #E5876, and Detective Paul Harris, Shield # E8965, both from the Homicide Division.

HARRIS: Let’s get one thing straight here. Your drug test came back as inconclusive. The lab technician believes it veers very close to negative, but we’re going to run more tests to confirm it.

TOP HAT: If you think I was flying on crack, you’re whacked!

HARRIS: Can you blame us? I mean...look at your past, especially your arrest last year.

TOP HAT: I told you, I’m clean!

HARRIS: So you say. But when we look at tonight’s events, which include you hallucinating during the crime scene and then shooting at the homeowners—emptying the entire clip of a Glock 9 mm handgun...well, that speaks volumes.

TOP HAT: Wasn’t no hallucinations.

HARRIS: I don’t know, Top Hat. Sounds like they were hallucinations to me. I mean, last year you saw ghosts and zombies parade down Lime Street. Two years ago you were being chased by a giant purple bunny in downtown York and you were wearing diapers when that happened. Your rap sheet is filled with drug-related offenses, everything from being under the influence of crack and PCP, to selling the stuff.

TOP HAT: I told you I wasn’t on no shit!

MOWRY: What say we take him at his word, Detective Harris. We’ll just have him lead us through what happened, settle this whole thing right now.

HARRIS: I can abide by that. How ‘bout it, Top Hat? You willing to revisit the scene of the crime and tell us what happened?

TOP HAT: You ain’t goan make me go back there, are you?

HARRIS: There’s no need to do that unless you don’t tell us exactly what happened.

TOP HAT: I’ll tell you exactly what happened. There was some fucked up shit in that house and I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it!

MOWRY: You’ve already stated that you went to the residence with the intention of robbing the victims, that you had no intention of hurting or killing anybody. Yet when you and Dose went upstairs to hold the homeowner’s hostage, you shot them in one of the bedrooms. Why?

(There are fifteen seconds of silence on the tape)

TOP HAT: When we hit the second floor I went right for the back bedroom. That’s where the master was, and I seen the light go off when we was waitin’ outside. Dose and me, that was our strategy. He hits the first bedroom, I hit the master and hold the people there while he makes sure nobody else is upstairs, then he goes through the rooms real quick and ganks shit. So...I bust the door open and at first I don’t see shit ‘cause its dark, but I make out somebody’s in the bed, know what I’m sayin? I yell, ‘freeze mothafucka!’ That’s when I see...when I see...

(Charles Williams’s voice become shaky)

TOP HAT: ...it’s just like this big giant shape in the bed.

MOWRY: A shape?

TOP HAT: It’s like a shape. Like a blob or some shit.

HARRIS: Do you think the lack of sufficient lighting simply blurred your perception of things?

TOP HAT: Nuh uh. No way. Light was on in the hallway, and when I opened the door I could see in there. There was a fucking blob in the bed and it was...ah shit man, it sounds crazy but I swear to God it happened!

HARRIS: Just tell us. In your own words, tell us what happened.

TOP HAT: I don’t know man....maybe I need a lawyer or somethin’.

MOWRY: You think you need a lawyer?

TOP HAT: I don’t know!

(There are ten seconds of sobbing).

MOWRY: This can all be cleared up if you simply tell us your version of what happened.

TOP HAT: I don’t know man...I shot them, I know I did, but...

MOWRY: But what, Charles?

(There is more sobbing for approximately ten seconds. When Charles resumes his testimony, his voice verges on hysterics)

TOP HAT: ...she was a mummy...

HARRIS: She what?

(Charles’ voice becomes a frustrated yell)

TOP HAT: That white bitch! She looked dead! She was all fucked up, all shriveled up an’ shit.

HARRIS: But you saw her earlier that evening, correct? According to your friend Louis, you watched her come home earlier that evening.

TOP HAT: Fuck yeah, we seen her!

MOWRY: And how’d she look then?

TOP HAT: She looked....she looked...you must think I’m fucking insane, dog.

HARRIS: No. A lot of shit happened in a small amount of time. It was an intense moment. The mind can play tricks on you in stressful situations.

(The sound of Charles sighing on the tape)

TOP HAT: I know what I fucking saw.

HARRIS: You saw a blob. And you saw a thin woman who looked like a mummy.

TOP HAT: Yeah. It was a blob. It’s the only way I can describe it.

HARRIS: What was it doing?

TOP HAT: It was....it was like it was attached to the lady on the bed. And it was...breathing.

MOWRY: Was it under the blankets?

TOP HAT: No. The blob and the lady were on top of the sheets.

HARRIS: And the blob was breathing?

TOP HAT: It was like the whole damn thing was just moving...like there was water underneath, moving around inside of it.

HARRIS: Pulsating maybe?

TOP HAT: Yeah, like that.

HARRIS: And it was attached to the woman?

TOP HAT: It was attached to her and she was...all shriveled up and shit. It reminded me of one of those things that look like slugs that attach themselves to you and suck your blood. You know...like a leech. And it stank in there. Smelled like something dead.

MOWRY: You took this all in as you stepped into the room, correct?

TOP HAT: Yeah.

MOWRY: What happened next?

TOP HAT: I was like, ‘what the fuck is this?’ I start yellin’ and shit ‘cause I thought my mind was like, you know, playin’ tricks on me. I know I wasn’t flyin’ on any shit. I’m straight with you on that. Haven’t smoked no rock or sherms in two months. I been stayin’ away from that shit, you know I’m sayin’? This shit on the bed, this...blob creature thing, I’m thinking it’s a trick of the lights. So I go, ‘get the fuck up, you cracker ass muthafuckers, get up now!’ And I walk over and I’m about to stick the barrel of my nine in someone’s back when that shit start...what’s that word you used? Pulsating?

MOWRY: The blob started pulsating?

TOP HAT: Yeah. That shit started pulsating real fast. Like I woke it up or somethin’.

MOWRY: Then what?

TOP HAT: Freaked me right the fuck out. I almost squeezed off a shot. That’s when I saw the face.

MOWRY: Whose face?

TOP HAT: I don’t know! It was...ah fuck man, this is crazy an shit but...

MOWRY: Go ahead.

TOP HAT: It was like a face came out of the blob thing...some guy’s....I don’t know who it was. And then it...changed to another face...a woman’s face and then...

(There are several deep sighs).

HARRIS: It’s okay.

TOP HAT: The woman’s face....she...she smiled at me. Bitch looked at me and fuckin’ smiled at me!

HARRIS: She smiled at you?

TOP HAT: I know it sounds crazy, but the bitch smiled at me!

HARRIS: What kind of smile was it? Happy? Like it was all a joke?

TOP HAT: Nah, wan’t like that, dog. It was the kind of smile a ‘ho gives you when she wants to fuck you.

(There is the sound of shuffling papers)

MOWRY: I’m going to show you some pictures, Charles. I want to know what the woman looks like. Can you do that for me?

TOP HAT: Yeah. I can do that.

MOWRY: Good. Can you look at these pictures? Give them all a good look.

(There is silence for a minute)

TOP HAT (excited yet fearful tone of voice): That’s it! That’s the fuckin’ bitch right there! Fuckin’ bitch smiled at me!

HARRIS: Is that when you shot them?

TOP HAT: Yeah. I know I at least shot the blob. I saw shit spray up as I shot at it. I emptied my clip. I was...I was terrified man!

THEY WERE WAITING for Detective Harris. They stood up as he entered the lobby and Paul noticed, not for the first time, that they were a striking couple. Victor was tall, with a lean build and GQ handsome looks. Mary Beth was dressed casually in a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a white T-shirt, her shoulder-length auburn hair tied in a pony tail. Top Hat must’ve been on some powerful stuff to think she resembled an emaciated mummy. When they first arrived at the station they’d looked worried, stressed, scared. Now they simply looked tired.

“Come on back to my office,” Paul said. “And we’ll talk.”

Paul led them past the bullpen and a corridor of closed doors with frosted glass windows. The station was quiet, as it usually was this early in the morning. With the suspects now safely behind bars at Lancaster County Prison, and only a skeleton crew of officers and detectives on duty, the station seemed quiet and empty. Paul entered his office, motioned to a pair of worn chairs in front of his desk, and seated himself across from them. He slapped the case file containing the initial crime scene reports and the audiotapes of the suspect interrogations on the desk. “How are you doing?”

“Tired,” Victor answered. “But better.”

Mary Beth nodded. She looked more worn out than her boyfriend, and Paul noted the deep lines in her face. Despite the weariness etched in her face, she was a striking woman. Beautiful even.

“You’re both very lucky,” Paul resumed. “The drug test we ran on all the suspects came back negative except for Mr. Williams. It came back as inclusive, so we’re running more tests.”

“Was that why they broke into our place?” Victor asked, frowning. “Drug money?”

Paul looked at him and nodded. The moment he’d laid eyes on Mary Beth, he told himself he was going to keep what the suspects told him about shooting the blob-thing to himself. He was of the opinion Mr. Williams had hallucinated that part anyway. As for Dose, well Dose had been running on pure adrenaline fear. “It’s possible they’re part of a loose crew that have been involved in a number of home invasions across the county for the last two months. Rather than stick to the city, they’ve been venturing into the country, where people still leave their doors unlocked and still have a modicum of trust in each other. Like I said, you’re both very lucky.”

“They never killed anybody before tonight though, right?”

“No,” Paul shook his head. “They haven’t. Those shots Mr. Williams fired at you went completely wild, but two of them hit the woman who lives in the home behind yours. A Ms. Sandra Beechner. She was killed instantly.”

Victor took Mary Beth’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Can we settle the issue with our stolen property in the morning? We’re very tired and would like to check into a motel and get some sleep.”

“Of course.” Paul reached for a pad of paper and scribbled a number on it, noting to himself that it seemed strange that neither of them expressed any kind of sympathy for Ms. Beechner. But what the hell...they’d had a rough time themselves. They were probably still in shock from everything. As he jotted down the information, his gaze flicked to Mary Beth’s rigid form.  It was hard to believe this woman had hid that extraordinary body beneath the kind of garments Old Order Mennonite women usually wore—solid color calf-length dresses, their hair pinned back beneath a white prayer cap, or a bonnet in the winter. Compared to the customs of her upbringing, she had taken a radical departure. “Call Gary in the morning. He’ll give you the number for the locksmith that secured your front door.”

Victor took the scrap of paper and folded it. “Thank you.”

He and Mary Beth rose to their feet.

“There is one thing,” Paul said.

“What’s that?” Victor asked. He and Mary Beth stopped just shy of the door.

“Charles Williams, the man who shot at you, was clearly on a hallucinogenic drug. He told me that he didn’t see you in bed when he burst in your room. He saw something else.”

“Oh?” Victor frowned.

“Yes,” Paul said, meeting his gaze. “He said there was a blob-like creature on the bed. A shapeless mass of flesh that was constantly shifting and moving. And that it was attached to a very thin, emaciated woman.” Paul’s gaze shifted to Mary Beth. “He obviously took you for this woman, Ms. Martin. Whatever his hallucination was, it was really strong. That’s what freaked him out...but it wasn’t what caused him to empty his firearm into your bed.”

Victor was still frowning. “But it has to be. I’d freak out myself if I saw something like that.”

“Mr. Williams states that a face came out of the shape,” Paul continued. “He said it shifted from a man’s face to a woman’s and that once it had taken form, it smiled at him.”

Victor looked incredulous. Mary Beth looked doubtful. “It smiled at him?” she asked.

“Yes,” Paul said, his gaze directed at Mary Beth now. His eyes flicked back and forth between the couple. “He was very adamant about this. His terror was genuine. Whatever hallucination he’d suffered, it was strong. I just hope to God that whatever it is he was on is something easy to identify. I’d hate for this to be the start of a new street drug epidemic.” Paul paused for a moment, then decided to take the plunge. He reached for the folder on his desk, rifled through it, and extracted a sheaf of photos. “My partner, Detective Julie Mowry, asked Mr. Williams if he got a good look at any of the faces. We were trying to empathize with him, get him to see we were on his side. He opened up pretty quickly and told us the woman’s face was the one that sticks out in his mind. Keep in mind that everything he told us, he told the arresting officer first. I was aware of what he claims he saw and had a hunch about this woman’s face. So I asked Jesse to return to your home and retrieve a few photographs. I mixed them in with some others of different women and made a quick Power Point demonstration that I printed out.” Paul pulled some papers out and handed them to Mary Beth, who took them. Victor peered over Mary Beth’s shoulder at the photos. “I wanted to get a good cross-representation of women’s faces here. See?”

Mary Beth nodded. “Yes.” She was studying the presentations closely. There were two pages, each consisting of six photographs of different women, arranged three by three.

“Julie asked Mr. Williams if he could identify the face he saw,” Paul continued. “And if he could identify her, did she resemble any of the women in these photos. He zeroed in on this one immediately.” Paul pointed at one of the photos and watched for a reaction in Mary Beth’s face. There was none.

“That’s you, hon,” Victor exclaimed.

“Yeah,” Mary Beth acknowledged. “That’s me, all right.”

Paul watched them, noting their body language, their facial expressions. The overriding factor with both of them was fatigue. But just beneath the surface there was something else. He couldn’t put his finger on it.

“You’ve never seen Mr. Williams before, Ms. Martin?” Paul asked.

“Never,” Mary Beth said. She was still looking at the pictures.

“And you never noticed any unfamiliar people in your neighborhood in the last few days?”

“We’ve been asked this three or four times, Detective,” Victor said.

“I know.” Paul’s gaze deflected a moment to Victor, and then settled back on Mary Beth, who was handing the photos to him. Paul placed them back in the file. “Just wanted to make sure.”

“I’ve never seen these men before in my life,” Mary Beth said. She seemed to get her energy back. The color was back in her cheeks, her eyes looked livelier. She really was a gorgeous woman. Her eyes met his for a brief moment and Paul looked away.

“You said he was hallucinating,” Victor said to Paul. “Maybe that was it. Maybe he subconsciously picked her photo out of that lineup.”

Paul placed the file back on his desk and changed the subject. “Regardless, you both are very lucky. It’s a wonder neither of you were hit.” Paul glanced surreptitiously at them. The EMTs had pronounced both of them unharmed at the scene. Even weirder was that one of the EMTs, a guy named Geoff, swore up and down to his supervisor that Mary Beth had looked like a holocaust survivor victim. Geoff had been told to leave the scene for fear he’d upset the victims and he’d complied. It was obvious to the other responders that Geoff was under stress—the guy had been on duty for almost forty hours straight with no sleep.

Paul walked around the desk and ushered them out of his office. Victor asked, “So what will they be charged with?”

“Forcible entry, assault, attempted murder, second degree murder, robbery, breaking and entering. Multiple counts.”

“Is there a chance they’ll get out?” Mary Beth asked. She was walking with a stronger sense of purpose now. Paul noticed it; her neck was slender, her head held high and proud. For a moment, Paul thought back to an earlier case he’d worked on. A woman in Lititz claimed her brother’s girlfriend was a supernatural creature—a succubus—that was draining his emotions and physical energy. She claimed her brother had changed suddenly too, much like what Ella Beth Martin was insinuating. The man in question later went on a rampage and killed his parents and his sister before turning the gun on himself.

“They won’t be getting out for a long time.” They reached the lobby and stopped. Victor and Mary Beth turned to thank him. Paul shook their hands. “Don’t worry. I’ll be in touch.”

“I’m sure you will,” Mary Beth said as she took Paul’s hand in both of hers. When Paul looked at her he was struck by the woman’s incredible sensuality. Mary Beth smiled at him, and the smile seemed to carry him away. There was something about that smile, something about her eyes, that seemed inviting. “Thank you so much. We appreciate all you’ve done for us.”

“It’s all part of the job,” Paul said. He had to force himself to take a step back. “You know the way down to the parking garage. Be sure to give Gary a call tomorrow morning.”

“We will, Detective,” Victor said. He smiled at him too. “Thank you.”

Paul watched them leave, and then locked the door to the precinct. He turned and began heading back to his office.

He closed the office door behind him and sat behind his cluttered desk. Framed photos of his wife Angie, and his son and daughter, Luke and Jenny, were set at eye level. He couldn’t look at Angie’s picture without thinking of Mary Beth; how she’d smiled at him, how it made him feel. He thought about the case, about Mr. Williams’ testimony, about the testimony of the other players in the case. Mr. Williams had obviously been on something. He had a history of hallucinating strange things. No doubt he’d been on something when he and his crew broke into Ms. Martin’s home. The only thing the gangbanger got right was the part about Mary Beth’s smile.

Detective Paul Harris opened the file on the case and pulled out the photo collage he’d made. He looked at the photo of Mary Beth. Those eyes reflected back at him from their pixilated image. And that smile.

Detective Paul Harris spent the rest of his shift in his office, fantasizing about what it would be like to sleep with Mary Beth Martin.

Story Notes

This story was written exclusively for the limited edition of The Beloved published by Altar 13, an imprint of Delirium Books. It’s actually a sequel to another story in this volume, “Christian Woman”. I suppose I wanted to know what happened to the characters in that story. When the opportunity came to write a story related to my novel The Beloved, I grabbed it.

The roots of this one go back to the spring of 2001 when I moved from California to rural Pennsylvania. I was astonished that so many people in these little towns didn’t lock their doors or windows. Some still don’t. After all, murders are extremely rare where I live. They’re so rare, news magazines like 20/20 run special features on murder cases that happen in my neck of the woods. The locals in my area will tell you its been like that here forever. People just tend to trust each other in rural communities. That’s fine, I guess, but I don’t trust anybody. My mother-in-law still doesn't lock her front door and she makes fun of us for taking that extra precaution. I figure, why make it easier for shitbags to break into your house?

This mindset fascinated me and I knew I would have to write about it. I wrote about two thousand words of a story with no title featuring the character Top Hat. The story was about a crew from the inner city of Lancaster, which is a small city of about 60,000 people east of Harrisburg, who find the idea of rural suburbanites never locking the doors to their homes so tempting that they decide to take a little drive out and commit some burglaries. Easy as pie, right? Simply case the place, wait for the owners to leave, then approach the house, if the place is unlocked, great! In you go, grab what you can, and get out.

That’s as far as I got. The story remained a fragment for almost a decade until Shane Ryan Staley asked me to write a tie-in story for The Beloved. Because the characters from “Christian Woman” were still on my mind, I saw the opportunity. And because I knew a crime was going to be committed, I used the interrogation method after-the-fact as my way of telling the story. Dean Koontz used that method in his story “The Interrogation”. That worked really well, so I figured if Dean could do it, why can’t I?

Christian Woman

MEETING VICTOR AT work was only the first step in a long and arduous process of self-discovery.

Mary Beth was the middle child in her family. She had two older siblings and three younger ones, evenly split between the sexes. Her siblings were very close to her parents; Mary Beth had been the apple of their eye until she started dating Victor.

She loved her parents, but they did not know her. Not really.

She put on a good show.

Oh, she was still prim and proper. Her clothing, ankle-length plaid dresses usually, was still modest in accordance to the religious beliefs she’d been raised in—strict Christian upbringing, member of the First Mennonite Church of the Brethren. She even still wore a prayer cap in public. Likewise, her siblings were still devout and belonged to the church. The difference between them all was that her siblings had chosen to follow in their parent’s footsteps of serving the Lord; two of her brothers were studying abroad for the ministry, one of her sisters was living in El Salvador performing missionary work, her oldest brother was the leader of his church in nearby Adamstown, and her younger sister was involved in youth ministry.

Mary Beth worked for a financial services company as a secretary.

Her parents had never approved of this.

Mary Beth had been the only one of her siblings to not stray from the fold. She’d never rebelled, never dated outside of the church; she’d never really dated at all, to be truthful. Her siblings, on the other hand, had rebelled against their parents at some point in their lives. Bobby Joe had racked up a DUI in his early twenties. Earl had experimented with LSD and pot and had gotten into heavy metal music. Emily and Jessica had gone through periods of wearing tight jeans and chasing the kind of boys that wore their baggy pants halfway down their legs—Emily had dated so many of them that Mary Beth lost count. And Jacob...Jacob had become a party animal in college.

But eventually they’d all grown out of this and returned to the fold.

Mary Beth had never left the fold. She’d never rebelled. Never saw the need to intentionally disappoint her parents the way her siblings had.

But somehow, her parents had been more disappointed in her for choosing to work outside of the family business, which was running the furniture store they owned and, as time allowed, perform missionary work.

And now it was worse because of Victor.

“I don’t like him,” Mother told her when she’d brought Victor to the house to meet her parents for the first time. Mother pulled Mary Beth aside and had a talk with her while Victor and Dad looked at the old Chrysler Dad kept out in the barn. “He strikes me as the kind of man who’s only after one thing. I get a certain feeling about him that doesn’t sit well with me.”

“Mother, he’s fine! What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? Don’t you see it?”

“See what?” Mary Beth still didn’t know what her mother saw in Victor that made her immediately dislike him. Victor Collins was not the kind of man her mother was making him out to be. He’d been nothing but kind and respectful to Mary Beth, and while she could sense he was physically attracted to her, he’d never once tried to force the issue. Victor was handsome, kind, smart, and he loved her. He was patient and respectful too, something she couldn’t really say about her siblings’ life-mates, whom she had various degrees of love/hate relationships with. One of them, Emily’s husband, was as phony as an eight-dollar bill.

“He’s too worldly,” Mother finally said. “There’s something about him that is very heavy with worldliness.”

Mary Beth had tried bringing Victor to the house a second and third time. Her parents never thawed out in their obvious dislike of Victor, and Mary Beth knew why. Her parents had always held to the idea that you either served the Lord by being a Christian or you served the Devil by not being a Christian. She’d been raised to believe this herself, but Mary Beth had secretly thought such views were ridiculous. Now she was seeing their reaction to a non-Christian first-hand. That had been the end of it for Mary Beth. There was no way she could continue to bring Victor to the house for family get-togethers. Not when mother was going to react to Victor like that.

She’d been a little taken aback by Victor at first. The way he’d asked her out one afternoon at the end of a long Friday. She thought he’d been joking. He had that way about him; sly, mischievous almost. A devil-may care kind of attitude. He’d invited her to Happy Hour with the rest of the staff and she gave in and accepted. She’d wound up having a good time, too. She and Victor had talked quite a bit, in a corner of the booth they were sequestered in. Mary Beth didn’t drink—partly out of her religious beliefs, partly for health reasons—but she sat with Victor as he drank Martinis and regaled her with stories from the trenches of when Corporate Financial started their East Coast division. Unlike the others at their table, he never once said, “Hey Mary Beth, why don’t you have a beer?”, or “Hey Mary Beth, what’s with that white beanie on your head? You getting signals from outer space with that thing?”, or “Hey Mary Beth, what’s it like to be Amish?” She’d grown used to such catcalls, and easily ignored them. Victor had ignored them too, and she didn’t even think he was aware of them until one point in their conversation when he made an aside. “We work with the rudest, most ignorant people on the face of the planet.”

Mary Beth laughed. “You can say that again.”

Victor stood up and held out his arm. “Then let’s get out of here and leave them to their foolishness.”

She was afraid at first. She’d heard stories about such men; how their only interest was in what lay between the legs of women and not what resided in their hearts and minds. She almost told him no, she was going to go back to her apartment, but thank you for the invitation. Victor smiled broadly and was so persuasive in his tone of voice and demeanor. “That’s quite alright. I was merely thinking we could walk down to the coffee shop at the corner and talk some more.”

Well, if Victor only wanted to talk more...

They talked at the coffee shop, sharing a corner booth where they had coffee and pie, until the place closed at two a.m.

They’d been inseparable ever since.

Her parents might not like Victor, and her siblings might think he was too worldly for her, but the girls at the office thought Mary Beth had quite a catch.

“Victor really likes you!” Joanne gushed over lunch one day. “You are so lucky!”

They’d taken lunch one afternoon at Chili’s on Manheim Pike, not far from the office. Mary Beth had been taking lunch with the girls from the office quite a bit recently; Joanne from Accounting, Diane from Purchasing, and Susan from Customer Service. They were nice girls, all from different Christian backgrounds, but more solidly based in the world in their spiritual walks. Still, they were good women. Only the Lord knew their hearts, so who was she to judge?

“You know how many women fantasize about going out with Victor?” Susan added.

“All of them,” Diane said.

“Even the married ones,” Susan laughed.

Mary Beth dipped her head down so the others wouldn’t see her blush. She took a bite of her salad, chewed, and swallowed. “He’s very nice. A real gentleman.”

“What’s he like?”

Mary Beth shrugged. “Like I said, he’s very nice. Very soft spoken, respectful but strong. He’s very—”

“I didn’t mean that.” Diane asked, a mischievous look in her eye. “I mean, what’s he like in bed?”

Mary Beth blushed again. “Um...we haven’t...um, well, we haven’t...”

Diane and Susan’s jaws dropped. “You mean you haven’t slept with him yet?” Susan asked.

“Well...no....”

Joanne regarded her from across the table. “Guy like that, he practically screams ‘fuck my brains out’. I thought you Mennonites were closet nymphos.”

Susan and Diane laughed. Mary Beth blushed again, but she felt a tinge of anger float to the surface.

As if sensing they’d gone too far, Joanne touched her wrist. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

The others murmured apologies too but the damage was already done. Not the damage of denigrating her religious beliefs. No. The damage she felt was one of expectation; their expectation that she would sleep with Victor just because he was the most desirable man at the office.

That faux pas seemed to break through the superficial veneer of the topic, and they talked about more cerebral aspects of relationships. Joanne appeared reflective. “Victor’s always struck me as a guy hiding something painful. I don’t know what; memories of a past relationship that ended badly, perhaps. He seems to have more emotional depth than most men I know.”

“Well, he is a good person,” Mary Beth said. “And he does seem...oh, I don’t know. Broken by the world? That seems like a good description. He sometimes comes across as wounded.”

“Aren’t we all?” Diane asked.

She related part of the conversation to Victor later that week, on a date. He’d taken her to Fiorentino’s, an Italian restaurant in Lititz. Victor hadn’t been offended by what Joanne and the others had said. In fact, he downplayed it. “Women like that,” he said, “will just never understand.”

“Understand what?”

“That I am more than just a beefcake.” He chuckled. “I’m kidding, of course.”

“Beefcake?” Mary Beth had heard the term before, but she laughed too.

Victor looked reflective. He took a sip of his wine. “I like you, Mary Beth. I really do. You’re not like other women I meet. You like me for who I am. You like me for what I have up here.” He tapped a finger to his forehead.

“I like you for what’s in your heart,” Mary Beth said, not able to stop what she was saying. The instant she said it, she thought, Oh no! Did I tip my hand too soon? She was on the verge of blushing in embarrassment when he responded at just the perfect time.

“I appreciate that,” he said. “Sometimes I don’t know what’s in my heart. My life has led me on such a fascinating journey that has been tinged with triumph and sadness. At times I feel broken, poor, and weak. I sometimes feel that I’m done: I want to just end the journey and settle down.” His eyes met hers across the table. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do.” Mary Beth’s heart pounded with excitement.

Victor reached across the table and took her hands. “I think the world of you, Mary Beth. I love everything about you. I know that’s a bit premature to say. After all, I only know you from the office and the last few weeks of seeing each other on a social level, but...in that time, I feel that I’ve really gotten to know you so well...it seems like we’ve known each other forever. Do you know what I mean?”

Mary Beth nodded. “Yes, I do.” She never thought this could happen so soon; that their relationship would grow more heated so quickly. She felt that connection, too, but part of her felt torn by her family upbringing. Should she continue to see Victor, she would most certainly be courting severe disapproval from her parents very soon.

“I feel that I’ve always known you, that you were somewhere out there...just waiting for me. That’s why I never let up in asking you out.”

A flush rose in Mary Beth’s face; in her heart, her stomach, her most private place. She looked down at the table, embarrassed to be the center of such honest intention from a man who was so genuine!

“You’re the answer to all my prayers,” Victor said, his voice soft.

Mary Beth looked up at him shyly. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“You’re the answer to all of mine, too.”

Victor said nothing. The tension between them grew. Victor reached a hand across the table and touched the back of her hand, caressing it gently. Mary Beth took a deep breath and averted her gaze from him. As attracted to him as she was physically, mentally, and spiritually, she couldn’t break her vows to her Lord. She picked up a breadstick, tore it in half, and changed the subject.

And like the gentleman he was, Victor went along with it. Other men would have tried to steer the conversation back to the sexual tension, would have tried to sneak in a kiss, which would have broken that barrier even if it was just a slight peck. She knew their ways; knew it from the books and magazine articles she read in Christian Woman magazine. She was interested in sex, and she desired it like any other woman, but she also knew that the Lord only provided sex between a man and a woman who were married. It was God’s gift to those who wed. To defile that act by indulging before they were married would be a great sin.

Despite this, she could tell Victor wanted her. He might have been attracted to her heart and mind, but he also desired her physically, just like any other man. His gesture, while subtle, was evidence of this. And despite her own physical attraction to him, she had to maintain her vows and push back.

After dinner they drove downtown where they parked the car and walked the streets. Downtown Lancaster was bustling with activity, and Mary Beth was always amazed and a little awestruck by the people and events that transpired. Sure, there were places she wouldn’t be caught dead entering—an adult video store here and there, a seedy looking bar or two—but there were loads of good places that outweighed that. Restaurants of every cuisine, craft stores, gift shops, bookstores, nightclubs that featured jazz music. They stopped at the doorway of one such club and listened as a jazz guitarist played for a packed house.

As they walked back to the car after an enjoyable evening, the topic of conversation shifted to their overall goals for life. Mary Beth was upfront about hers. “To live a good life that will allow God to work through me to help others. What about you?”

“Oh, I have a master plan for my life,” Victor said, smiling.

“And what is that?”

Victor smiled down at her. His physical appearance was so intoxicating, so tempting. “Let’s just say that you will never question your place in life again if we remain together. You need not worry about what your parents think.”

Mary Beth felt a momentary touch of excitement and shame. She’d told him about her parent’s disapproval of her decision to not follow in the family ministry and business. When Mary Beth told Victor about her parents’ opinion of him, he’d been sympathetic. He’d listened with a sense of caring, asking questions at the right moment. “It’s common for parents to be disappointed when their children do not follow in their footsteps,” he’d said. “But I’m sure that once you blossom on your own, they’ll be proud. And as they say...God works in mysterious ways. In the grand scheme of things, your parents will come to realize that God will use you in His overall plan. They just don’t know it yet.”

“I certainly hope so,” Mary Beth said now. They had stopped momentarily in front of a jewelry store, and it was there that the moment just seemed right. Mary Beth looked up at Victor, his eyes deep and penetrating, and before she knew what was happening they were kissing.

The kiss was passionate, yes, but it was also brief and full of passion. When they parted, Victor smiled down at her. “Let’s get you home.”

Once again, Mary Beth felt a brief tinge of nervousness as Victor drove her home but she needn’t have worried. When he dropped her off at her apartment he gave her a kiss, this one a little more passionate. She felt herself holding back a little, not wanting to take things further. He kissed her neck, breathing in the scent of her perfume. He told her he’d see her the following week at work, and waited while she let herself into her apartment. Then, he drove away.

And despite telling her parents that Victor was the perfect gentleman the following day, Sunday, after church, they still seemed cold to any mention of him. Mary Beth didn’t understand it.

She called Victor that evening on the verge of tears. “Why don’t they approve of me and my life?” She almost sobbed into the phone. “I’ve done everything right! My brothers and sisters...they all did horrible things when they were growing up. Drinking and drugs, and stealing and running around...I never did any of that! My parents always bragged to their friends that I was the good child! But then the rest of my siblings change their ways, they join the family ministry and just because I choose not to get into that line of work, I’m ostracized! It just isn’t fair!”

“Nothing in life is fair, Mary Beth,” Victor agreed. “But don’t worry about that. Should I come out to be with you?”

And she said yes. For the first time since dating Victor, she invited him to her apartment to be with her. And he came, and he was good to her, so gentle, so loving, that she couldn’t believe she’d held him off for so long, couldn’t believe she’d thought that what they did could be sinful, no, it couldn’t be, not when it felt so good, felt so right, not when she yearned for him and he was hungry for her and they finally came together in the flesh, satisfying each other, making each other even more hungry for one another and she knew then that she was destined to be with Victor forever, she knew that now, knew they’d be married, that he’d answered all her prayers, that she’d be his and he hers, forever and ever and ever, amen.

And then very late that night as they lay entangled together in the bedsheets, the summer night so vast and open outside, a cool breeze blowing in through the half-opened window, she looked down at him. He was awake, watching her. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“I’m your first.”

Mary Beth nodded.

“Do you feel that what we did was wrong?”

A shake of the head. Still, that little holdover from the way she was raised began to creep into her thoughts, bringing doubt.

“You shouldn’t,” Victor said quickly. “I’ll be with you forever. We were made to be together. Do you believe that?”

“Yes.” She nodded. She more than believed it now; she felt it in the very fiber of her being.

“Good.”

And in the days that followed, Victor visited her more frequently, always after work, always at the right time. He was still charming, still respectful of her beliefs and traditions. He never once asked her for sex, never came on to her strong. Rather, she sensed that what they did together was simple destiny, that it was something they both wanted.

She revealed a little bit more about her family background to him one evening at her apartment when he came over for dinner. She had made chicken potpie, a dish Victor had come to love. They’d been seeing each other on a more serious level for over two months now and seemed to interact with each other like an old married couple that had been together for decades.

“Your siblings became what people of your faith call worldly at an earlier age than you,” Victor said over dinner. “They did this as an act of rebellion. You never did. In fact, you’ve always embraced your heritage, your faith, whereas your siblings always seemed to be running away from it.”

“You’re right,” Mary Beth said.

“They’re still running away from it,” Victor continued. “On the surface, they seem like nice, upstanding, moral Christians. Intellectually, they see themselves as good people. And for the most part, they are. But they’re really putting on an act for the benefit of your parents. The lives they’re leading now are the kind of lives they never really wanted to lead.”

“Yet they see me as a disappointment because I express a desire to do something with my life that conflicts with what they want from me,” Mary Beth said, everything clicking together naturally. “And I’m involved with you, which is even worse.”

Victor gave her a pensive smile from across the table. “Why do you suppose that is?”

“You’re not a member of the church.”

“That’s probably a very good reason. But there’s something else. What is it?”

“You’re not a believer.” There. She’d said it. The thing she’d worried about the most ever since dating him, ever since giving herself to him the way a virgin bride gives herself to her husband on her wedding night, had finally been voiced.

“Yes and no,” Victor said.

“What do you mean?”

“From your parent’s perspective, yes, I’m a non-believer. I may as well be an atheist to them, which is as evil as they come in some quarters. But as you’ve seen, I do have my spiritual beliefs, and they’re sacred to me. Belief is something that is personal. It’s life changing and can only mean one thing to the one person who holds to that belief. Do you understand?”

Mary Beth nodded, once again enthralled with him, caught in his spell.

Victor smiled at her. His plate was almost finished. “I’m not perfect and I’m not a saint, Mary Beth. Your parents should know that if they would only look inside their hearts. I have the same flaws and strengths as everybody else. There are times when I feel weak and stupid, and yet there are other times when I feel powerful and wise and like I’m on top of the world, that I can accomplish anything. We all feel that, Mary Beth. It’s in each and every one of us.”

Her parent’s words crashed into her, reverberating in her head. We’re so disappointed in you, Mary Beth. By choosing to not go into the ministry, you’re turning your back on God...turning your back on God...turning your back on God.

Mary Beth buried her face in her hands, her emotions conflicting. She did not want to turn her back on her family, but she also wanted a life with Victor. “I’m so confused.” She felt on the verge of weeping. She realized that she could not have it both ways; it was either her parents or Victor.

“There’s no need to be confused,” Victor said. And then he was out of his chair and taking her in his arms and she sought comfort in them and he made it all go away, just like that. As he took her on the kitchen floor, slipping her dress off and caressing her in his strong arms, she felt his hunger and desperation for her. She met his ardor head on, their bodies coming together seamlessly, their passion for each other climbing until release, and then later that night, after love, she lay back in her bed with Victor beside her, feeling alive, free, invigorated.

Things changed again after that. Victor seemed to be even hungrier for her from that point on. He called her every night, asking if he could come over again, and she always said yes. She would hang up the phone, her feelings conflicted between yearning desperation and shame over what she was doing. You shouldn’t be doing this. It’s wrong. It’s sinful and it’s wrong and its not glorifying to the Lord in any way whatsoever. Furthermore, you’re turning your back on your family. You’ve never turned your back on them before, there’s no reason to do it now. Several times she almost called him on his cell phone and told him not to come; she’d had second thoughts, maybe they shouldn’t see each other. But then he’d show up minutes later, disheveled from a long run through the park to get to her apartment, and she’d let him in. He could barely restrain himself then; he was like a mad dog, like an animal possessed, but then again she was, too. But then her conflicting thoughts would be cast aside as they tangled themselves up in her bed, between the sheets, and he would whisper and grunt to her. “Give me more, give me more, give me more!”

And she’d give him more, right to the end, working him over and over till he was left gasping in what sometimes she mistook for pain but was really pleasure.

Some nights when they were finished he’d confess to her. “I can’t help myself,” he said one night. He was leaning on one elbow, brushing her long brown hair back from her face. The minute he’d entered her apartment they’d come together like a pair of magnets, kissing madly, his hands pulling at her dress, taking it off, and oh how she loved it, and oh how she let him.

She still went to church every Sunday with her family out of habit. And if they noticed anything different about her, they never came out and confronted her about it. Mary Beth suspected they saw some kind of change in her because she saw the way her mother’s face drew pensive whenever the topic of conversation turned to Mary Beth’s week and what she and Victor had been up to lately. She’d known that look well growing up. Disapproval.

And for the first time in her life, Mary Beth didn’t care.

For the first time in her life, she was genuinely happy.

At peace...

With herself....

And more importantly....

With God.

She realized that to voice this to her parents would bring swift condemnation down on her. She thought about this one Sunday about six months after her relationship with Victor had gotten serious and physical. Her parents were withdrawing. Her siblings and their families, too. It was as if word had gotten out, spread by her parents, and the gossip was obviously not good. Mary Beth has turned her back on God, she’s seeing a man who is not a believer, an atheist, and even though she’s going to church and all, she’s no longer saved. Her soul’s in mortal danger. Please...pray for her...

The thing about it was, the rest of the congregation seemed to treat her as they always had. She was never kicked out of the church, one of the first things that happened if a parishioner was found to have sinned and showed no remorse for their actions. She wasn’t even being shunned, which was something the Amish did. If her parents had tried to rally support for their cause that their daughter was backsliding and was in need of a wake-up call, it had fallen on deaf ears. She’d caught no uneasy vibe, no furtive glances from other parishioners, experienced no whispered words behind cupped hands from the church elders. If anything, she was treated more warmly, more lovingly, than ever before.

This was affirmed one day after church. Mary Beth was heading to her car when she stopped to talk to Amos Stoltzfus, an elder of the congregation. After trading pleasantries, he asked her how things were. “My life is good,” she told him. She caught a glimpse of her mother out of the corner of her eye; Amos noticed and waved. Mary Beth waved, too.

“I detect Mom and Dad are upset with you because of your new boyfriend,” Amos said.

“Yes.” Mary Beth said. The instinct to be ashamed of this was strong, but it was ebbing fast.

“Don’t be,” Amos said. “In time, your family will see that God has called you to do something most Christians would not understand, let alone have the strength themselves to do.”

Curious, Mary Beth turned to Amos. “What do you mean?”

Amos avoided the question. He took her hands in both of his rough calloused ones. “Continue to serve the Lord. And God Bless you.” He gave both her hands a squeeze, then turned and headed back to the church.

Mary Beth watched him leave, wondering what that was all about. Amos was getting up there in age. He never would have given her that kind of advice a few years ago; she’d always known him as being ultra-conservative. The entire congregation held conservative values, and things like adultery were deep sins (which Mary Beth was clearly guilty of...one need not be involved in an extra-marital affair to be guilty of it; adultery was defined as engaging in sexual relations outside of the confines of marriage). Surely she should have been kicked out of the church by now. Amos should have chastised her for her indiscretions. But no, he had practically praised her for the life she was leading, told her that what she was doing would not be understood by her fellow brothers and sisters in Christ.

Mary Beth thought about what Amos said on the drive home, trying to make sense of it. And try as she might, she couldn’t. The closest analogy she could come to was that Amos saw that her Christian beliefs were still strong and that eventually her parents would see this. Perhaps he also saw that by living a life in the world she could touch others and, in turn, bring them closer to God’s loving touch, which was something her parents could never accomplish due to their more insular way of life.

She mentioned this to Victor that evening. While they weren’t officially living together yet, he was over a lot. Victor shrugged, seemingly indifferent to the exchange. “Maybe. It’s not the first thing I would have come up with, but then again I do not share your religious faith.”

“What kind of religious faith do you keep?” Mary Beth asked him, wanting to know. Surely he had to believe in something.

Victor looked at her and grinned. “I am what I am and that’s about all there is to it.”

“So...you don’t really have a spiritual side?”

“I do.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s a lofty one.”

“What is it?” Her tone was more insistent.

Victor approached her, touched her. “To be your man....”

And once again, she lost herself to him, even though this time she tried to resist, putting up a harder fight against giving in to him. Part of her was angry with herself for letting her carnal desires take over again, so she fought her urges. She pushed him away, told him “No, I can’t,” and he would counter with, “But you can, Mary Beth! You can and you will!”, and she struggled and resisted but he was so strong, her attraction and lust for him was stronger than her desire to get back on the straight and narrow path. She felt she had no choice, that to resist him was futile. His power was so strong that she didn’t want to resist.

But still, something about this bothered her, especially in light of their bedroom antics. Their foreplay was rougher, more intense than it usually was, and she surprised herself by pushing the envelope further than she would have traveled in the past. She surprised herself so much that she wondered if by doing so she was crossing into another realm entirely—she’d been raised to believe standard missionary style sex was for procreation first, enjoyment between a married couple a distant second. Missionary style sex had been quickly replaced by multiple positions to the point that Mary Beth felt herself asserting her dominance over Victor. Tonight was the beginning of this. The hot dripping candle wax she applied to his bare chest was the start of it, something she didn’t even know she had in her, but she must have done something right because he loved it.

The following morning something was different. She realized what it was halfway through the workday. I never said my morning devotionals, she thought. For a moment, panic stepped in. She looked at herself in the little mirror she kept in her cubicle. Her prayer cap was in place out of habit, but already her clothing was becoming less plain, more colorful, attractive. In fact, the prayer cap didn’t match her outfit at all. She took it off with one fluid motion and tucked it into her purse.

The absence of the prayer cap brought stunned looks from those in the office, but they were quickly followed by positive comments. “I love your hair!” and “You look so...different!” were the most common. Following work, Mary Beth changed into a pair of gym shorts and a tank top, clothes she had purchased on impulse a week ago, and went on a brisk walk through town. It was the first time she’d ever worn the outfit; prior to today, casual attire like shorts and tee-shirts had not been part of her wardrobe, since modesty was a big thing in her faith. To dress in more revealing clothing would be flaunting her femininity and, thus, would turn men’s thoughts away from God and toward sin...

Then again, she’d managed to do that with Victor without resorting to skimpy clothes. She’d snagged him with her ankle-length dress.

Regardless, dressing down for once felt liberating, less confining. For the first day or two she felt over-exposed, but then she realized she was not only more comfortable, she was freer, more true to herself. She didn’t feel the need to wear too-revealing clothing—tops that showed off a lot of cleavage, for instance—but simple blouses and tee-shirts were fine. Same with faded blue jeans or a simple pair of baggy shorts. Victor liked her new style, commented on it frequently, and accompanied her to trips to the mall for new clothes.

She was surprised a week later by a knock on her apartment door. Victor was in the kitchen preparing dinner. Mary Beth answered the door wearing a pair of shorts and a tee-shirt.

Her parents stood outside her apartment, flanked by Amos Stoltzfus and two other church elders. Her parents looked somber. Her mother looked like she’d aged a decade. Her graying hair was pinned back from her weathered face, held in place by her prayer cap. The church elders looked on impassively.

“Mom...Dad! Come on in!” Mary Beth opened the door to let them in. When her mother saw Victor in the kitchen, she stiffened.

“So...you’re continuing on with your life of sin,” Mother said.

Mary Beth sighed. “Mother...”

“Your mother’s right!” Dad leaned toward her, his features stern, angry and final. “We’ve let this go on long enough. Look at you now! Dressed like a common hussy.”

Not that long ago, such strong condemnation would have shattered her. But things were different now. Mary Beth was comfortable with herself for the first time in her life. She wasn’t leading a life of sin; she did not believe what she and Victor were doing was wrong. For the first time in her life she was happy. “Dad...” Mary Beth began.

“Enough!” Her father shouted. “It’s one thing for you to chase after this...this...heathen of a man. It’s quite another for you to turn your back on your faith.”

“What makes you think I—”

“I’m not finished!” Her father’s eyes blazed with righteous anger. Her mother stood behind him, “You know the truth, Mary Beth. You were baptized in it and raised in it. I implore you now to leave this man and come back to the church and your family.”

“And if I don’t?” Mary Beth was dimly aware of Victor standing in the kitchen, watching the exchange silently.

“If you don’t come back, if you insist on staying with him...” Her father practically spit out the words. “...then consider yourself not a part of the family anymore.”

“You would really do that?” Mary Beth felt the first stirrings of pain settle in her heart. “You would really disown me?”

“We’ll do more than disown you,” Her mother said. “Stay with him, and you’re as good as dead to us.”

“You’ll be no daughter of mine if you stay with this man, Mary Beth,” Her father said.

Through the rising tears, she glanced at the church elders, who remained silent. Amos Stoltzfus met her gaze and did not drop it. “Only the Lord knows what’s best, Mary Beth,” Amos said. “Your parents are hurting. They’re confused and in pain.”

“Amos!” Her father warned.

Amos ignored her father. His focus was wholly centered on Mary Beth. “Do you feel in your heart that you were meant to be with him, Mary Beth?”

Mary Beth nodded, tears streaming down her face. The old family tie was strong and wanted her to renounce her so-called sin and leap into the loving arms of her parents, it yearned for their forgiveness and acceptance, but her new life with Victor was stronger.

“Do you understand what you’re getting into?”

Mary Beth nodded again.

“Are you sure? There’s no turning back, child.”

Mary Beth took a deep breath. She looked at her parents. Her father, with his dark slacks held up by suspenders over a blue plaid shirt, her mother wearing a heavy dark blue ankle-length dress. Looking into their eyes she saw only one thing: conform to what we want you to be or you are not our daughter any more. And in facing that decision she realized one thing; she could not go back to that life. “Yes,” she told Amos Stolzfus. “I’m sure.”

Amos nodded at her, his features bearing a calm knowing that this was the best for her. The elders beside him, likewise, bore identical expressions. They nodded, turned and left, leaving Amos and her parents at the apartment door.

“I’d say ‘damn you to hell’,” her father said, his face red with rage, his voice trembling. “But you already are.”

Mary Beth said nothing as her parents turned their backs on her and walked away.

Amos was the last to leave. He glanced at Victor in the kitchen with a quiet nod, as if of silent acknowledgement, then he nodded farewell to Mary Beth and stepped away.

Mary Beth closed the door. Victor stood in the kitchen, waiting. “I did the right thing,” she said.

Victor nodded. “You did. Unlike your parents and those like them, you see the ability to change what you feel is wrong. Most people remain stuck in their same old ways that don’t bring them happiness, but they feel compelled to stay for the sake of tradition or some false sense of honor.”

He was right, of course. “I’ve been reading a lot of books about personal relationships,” she told Victor later, over dinner. “And talking to some of the girls at the office...I even engaged the services of a therapist a few weeks ago.”

“Really? What for?”

“To get a reality check. Since this ongoing estrangement from my parents, I’ve been going through incredible bouts of self-doubt and shame. Everything I’ve been led to believe....everything that’s been drilled into me since childhood has been to serve the Lord, to only live for God, and that if I didn’t, I’d make Him unhappy and I’d make my parents unhappy.”

“And your parents are unhappy, but the people at your church don’t seem to think God is unhappy with you,” Victor said.

“Yeah.”

“Do you ever feel that the only reason your parents raised you in such a stifling environment was to simply control you and your siblings?”

Mary Beth nodded. “Yeah, I do.” She saw that now. When her siblings rebelled, her parents had been disappointed, so she’d stayed on the straight and narrow and they were happy with her. When her siblings returned to the fold, her parents were overjoyed, but unhappy with Mary Beth when she decided to work outside of the church. The man they’d been grooming her to wed since she was in junior high school was now engaged to Katie Martin, a friend of the family. Had she stayed with her family, she would have been unhappy, miserable, not able to enjoy the vast richness of life and all its joys. But her parents would have been happy with her.

“They think I’m a bad influence,” Victor sighed. “I never meant to take you away from your family.”

Mary Beth smiled lasciviously. “But you did intend to get me out of that ankle-length dress I used to wear, didn’t you?”

Victor grinned at her. “Oh, you got that right! And look at you now.” He gave her a brief once over. “Shorts and a T-shirt. No ankle-length dress to be seen anywhere on you.”

Later that night, after sex, they lay in bed beneath the spinning ceiling fan, cooling the sweat from their bodies. Mary Beth’s mind and body were riding a hallucinating wave of images. Her wrists and ankles burned slightly from the ropes she’d allowed him to tie her up with, but she didn’t care. She’d loved it, had trusted him explicitly to do whatever he wanted with her, and she with him; she’d taken what was hers, had felt she was raping him, but he’d loved it, had told her she could do whatever she wanted with him, any time, and she did.

And now they were lying together, tangled in each others sweaty limbs, coming down from the intense sex and she felt that she’d crossed another bridge, another barrier. Again, what they’d done tonight was out of character for her, but it felt right. It felt that she was becoming the person she was meant to become.

The night was mild, the window open, letting in a cool breeze. The full moon bathed her room in natural moonlight. The tree outside her window cast long, skeletal shadows on the floor. Occasionally, the headlights of a passing car outside hit the mirror over her bureau, sending sparkling lights across the room. She looked down at Victor, who was lying with his head near her belly, on his right side. His eyes were closed. She thought about all the things that her parents had said about him. That he was wrong for her, that he was too worldly, that he was taking her down a path that would lead to a lifetime of misery, but she didn’t see any of that. Victor had liberated her. He loved her for who she was as a person. He’d helped her to see herself through different eyes, to see herself for the person she was, to see the world as not an evil place but one of incredible beauty. She loved him for that. Her parents would never do that, nor would any of the men in her church. Her discovering who she was, being the person she was meant to be, was seen as rebelling against God.

Fuck them.

She watched Victor, thinking about her Sunday school lessons about the devil. In the Old Testament, Satan was the accuser who challenged God to make sure He was doing the right thing. He did not become the fallen angel until much later. The name Satan itself was said to come from the old Hebrew and meant ‘to accuse’. That description was certainly apt. Perhaps her parents were right to dislike Victor. He had challenged their insular belief system. He was no doubt a devil in their mind.

If Victor was their devil, he was her angel.

Victor opened his eyes and looked at her.

Really looked at her.

Something inside her froze solid, reached icy tendrils deep into her veins, freezing her blood solid.

From outside, the sound of a car receding in the distance.

It had to have been an effect from the passing headlights, it happened so fast. Mary Beth only caught a brief glimpse of it, then it was gone.

The red in Victor’s eyes blazed briefly, then died down slowly as the engine from the receding car faded in the distance.

They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment as her skin raised in gooseflesh, the red burned like a fire deep in his eyes and faded with the receding lights from the passing vehicle outside, and then he said, “Will you marry me?”

And then the icy feeling was gone. Mary Beth felt her heart swell with pride. She reached out and touched his face, marveling at the feel of his skin, the roughness of his unshaven cheek. “Yes,” she said, without hesitation. “Yes, I would be honored.”

Victor’s eyes burned with a sense of knowledge that was challenging. Mary Beth met his gaze, which was deep and penetrating with just a hint of red remaining. “What do you see when you look into my eyes?”

Mary Beth didn’t hesitate. “I see the man I love.”

“But you see more. Tell me.”

Mary Beth looked deep into his eyes. “I see a devil in disguise.”

Victor grinned back at her. “A devil that has just asked a christian woman to be His bride. How apt.”

Mary Beth laughed. “How apt indeed.”

And then they fell together and fulfilled their destiny.

The world changed that night.

Story Notes

"Christian Woman" was written to order in 2009 for a proposed anthology being put together by Kyle S. Johnson and Douglas F. Warrick based on the songs of Nick Cave. The anthology never came to fruition, and its first appearance was in Tim Deal's magazine Shroud.

Because the stories in the anthology were supposed to be inspired by a Nick Cave composition, I chose the song "Loverman". There are actually two versions of this song, one performed by Cave, which is very effective and moody and has a very sinister undertone, which is what I was trying to achieve with the story. The other version was covered by Metallica for their Garage, Inc. album. I like that version too.

The lyrics of the song can be interpreted to mean many things. The most common interpretation of the song is about lust, specifically, a man's lust for a woman. Because this was to be an anthology of horror stories, I found a much more sinister meaning in them.

The Wasting

JERRY STALEY BECAME concerned when Emily kept their daughter, Hannah, home for a third day that week.

Third day in a row.

Jerry stood in the hallway outside Hannah's bedroom as she held their daughter on the bed. Hannah was doubled over, vomiting into the bucket they'd put at the side of her bed. She was crying, her hair hanging about her face and down her back in wet tangles. Her thin nightgown was soaked with sweat. Jerry had never seen her this sick. "I think we should take her to see Dr. Westerman."

Emily glanced at him and for the first time he saw fear in her eyes. "Can you make an appointment?"

"Sure." He moved out of the room to make the call.

When he got a receptionist at Dr. Westerman's office, she asked him what Hannah's symptoms were. "She started getting sick Monday night," he said. "Vomiting, night sweats, fever."

"Is she holding down food?"

Jerry frowned. "She's eaten very little in the past few days. My wife stayed home with her Tuesday and made her some soup, which she seemed to keep down, but then she threw up that evening. I stayed home with her yesterday and she ate very little. Just some crackers, some water, that's about it."

"Dr. Westerman has a ten-thirty slot open," the receptionist said. "Can you have her in at that time?"

"We'll be there."

Jerry called in sick at work, ignoring the displeasure in his boss’s voice when he informed him that he was taking another sick day to take care of his sick kid. Rot in hell, Jerry thought as he hung up the phone. Bill Adams was a self-righteous bastard anyway. Ran the accounting department as if it was the only thing on the goddamn planet that had any meaning. Jerry had no reason to feel guilty about taking sick time; he had it coming to him. Hannah was more important than his job, anyway.

Emily got Hannah calmed down while Jerry quickly changed from his work attire into jeans and a t-shirt. He listened to them as their voices drifted from down the hall, Emily's voice soothing. "Let's run you a nice warm bath, honey. It'll make you feel better."

"I feel so tired, mommy." Hannah's voice was low and weak, as if there were no energy behind it.

"I know," Emily said. "You're sick and your body is trying to fight the infection and that's why you feel tired. But we're taking you to the doctor this morning and we'll get you some medicine to make you better, okay?"

When Jerry was finished he told Emily he'd be downstairs in the family room at the computer. Once there, he booted the machine up and accessed the Internet. He began researching Hannah's symptoms as he heard the water upstairs filling the bathtub. Jerry looked up influenza and read through various articles. He knew he shouldn't be worried about anything...it was probably the flu but you could never tell these days, what with these weird airborne diseases all over the place and those weird things like the bird flu sprouting up. Jerry spent thirty minutes looking for information but couldn't find anything out of the ordinary. Their daughter had a bad case of the stomach flu. That’s all it was.

Jerry went into the kitchen to refill his coffee cup. The kitchen counter was piled with unwashed dishes. Scraps of last night's meal dotted a plate. A nearly full bowl of cold, congealed soup sat on the middle island; Hannah's supper last night, which she'd barely touched. Jerry frowned, his mind running back over the last few days. Hannah had been fine Monday morning. She was bubbling with excitement over a presentation she was going to be a part of in school that day. As a ten-year old, Hannah had an abundance of energy and charisma. She kept him and Emily on their toes. She was smart and physically active. She got along well with her classmates and she had friends in the neighborhood. The reports he and Emily received at the parent-teacher conferences they attended all unanimously agreed that Hannah was a well-liked, popular child with teachers, administrators, and fellow pupils.

Because they could not economically afford to have Emily stay home during the day to keep house and care for Hannah after school, they'd arranged for after school daycare at a nice facility close to where Emily worked. Hannah liked it, had friends there, and she was used to spending a few hours at the daycare in the afternoon before Emily picked her up on her way home from work. And things were starting to look better financially, too; Jerry had a friend with a competing firm who promised him a job that paid almost double what he made now. If he could get that position, Emily could quit her job and stay at home with Hannah.

Jerry glanced at the clock. It was only eight-thirty. Knowing the next two hours were going to crawl by, Jerry settled back in his favorite easy chair and turned on the TV, flicking through the channels blindly, trying to keep his mind off of Hannah's illness. But as hard as he tried, he couldn't.

DR. WESTERMAN WAS a good pediatrician, the best in the lower New Mexico/ West Texas area as far as Jerry was concerned. He examined Hannah thoroughly: temperature, blood pressure, pulse, weight, ears, nose and throat. He had her lie on the examination table and felt around her lower belly gently. Hannah winced. She looked somewhat better after the bath, but Jerry could see the dark circles under her eyes. "Stomach hurts a little, huh honey?" Dr. Westerman said. He was a big man, about six-foot one, probably two hundred pounds, but he had the grace of a dancer.

"Yes, it hurts," Hannah said.

"Your stomach muscles feel very tense," Dr. Westerman said. "That's to be expected." He motioned for Hannah to sit up. He reached for his stethoscope. “Let’s listen to your chest.”

Hannah was silent and breathed when Dr. Westerman asked her. He listened to her chest and placed the pad of the stethoscope along her back and listened for a while at various spots. Finally he took it off and looked at Jerry and Emily. “I’m going to have Nurse Paula come in to talk to Emily. And I’d like to see the both of you in my office.”

When Jerry heard that he felt his stomach drop. He felt light-headed, and he had to grip Emily’s elbow for support as he followed the burly doctor out of the examining room and down the hall to his office. Emily appeared no better.

Dr. Westerman got right to the point once he seated himself behind his cluttered desk. “I want to admit Hannah to the El Paso Children’s Hospital and have some tests run.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Emily asked, her voice taking on a frightened tone. “Do you think it’s something serious?”

“Right now she’s got a very bad stomach bug and her vomiting is making her dehydrated,” Dr. Westerman said. “I want her admitted so she can be under observation and get some fluids into her. That should help with the dehydration. While she’s there I’d like to have some blood work done to rule out Hepatitis C.”

“Hepatitis?” Jerry asked. He reached for Emily’s hand.

“The symptoms of Hepatitis C can appear flu-like, which is what Hannah’s exhibiting, but unlike the flu it attacks the liver. I want to rule it out.”

“How likely do you think...” Jerry heard himself say, his mouth running ahead of his thoughts.

“How could she have gotten this?” Emily asked.

“Personally, I don’t think she has it,” Dr. Westerman said. “And I don’t think it’s food poisoning, which this appears to be as well. I think it’s just a really nasty flu bug but I want to be sure, and I want to get some fluids into her. She’s extremely dehydrated and very tired. She needs proper rest and nutrition. She isn’t getting that at home despite your best efforts and she’s not holding solid food down, so she needs some nourishment. El Paso Children’s Hospital can provide that and monitor her condition.” Dr. Westerman mustered a smile. “She’ll be fine by tomorrow. Nasty flu bugs like this are rare, but when they spring up, they mostly affect the elderly and the young, as in Hannah’s case. You said she started feeling sick Monday night?”

“Monday after school, actually,” Emily said.

“It isn’t unusual for a flu bug like this to last this long,” Dr. Westerman said. “Again, I want to err on the side of caution. I’ll call El Paso Children’s myself and get her records over.”

When they exited Dr. Westerman’s office and were left briefly alone in the crowded hallway of the clinic, Emily looked worried. “Do you think it...well, that it might be Hepatitis?”

“I don’t know,” Jerry answered. God, he hoped not.

“I’m sure it’s just what Dr. Westerman said,” Emily continued. “A nasty flu bug. I mean, she was fine Monday morning! Absolutely fine! No sign of sickness or lethargy, she didn’t even complain that her tummy was upset.”

“It could be food poisoning,” Jerry said, not paying attention to the bustle of other patients around them, some of them Mexican ranch hands who worked the horse ranches in this fertile lower New Mexico valley. “I got food poisoning once, was flat out sick for two days from it, throwing up constantly. I couldn’t keep anything down.”

“You think that’s what it is? That she maybe ate something bad at school Monday?”

Jerry shrugged. He wished it could be as simple as that, but then thought better of it. People died from food poisoning. “I don’t know. But her symptoms...the endless vomiting...the sweating...the fever...hell, she was delirious last night and I doubt she’s kept anything down.”

“No, she hasn’t,” Emily agreed. “Aside from some broth and water, she hasn’t kept real food down since Monday evening.”

“Excuse me? Señor? Señora? ”

Jerry and Emily turned to the sound of the voice, which belonged to an aging Mexican peasant they’d noticed standing near one of the examining rooms, as if waiting for a doctor or nurse to attend to him. He was wearing a plaid shirt and blue jeans, a battered straw hat perched on his head. His skin was dark, leathery, his age probably close to seventy. “I’m sorry, but I could not help but overhear you. You’re daughter...she is very sick? Throwing up?”

“Yeah,” Jerry said, suddenly feeling a sense of distrust rise in him. Who the hell was this old guy and why was he butting into their personal business?

“Chicken broth does not soothe the stomach?” the peasant asked. “Nor rest, and she hasn’t kept anything down...si?”

Jerry turned away from the peasant, as did Emily. As an Anglo in a primarily Hispanic community as El Paso, Texas, he’d come across his share of immigrant Mexican people and some native Americans who lived in the area, and nearly all of them were pleasant people to live and work among. This old man reminded him of a pestering uncle, one who couldn’t keep his nose out of other people’s business. Ignoring people like him was usually the remedy.

“Is your nombré missing something?” the man asked again. “Something she lost, perhaps a little toy, a trinket? Something personal she would take notice of?”

This time Emily responded. Jerry thought he saw her face go pale very briefly. “Who are you and why are you asking these questions?” Emily’s voice was almost shrill but it was still somewhat low. Most of that shrillness was from the emotion of worrying about Hannah.

The old man appeared to see something in Emily’s face that Jerry couldn’t. His expression changed, became grave. “What is she missing? She told you, didn’t she?”

Jerry stepped in to the confrontation. “What are you talking about, old man?”

The old man looked up at Jerry. “Forgive me señor, but your daughter...she’s not sick. She’s under the curse of a bruja.”

“A what?”

“A bruja. A witch.”

At another less stressful time, Jerry would have been inclined to dismiss the old man entirely. Not so now. His emotions were wound up. He stepped forward, trying to look and sound menacing as he loomed over the old man. “Look,” he said, his voice low and gritty. “I don’t know who you are, but I want you to leave me and my family alone. We don’t know you, we’ve never seen you before, and we’re going through a bad day right now and we don’t need to hear any of your—“

“She’s very sick, she throws up constantly, she can’t keep food down, much less water, and she’s starting to become delirious,” the old man said. “And she’s missing something personal. I know. The look on your wife’s face told me. That tells me all I need to know. Your daughter has a curse placed on her by a bruja.”

The door to the examining room Hannah was in opened and a nurse escorted her out. Emily went to Hannah, took her hand and led her down to the receptionist area to begin the process of getting her to El Paso Children’s Hospital while the nurse approached Jerry and told him who to ask for there. The old man blended into the background again, leaning against the wall. When the nurse left, Jerry regarded the old man one last time before leaving. The old man met his gaze. “It’s a bruja,” he said, his tone sounding vastly different now. To Jerry it almost sounded as if the old man was now deathly afraid. “I saw it on her face...it’s...in her aura...I can smell it!”

The tension Jerry was feeling was too overwhelming for him. Without another word, he tore himself away from the hallway and went to join his wife and daughter at the receptionist's desk. He felt the old man’s eyes on his back the whole time.

EL PASO CHILDREN’S Hospital was new, part of El Paso General Hospital in the downtown district. This new facility was located five miles north of the main hospital and east of Mesa Street. The doctors there were expecting them, and Jerry and Emily were allowed to accompany their daughter into the examining room where Hannah was examined by Dr. Maria Garcia. Dr. Garcia was guardedly optimistic. “She has a very bad stomach flu,” she told them as they stood a few feet away from Hannah’s hospital bed. “I’d like to put her on IV fluids now and keep her overnight to monitor her condition. When’s the last time she vomited?”

“This morning,” Emily said.

“I can take you to the admissions desk to have the proper paperwork filled out,” Dr. Garcia said. “And if you want, you can stay here with her for the rest of the day. I’d like to give her a mild sedative so she can get some sleep. She’s very tired.”

“That would be fine,” Jerry said.

The rest of the day dragged. Jerry was hopeful the first two hours as the IV needles were inserted in Hannah's veins; he was telling himself she'd be home by tomorrow, that she’d get better once she had some nourishment in her. Hannah settled into her bed, her temperature still hovering at one hundred and one, her skin still sweaty. A mild sedative was administered into her IV and she fell asleep a few minutes later. Dr. Garcia was monitoring their daughter and she turned to Emily and Jerry. "She's fine. Why don't you two grab some lunch? I'll be checking her progress all day.

Thankfully they heeded Dr. Garcia's advice and got some food. If they hadn't, Jerry would have found it nearly impossible to get through the rest of the day.

When they returned to Hannah's room an hour and a half later they came upon a scene that brought a great scare to Jerry. Dr. Garcia was at Hannah's bedside with a nurse. Hannah was sitting up in bed, her back arched forward, throwing up into a bedpan. He and Emily were at Hannah's bedside in an instant, both of them wanting to know what was happening. A nurse led them out, telling them everything was okay, Hannah just had a negative reaction to the medication, please, have a seat in the waiting room, and then they were in a small room, away from their daughter and the nightmare was becoming much harder to bear.

Emily was crying. "What's happening? Why is this happening, what's wrong with her?"

And Jerry could only stand by helplessly, not knowing what to do or say.

Dr. Garcia entered the room thirty minutes later with another physician, this one an older man. His ID badge identified him as Dr. Hill. It was hard to get a read on what was going on due to their poker faces. Dr. Garcia said, "She's resting again. We're running a series of tests on her and—"

"What was she throwing up?" Jerry barked. "She hasn't eaten anything solid in two days! What could possibly make her—"

Dr. Hill interrupted him. "Your daughter's condition is worsening, Mr. And Mrs. Enders. We don't know what's causing it, either."

Emily burst out crying. Jerry could only stand there, feeling like he'd been hit in the face with a sledgehammer.

Dr. Hill continued. "She woke herself up vomiting. She didn't throw up much, just bile. But the contractions were very great, very forceful, and once she was settled down we wheeled her into Radiology for some CT scans. Her blood pressure is going down despite the fluids we're pumping into her, and we want to monitor her kidneys. She hasn't urinated lately, has she?"

"I don't know," Jerry heard himself say, his voice sounding hollow.

Emily could only cry.

"I've talked to Dr. Westerman and he's brought me up on your daughter's history and symptoms," the physician continued. "Are you sure there isn't anything you can remember within the past week that may seem out of ordinary? Anything she might have eaten, or reports of any kids she plays with that are sick? Any sick animals she may have come in contact with?"

"No, nothing," Jerry said, wracking his brain. He couldn't remember anything like that. Emily shook her head, still crying but trying to control the flow of tears.

"I've ordered some more blood work," Dr. Hill continued. "We should get the results back before six. In the meantime, once the CT scan is complete, your daughter will go into intensive care and—"

It became a blur at that point. The countless medical jargon, the wave of confusion over what was happening, Emily's tears. They asked to see Hannah and were told they could be with her during the CT scans. Jerry sat next to his little girl's prone figure as she lay on the table, holding her hand. She looked even more drained, more sick than she had this morning. She was barely conscious but offered a slight smile through heavy-rimmed eyes. "Mommy...Daddy..."

"Close your eyes and go to sleep, sweetheart," Emily said. She smoothed Hannah's hair back from her forehead and kissed her.

Ten minutes after she drank the concentrate prior to doing the abdominal CT scan, she suddenly pitched forward and threw up all over herself. The sudden vomiting surprised everyone in the room. Hannah convulsed, then threw up some more, crying now, her features clearly frightened, telling Jerry that she was in total lack of control of her body functions. The radiologist and a nurse were at her side quickly to assist, the nurse trying to calm her down, and Hannah threw up a third time, voiding white and pink gunk all down her hospital-issued blue gown. Then, without even pausing for a breath, she wailed.

Emily was crying and Jerry was so overcome with fear and frustration that he almost whirled on Dr. Garcia, who had just entered the room. "What the hell is wrong with her! She just threw up again! Why is—"

They stabilized her, and at one point during the chaos Jerry heard Dr. Garcia tell the radiologist that they would try the test again tomorrow once her stomach settled. Then they wheeled her out of radiology and back into intensive care.

And the nightmare got darker.

FOUR A.M.

Jerry Enders couldn't sleep. He was sitting in a stiff chair in the pediatric intensive care unit while Emily lay sprawled between two chairs next to the hospital bed Hannah was sleeping in. Aside from the beeping of the myriad of machines hooked up to their daughter, and the slow susurration of her breathing, the room was silent.

Jerry looked out the window. The room was dark, as was the hallway outside. He could hear footsteps in the hall as the nightshift nurse made her rounds. Jerry yawned and rubbed his eyes. He'd had only two hours of fitful sleep, and while his body screamed for more, his mind refused to let him rest any further. It was still tracking on the past several hours.

Hannah had thrown up again around midnight and Jerry swore he saw blood in it shortly before he and Emily were ushered out of the room. Emily was hysterical; Jerry felt hysterical, too, but he had to be strong for both of them. Dr. Garcia’s replacement for the evening, a young pediatrician named Dr. Gomez, sat down with them in the waiting room and explained very patiently that something in Hannah’s system was causing her body to reject not just food, but fluids. Her blood work had come back normal. The medical team was stumped; they were positive her blood work would have turned up some abnormalities, something they could identify so they would know what they were up against. They wanted to do a spinal tap now. Jerry asked if there would be any consequences from the procedure and when Dr. Gomez answered that there probably wouldn’t, Jerry gave the consent much to Emily’s chagrin. Then they’d waited.

Hannah had gone through the spinal tap fine; she was so out of it that she wasn’t aware of the procedure. And now she was back in bed, sleeping as her IVs were monitored. Patches had been placed on her stomach to monitor stomach contractions; when they started, it sent a message to the system administering her IV to cut off the fluids. Dr. Gomez was concerned about the excessive vomiting. “It can not only damage her stomach, but her esophagus,” he said.

And now he was left sitting here in Hannah’s intensive care room at the hospital, wondering how his little girl could get so sick.

And all he could think of was what that peasant told him at Dr. Westerman’s office. Your daughter...she is under the curse of a bruja...a witch.

Jerry couldn’t help but dwell on that now, turning it over in his mind. He wasn’t a superstitious man. He was raised Catholic, and he used to go to church but had stopped years ago. He still believed in God, but he wasn’t an overtly religious person. He found it hard to believe in things like witches and curses.

Yet there was something about that old man’s face when he saw Hannah coming out of the examining room at Dr. Westerman’s clinic...as if he’d seen something Jerry and Emily couldn’t. And the way he seemed to know Hannah’s symptoms intimately, without even overhearing what was going on. Jerry had been trying to convince himself that the old man was some kind of con artist who’d somehow overheard a snatch of conversation and decided to prey on them. But if so, why? What could be gained? Jerry didn’t have the answer to that question.

And then there was the matter of what the old man said about Hannah missing something personal...as if she’d lost something. This was the first Jerry had heard about it, and now it troubled him.

He leaned over and gently shook Emily awake. She opened her eyes, disoriented. “Wha?”

“I want to ask you something,” Jerry asked, his voice a low whisper. “Has Hannah lost something recently? A toy, a book, a piece of clothing or jewelry?”

“What do you mean?” Emily was more awake now but still drowsy. She was sitting up, balanced on her left arm, looking curiously at him.

“Did Hannah misplace something?” Jerry asked again. “Or maybe lose something? A necklace or a doll or—”

“She misplaced that little kitty of hers,” Emily said. “On Monday. She took it to school with her and when I picked her up from daycare, she didn’t have it. She said she lost it.”

Jerry knew what Emily was talking about. Hannah’s kitty was a little toy kitten, a plush doll. It was brown, about the size of an adult’s palm. Hannah carried it everywhere with her in the house and had taken it to daycare before. Jerry was surprised that Hannah hadn’t raised a bigger fuss Monday evening because kitty was her favorite stuffed animal. Of course, by then she was sick.

“So she lost it at daycare,” Jerry echoed, his mind whirling. “She left it there or...did she let another kid play with it or—“

“I don’t think so...she told me she lost it,” Emily said. “I told her she shouldn’t be taking her kitty to daycare, but you know how she is...”

“I know.”

“Hannah guarded her kitty jealously. The only kid she ever let play with it was Amy, and even then I had to insist on that. Remember?”

Jerry did remember Amy, who was not only a classmate in Hannah’s fourth grade class, but attended the same daycare facility.

“Wasn’t Amy’s mother the one that was—” Jerry began.

“Yes,” Emily said. “That’s the one.”

Jerry didn’t know details, but from what little he’d gleaned, Amy’s mom and Emily had a run-in after a PTA meeting a few months ago. Jerry still didn’t know what the transgression was about, but there was no love lost between the two mothers. Hannah’s relationship with Amy, on the other hand, was practically non-existent. Hannah only mentioned Amy in passing, and the impression that Jerry always had was that Amy simply wasn’t on Hannah’s radar. The incident Emily just mentioned was a one-shot; Emily had just happened to be at the daycare facility to pick Hannah up when she’d overheard Amy ask if she could play with Hannah’s kitty. Hannah had said no, and Emily had told Hannah, “Oh, come on Hannah, let her play with it for a little bit.”

"Why do you want to know about Hannah’s kitty?” Emily asked.

"Just wondering." Jerry looked at the bed where Hannah was sleeping and Emily turned to look at their daughter, too. Hannah was in deep sleep, oxygen tubes stuck up her nostrils, the IV bag doing its slow drip. Jerry watched the slow rise and fall of her chest, noting her already too-skinny frame. She's been without food now for almost three days...hell, basically she'd just had a very tiny bit to eat. And fluids...very little of that. She's being starved to death. But how...and why?

Emily settled back down in a comfortable position and started to cry again. Jerry knelt down beside her and felt stupid for trying to comfort her. He could only rub her back, her arm, and offer meaningless words of comfort as the black sky outside slowly gave way to morning.

AT THE CRACK of dawn, with the western sun bleeding a dull orange, Jerry drove his sedan down a lonely highway heading out of El Paso and into New Mexico. He kept his eyes peeled along the side of the road, searching. He was told that the majority of day laborers gathered at various spots along this stretch of Mesa Street, which was now Highway 20, and was assured even more of them gathered near the Wal-Mart at the crossroads. Jerry was determined to find the peasant who'd spoken to him yesterday at Dr. Westerman's clinic; he would find him; he was sure of it.

The last three hours replayed in his mind as he drove slowly up Highway 20:

Dr. Gomez checking on Hannah's vital signs and monitoring the machine hooked up to her. Jerry noticed his frown. Blood pressure is dropping, he said. Oxygen level in her blood is low. She needs more fluids.

Hannah waking up suddenly with violent wretches of vomiting. Her heart monitor accelerated into the stratosphere as two nurses and Dr. Gomez worked to stop the vomiting and stabilize her. Emily could only crouch in the corner and weep.

Jerry talking to a Hispanic custodian outside while he nursed a cup of coffee. Lots of day Laborer's in this area are Native Americans, you know, the custodian said in response to Jerry asking if the peasant's description was familiar. Not all of them come from Mexico, from Juarez. This guy sounds like he could be local. Most likely he just works at a farm.

And now Jerry was driving up Highway 20 searching for the man he'd dismissed yesterday afternoon as a superstitious lunatic.

Twice he thought he saw the man during two drive-bys near groups of men that were hanging around convenience stores waiting for work, but both times the peasant hadn't been there. Now Jerry was pulling up near the Wal-Mart when he saw what appeared to be a familiar face. He drove up to the group of a dozen men who were idly watching his approach. As he drew closer, Jerry felt the adrenaline surge. One of the men was the peasant! No mistake about it. He was dressed in the same basic uniform he was wearing yesterday; dirty blue jeans, a red and blue plaid shirt, and a dirty straw hat. Jerry pulled the car as close to the men as he could, put the vehicle in park, opened the door, and stepped out. He waved to get the man's attention. The peasant saw him and the other men began crowding around, eager to be picked for a day's work. Jerry could tell the peasant recognized him; their eyes locked. Jerry motioned the man over and the peasant approached.

As he approached, the other men drew back. Jerry ignored them as he locked his gaze on the peasant’s. “Remember me?”

“Si! Su nombré, ella obtiene peor. Your daughter, she is getting worse.

“Yes, she is,” Jerry said. “Forgive me...my Spanish is poor. I can understand but...” He groped for the right phrase. “No habla espanol.”

The peasant nodded. “Your daughter...she is getting worse.”

“Yes. You said yesterday that my daughter...she...” Jerry felt conspicuous standing here with the day laborers eyeing them. He gestured to the peasant. “Please...get in. I’ll pay you for your trouble, just...”

The peasant appeared to understand Jerry wanted privacy and got in the passenger side of the sedan. Jerry backed the car up and drove to the other side of the parking lot and stopped. He checked the rearview mirror; the day laborers had resumed their stance, waiting for work.

Jerry turned to the peasant. He felt on the verge of panic. “You said yesterday that my daughter was missing something. It turns out she is. A stuffed toy. How did you—“

“How did I know? I knew when I saw her. She had an aura about her. A black ring that clings to her that reeks of sickness and evil. I’ve seen it before. It’s a spell that only an evil bruja would cast. I saw my cousin get cursed this way, many years ago in Chihuahua. She died from it.”

This wasn’t what Jerry needed to hear. He felt a tremor go through him. “Can it be stopped?” he asked.

“Yes,” the peasant answered quickly. “The bruja...the witch...hasn’t been outside or seen by anybody for as long as your daughter has been sick, so it will be difficult. That’s what makes this particular spell work. You will need to find the bruja. Once you find the bruja, the item your daughter lost...what was it? A toy?”

Jerry nodded. His throat felt sore.

“The toy will be in the bruja’s possession. You must take it. Try to take other items if you can. Clothing, even if it doesn’t belong to your daughter. Your daughter’s hair or sweat might be on it from the toy. Most likely, though, this won’t be the case.”

“How am I going to find this bruja?” Jerry asked, mostly to himself.

“Whatever you do, do not harm the bruja in any way.” The peasant was grave. “You will want to. The vengeance of a man over the suffering of his child will be great. But please...I beg of you...for the sake of your daughter, do not cause harm to the bruja. That will only make matters worse.”

“Then what?”

“That’s it. Simply take the toy. That will break the spell completely. You will know it has worked when your daughter’s condition begins improving.”

Jerry’s mind was whirling. If spells were like recipes for meticulously prepared meals, it made sense. Take away an important ingredient and the dish was not the same. Perhaps it worked the same way with black magic. “How am I going to find this bruja?”

“It must be somebody your daughter has offended deeply,” the peasant said. “Somebody your daughter must have told you about. Maybe—“

Amy’s mother? No, it couldn't be.

The peasant noticed the look on Jerry’s face. “You think you know?”

“Yes,” Jerry said, reaching for the keys.

The peasant’s face grew pale. “¡Mi Dios!” The peasant crossed himself. “Are you sure, señor?”

“No.” Jerry didn’t like the look of horror that came over the peasant’s face. “The person I’m thinking of has no reason to harm my daughter. She got into an argument with my wife...it doesn’t make sense to get revenge on my wife by placing a curse on our child!”

“Then go,” the peasant said. “Quickly. Pueda a Dios está con usted.” The peasant got out of the car and Jerry started the engine and drove out of the Wal-Mart parking lot, heading back to town.

JERRY DIDN’T KNOW much about Amy White, only that she lived in a small two room house on the far west side of town, in an area that bordered Texas, New Mexico, and Mexico. It was a rural, poor area with a heavy Hispanic and Native American population. The few times Jerry saw Amy when he picked Hannah up at daycare he surmised Amy was of Native American heritage; she had that bronze skin, the high cheekbones, the long straight black hair.

Jerry remembered he and Emily driving Hannah through this section of town, pointing out the route to her. The day care mini-van would pick the kids up from the elementary school and take them to the facility, taking her through this area. Hannah had pointed out all the houses where classmates lived and Jerry remembered her pointing out Amy’s house specifically. “That’s Amy’s house,” Hannah had said. Jerry remembered that the structure had stuck out from all the others; it was small, more like a crackerbox house with faded green paint, a dirty, unkempt yard surrounded by a chain link fence and clothes hanging from a clothesline in the front yard.

Now Jerry was trying to find the house again, hoping he could bluff his way inside, but not knowing what to expect.

As he drove, his mind raced back over the past few months. He’d never met Amy’s mother and all he’d heard from Emily was that the woman was not only an alcoholic, she was paranoid. “She always thinks somebody's out to get her,” Emily told him one night. “Always thinks the school is punishing her for some supposed wrong-doing, or that her daughter isn’t being treated well by the teachers or the other kids. You can’t believe how difficult that woman can be!” Jerry tried to remember what it was that caused the argument at the PTA meeting, but couldn’t.

Still, if Mrs. White was paranoid as Emily claimed...

And if there was the slightest chance she was a practicing bruja...

Bullshit!

There was Hannah’s kitty...Amy was the only kid who handled it.  And it was missing.

This is ridiculous, he thought to himself as he entered the neighborhood he remembered the White home to be in. If Amy’s mother had a problem with Emily, why take it out on a child? It doesn’t make sense!

And it didn’t. But he had to find out for himself.

Jerry finally saw the house at the end of the street he remembered, and pulled over. He got out of the car and let himself in through the gate. It didn’t appear anybody was home. He made his way up to the ragged porch and knocked on the rickety screen door.

For a moment there was silence. Jerry tried to listen, to see if he could detect anything inside. Suddenly the screen door was wrenched open and a thin, ragged-looking woman stood behind the screen door peering out at him through red-rimmed eyes; obviously Amy’s mother. She was smoking a cigarette, dressed in ratted denim shorts and a thin t-shirt. Her hair was long, dark black with streaks of gray. “Yeah?”

“This the White residence?” Jerry tried not to let the aroma of sweat and booze that permeated from the woman affect him.

“Yeah,” the woman said. Her voice was slurred. Already eight a.m. and she was in the bag. “Who’re you?”

“I’m from Health Services,” Jerry said, the lie springing to him quickly. “Amy’s school contacted me.”

“Really?” The woman was making no move to let him in the house.

“Can I come in?” Without waiting for an answer, Jerry shoved the woman aside and entered the house.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing? You can’t just come in here like—“

The smell was the first thing that hit Jerry. The cramped living room was dark and overrun with empty beer cans, empty pizza boxes, ashtrays, cigarette smoke, vomit, and cat feces from two litter pans that were overflowing with waste. The smell was cloying. If Amy’s mother was a bruja, there was no evidence of it here. Jerry squinted, hoping his eyes would adjust quickly to the dark. “Where’s Amy’s bedroom?” he asked, already heading toward what appeared to be a hallway.

“The hell you think you’re doing?” the woman stumbled behind him. “You can’t just—”

Jerry didn’t hear her, focusing now on a closed door at the end of the hall. When he opened the door to the room the smell of vomit hit him strongly. The sight was shocking, riveting, horrifying.

A young girl was lying on the bed, her skin white and sweaty. The bed, floor, and walls were streaked with vomit. The room was bathed in a soft fluorescent light, lending an eerie atmosphere to the room. Jerry had time to see the condition of the girl, the strange designs scrawled on the walls and burned into the carpet and black candles that were now burnt out. Jerry’s eyes crawled over the comatose figure sprawled on the bed and he caught a momentary glimpse of kitty clutched in Amy’s grip, a puke-covered spoon lying by her side (Jesus, has she been forcing herself to vomit with that thing? My God!) when he heard the woman’s voice behind him. “You’re the father of that girl, Hannah, the one who's been bullying her.”

Jerry turned around, wanting to say, no, you have it wrong, Hannah isn't a bully, why is Amy doing this, what have you been allowing to happen in your own goddamn house? What came out instead was a mumbled, “No.”

Mrs. White looked at Jerry, a sense of dawning coming over her features. "You didn't know."

"Didn't know what?" Jerry's heart was racing.

"About the bullying."

"What bullying? My daughter isn't—"

"A bully? I beg to differ, Mr. Enders." Mrs. White might have been drunk, but she had a calm purpose. "I had words with your wife about the way your daughter treated Amy and got nowhere with her. I thought I could at least communicate my concerns to her, mother to mother. The school surely never did shit."

Jerry's mind was a whirlwind. He couldn't grasp the concept of hearing that his daughter, his Hannah, was a bully. "This...must be some kind of mistake."

"Amy would come home in tears over your daughter's teasing," Mrs. White continued. She stepped closer and Jerry saw that she was clutching a butcher knife. "She got the other kids in on it, too. She was the ringleader. They made fun of Amy's voice, her hair, the names they called her—"

Jerry happened to see a school photo of Amy sitting on the bureau on his left. He caught a momentary glimpse of a seven-year old Amy smiling at the camera, all wide-eyed innocent and happy. There was no way that Hannah Enders could be a bully, he would have heard something, besides they never raised Hannah that way!

"Surprised, aren't you? Guess that's to be expected when you're never home and always working."

"My daughter..." Jerry began, couldn't have bullied your daughter he wanted to say.

“Is a bully and her endless torments got to Amy so bad, that nothing I did worked! It got so bad that I caught her cutting herself. Can you imagine that? A ten-year-old cutting herself! Nobody believed me though. I tried the school guidance counselor, I tried talking to your wife; nothing worked! I tried to stop her from doing this but I didn’t reach her in time, it's too far along now for me to stop it!”

Jerry took an involuntary step back into the room. If he could only get close to Amy and snatch that doll from her hand...

Mrs. White lurched toward him again and he stepped further into the room. "If you think you're taking Hannah's stuffed animal to break the spell, you can forget it. It'll kill Amy."

"What?" Surely if he got the doll out of the girl's clutches the spell would be reversed, right?

"Go ahead," Mrs. White said, nodding toward the lone figure on the bed. "Take a look."

Jerry looked at Amy and what he saw almost made him faint.

Hannah's plush doll, kitty, had been sewn into Amy's palm. Nasty looking fish hooks were embedded in the delicate skin of her wrist. They were attached to a weird contraption that was sewn into the little girl's palm. Crusted blood dotted her palm and wrist and pooled in clotted lumps on the floor. Yank the stuffed animal out and the flesh would be ripped off her hand, and the veins in her wrist would open, spilling blood like a faucet.

"I tried to get to her in time but the spirits she conjured are too strong," Mrs. White said. She was clearly upset and angry, but her hatred of Jerry was clear. She fixed him with a mad rage and raised the knife. "She never would have done this if Hannah hadn't treated her so badly!"

And then Mrs. White let out a yell and rushed forward in her attack and all Jerry could do was fight for his life and hope he survived to be able to somehow work kitty out of that contraption and break the spell.

Story Notes

This one came to mind due to a very nasty flu-bug my daughter caught when she was about six or seven. Right around the same time she had come under the attention of some kids in her class who were bullying her. Thankfully, the bullying wasn't too serious—we'd gone through all the positive reinforcement talks with her and she was smart enough to realize that the problem wasn't with her, it was with the kids who were being pests. In fact, the bullying (what passed for it) passed almost as quickly as it reared its ugly head.

Reading about childhood bullying and the extreme nature it can take with kids these days got me thinking. A lot of stories that explore the theme of bullying do so from the victim's point of view. I wanted to explore it from another angle, and it was the first of my stories to do that. Another later tale ("Nerd") also explores this theme, but does so from the perspective of an adult survivor of childhood bullying.

Breaking Point

RICK MARTINEZ WAS two blocks from his apartment off Franklin in West Hollywood when the unmistakable red and blue lights of an LAPD squad car pulled up beside him. No matter what innocent activity he was involved in, it seemed that the shaved head and the baggy pants were open invitations to harassment from The Man. Regardless of innocence.

The microphoned voice came next: “Stop and put your hands above your head.”

Shit!  Rick stopped, assuming the position. He heard the twin doors of the patrol car open and close. A nervous twinge began in the pit of his stomach, worming its way through his extremities. The last time this happened, he had been mistaken as the suspect in a string of convenience store hold-ups. One of the arresting officers had slammed his face to the pavement during the arrest, breaking his nose and mashing three of his teeth into his gums. The impact had shattered his chin. A two-hour surgery had been required to remove tooth splinters from his fragmented jaw. The twenty million dollar lawsuit he had filed through the attorney the ACLU had provided him with had been snared in red tape for three years now. Despite his obvious innocence, he had still been slapped with a resisting arrest and assault on an officer charge. The whole fiasco reeked of pure owldung, which the D.A. had smelled a mile off. Dismissal was inevitable.

“Hands on top of your head, asshole.” He complied and felt immense pain in his shoulder joints as a massive paw clamped down and pinched the nerve. This sent the left side of his body into a jerking motion and the second officer moved in quickly. Rick caught the flash of a baton rise out of the corner of his eye and his mind flashed back on the prior incident. Instinct and adrenaline took over in supercharged hyper-motion.

He grabbed the cop holding his shoulder by the wrist and with a forward twist sent him flying over his shoulder. Before the officer hit the ground on his back with a loud woof of exhaled air, Rick had curled up into a fetal ball to avoid the deadly downward descent of the baton. The instrument missed his skull by a mile. The swinging momentum gave him the opportunity to spring up and grab Cop #2’s head between his hands. He brought the cops face down and introduced his kneecap to breaking face bones. Cop #2 went down like a sack of shit. It all went down in less than ten seconds.

Cop #1 sprung to his feet, a surprised look on his face, when Rick unleashed a straightforward Tae Kwon Do kick that pulverized his nose into mush. The second cop was trying to get up, and Rick bent down and scooped his police issued nine millimeter from his holster. He planted one foot on the cop's chest. He leveled the barrel at the cop's face. A surge of victorious adrenaline flushed through him. “Wrong move.”

Both cops were conscious, bloody, and heaving with the exertion of defeat. Rick’s heart pounded in his chest. The ten years of martial arts training had paid off finally. He’d never once been mugged, accosted, or been involved in a physical altercation that would require its use. Three years before, when two cops had beaten him up, he’d been too stunned to react; blame that on being away from the wrong side of the law for so long. Cops were supposed to serve and protect. He’d complied with their instructions and had been totally off guard for the beating they administered. Since that incident, he was on prime defense mode at all times now, just like he used to be when he was running around with his old homeboys, Gardena Trese.

Both officers looked like pulverized school bullies who had just gotten beaten by the scrawny kid they had victimized for years. Cop #1, who was fortyish with graying hair, mustache, and a slight gut, was holding his ruined nose in his hands. Blood poured over his fingers. Cop #2 was young, early twenties and full of macho jism from the looks of it. He was short, dark skinned, his hair shaved in a crew cut, with a weight lifter's physique. He still had fight in him. He rose to a sitting position and glared at Rick with a burning desire to use his body as a piñata.  His baton was lying in a patch of grass five feet away. His eyes darted to it, sizing up the distance.

Rick was one step ahead of him. He kept the gun pointed at the officers. It had been less than thirty seconds since the fiasco had transpired, and in another minute people would begin coming out of their houses for a look-see, if they hadn’t already. Cop #1 still had his gun. Rick motioned to him. “You. Take out your gun and hold it out so I can see it.”

“Fuck you,” Rookie cop spat. “You’re in for it, scumbag. “

Rick lashed out a kick. It connected with Rookie Cop’s solar plexus. He doubled over, gasping for air as Rick motioned toward his superior. “I know you’re not as stupid as your side-kick.” He placed the muzzle of Rookie’s gun to his temple. “Take out your gun and slide it over here to me. You or he make one false move and I blow his brains out all over the sidewalk.”

Cop #1 began fumbling for his gun. He pulled it out in offering. “Here. Take it.” He slid it over, then put his hands back over his face to stop the bleeding. His bloody features were set in a pleading gesture. He began a feeble attempt at negotiation. “Listen,  let’s just—”

“Let’s just what?” Rick had picked up the gun and jammed it muzzle first into his jacket pocket. “Be reasonable? Be civilized? Your buddy over there wasn’t being reasonable when he made to belt me one with his baton while I was assuming the position the way I’d been told.”

Cop #1 opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. Rookie Cop was just finally beginning to catch his breath. Cop #1 glared at his younger partner.

Rick motioned to Cop #1 again with his gun. “Enough bullshit. You, cuff your partner and then sit down and place your hands over your head.”

“What?” He acted as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

“You heard me. Handcuff your partner and then assume the position. I’m going to turn you in and make a citizen’s arrest.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding.” A couple of people were now gathering on porches to see what was going on.

The barrel of the gun kissed Rookie Cop’s temple. Rookie Cop wasn’t so macho anymore; he was trembling. “Now.”

Cop #1 complied, and when he was finished he sat down on the sidewalk, hands over his head. Rick pointed the gun at his head and knelt down behind him. He took Rookie Cop’s handcuffs out of its sheath and cuffed the older man. Then he hauled him to his feet and motioned for Rookie Cop to get up. He herded them toward the back seat of their squad car.

One of the onlookers stepped toward the scene, a curious look of amazement on his face. Cop #1 turned toward him as Rick shoved him in the backseat. “Call 911, tell them—”

“Shut up.” Rick shoved the cop in the car and turned toward the onlooker. He was a thirty-something Hispanic man who stood in gape-mouthed amazement. A moment later he turned tail and ran, probably to summon more men in blue. Rick’s heart was racing. The flight or fight syndrome had passed, and now he was facing the consequences of the fight. He had just disabled two armed LAPD officers who had started out to do bodily damage to him. Now they were the ones who had been taken down, and he had their guns. He was going to turn them in to the police station and say here. These guys tried to beat me up for no reason. They’re bad cops. Take care of them.

Only he knew it wasn’t going to work that way.

He almost stopped right there. He was half tempted to just give it up, uncuff the officers, give them back their guns, and let the proper higher authorities handle it. More officers were surely on the way, and it was a sure bet that he would be beaten to shit anyway. So much for leaving gang life behind and trying to be a law-abiding citizen.

His adrenaline was still on high. His face felt flushed; it felt like he had just done two lines of primo coke. He shut the backdoor of the squad car and climbed in behind the driver’s side. The street was now lined with people pointing and gaping at them. His fear pushed him on.

When he pulled out of the neighborhood his intention had still been to act within the limits of the law. Citizen’s arrest. Self defense. Only the more he thought about it, the more he knew how he would end up.

And as his fear mounted, he abandoned all sense and headed for the Hollywood Freeway.

THEY WERE ON the freeway for a mere three minutes before it hit him that he would have to ditch the patrol car pronto.

Additional backup had probably arrived at the scene by now. When the responding officers were alerted to the situation by Rick’s neighbors, they would check back with dispatch. Once there, dispatch would most likely nail down which patrol car had been in the area at that time. He hoped these two cops hadn’t informed headquarters as to their surveillance and upcoming arrest. If this was the case, the powers-that-be might not know who was missing for quite awhile yet.

However, because police officers were involved, their colleagues would scramble to save the day for their brethren. The identities of the cops, the squad car, and Rick, could be all over police bulletins in seconds.

He debated pulling off and nabbing a civilian car via car-jacking. Too risky. His victim would most likely call for help on the police radio, and without the intermittent squawk of the broadcasts, Rick wouldn’t know when they were coming for him. It would be better to lay low.

In the backseat both police officers were sullen. Rookie Cop had yelled threatening obscenities, vowing to mash Rick’s wetback face into the cement until his superior had shut him up. Cop #1 had been more nice. He talked in an even, steady tone, trying to convince Rick to give it up. There was no way he could escape; West Hollywood Division knew where they were and it would be only moments before a line of squad cars would be in pursuit with police helicopters following. All three major news stations would send out their own helicopters to record the chase, and it would wind up on the evening news. He’d be a star.

He dwelled on that for a moment.

After awhile Cop #1 began to make conversation. Rookie Cop had lapsed into a silent stupor, gazing out the side window, his face a mask of blood. Cop #1 appeared calm beneath his broken, bloody face. “Why are you doing this, son?”

The expression in his voice wormed into Rick’s conscience. He sighed. “I don’t know," he answered, keeping his eyes on the road. “I don’t know what I’m doing, or where I’m going, or what I’m going to do, or—”

“Why don’t you just stop?” Cop #1 was sitting back, looking at Rick in the rearview mirror. His features were a mask of street-smart and veteran tact. “Just pull over and—”

“For what?” Rick's voice rose in a near yell. The fear bubbled to the surface again, setting off a wave of panic. “For you to beat me up like you did last time? No way—”

It stopped Cop #1 cold. “An officer assaulted you before?”

Rick snorted. “Assaulted? Yeah, you can say that. Motherfuckin’ pigs thought I had robbed a liquor store. They said I fit the description. They pulled me over, patted me down, and I did everything they told me to do. I complied.” He stopped, his throat going suddenly dry at the memory. “Then they pushed me to the ground and I...it freaked me out. I wasn’t expecting it. One of ‘em hit me with a baton in the back of the knee to bring me to the ground and I fell against his partner. He kicked me in the stomach. When I tried to get up, his partner smashed my face in the sidewalk and they arrested me.” His face was grim as he drove. Anger burned through his veins. “I’ve been straight for over twelve years. I've never even gotten a ticket in that time, and suddenly I’m slapped with a resisting arrest charge, assault on a police officer, and disturbing the peace. Not to mention one hell of a doctor and dental bill.”

The cops were silent for a moment. Finally, Cop #1 spoke up softly. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Rookie Cop snorted in disdain. “Jesus, I don’t believe you—”

The older cop turned to him. “From now on, you keep your mouth shut. You were the one who tried to hit him.”

“Yeah, so what?” Rookie Cop had all the annoyance and smugness of a defiant punk. “You heard him. He’s got a record already for assaulting a police officer and resisting arrest and who knows what else. His kind always do.”

Rick was grim as he drove. He glared at Rookie Cop through the rearview mirror. “It’s your preconceived judgment based on my appearance which got you in the situation you’re in. If I were you, I’d listen to your superior and shut up.”

Rookie Cop leaned forward, his face pressed against the mesh that separated the front and back seats. “You motherfucking wetback spic piece of shit, I swear to God—”

“Derrick!” Cop #1 roared. His face was flushed with anger. “I’m telling you to shut the fuck up. I mean it!”

Rookie Cop shot his superior a grimace. “I don’t believe you. You’re condoning what—”

“I’m not condoning anything, goddammit, I’m trying to work this out.” Cop #1 was sweating amid the blood on his face. “Now will you kindly shut up and let me talk it out with him?”

Rookie Cop, now christened Derrick, huffed in defeat and plopped back in the rear seat of the patrol car. The defeat of a pissed off little kid.

Cop #1 turned toward Rick. “I apologize for my colleague's actions. If he hadn’t tried to assault you we wouldn’t be here now, would we?”

Rick shook his head. “No, we wouldn’t.” His eyes met Derrick’s in the rearview mirror. Despite the predicament, despite the fact that his mind was screaming at him to just let these guys off and get away, a part of him wanted to leap in the back seat and rip Derrick’s throat out.

The older cop’s tone was lower now, more controlled. He leaned forward in his seat. “Let’s try to be civil now. I’m Officer Frank Cunningham. This is my partner Derrick Morena.”

Rick nodded in acknowledgment. “Rick Martinez.”

“Okay, Rick.” Frank appeared to be choosing his words carefully, as if he was stepping around strategically placed land mines. “Why don’t we talk this thing out and see what we can do?”

Interstate 5 was coming up and Rick slowed to get into the eastbound on-ramp. He shook his head. “What is there to resolve? You tried to kick my ass for no reason, I responded by instinct and defended myself, and all I want to do is make a citizen’s arrest but I know either way I’m still gonna be fucked.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way, though.” Frank was fast with his answers, and Rick assumed the man’s brain was working on overdrive to get him and his smart ass little partner out of this jam. “We’ll turn ourselves in and absolve your part in—”

Derrick shot up in his seat. “Wait a fucking minute!”

Frank turned back to his partner. “Shut up.”

“Fuck you! I’m not taking any rap this asshole lays on us.”

“If you don’t shut up right now, I’m stopping the car and I’m gonna put a bullet in your fucking brain.” Rick conveyed his threat visually, eyeing Derrick through the rearview mirror. He was on the 5 now and began drifting toward the off ramps. “We can stop right here if you want to. There’s no houses, nothing but industrial buildings in this area, and if I wanted to I could kill you out here and nobody would know a thing. Should I stop the car now?”

Derrick slumped back in his seat. “Fuck.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

Silence.

“Answer me!”

“No!” They were now in the first lane, drifting toward Montebello Avenue. Derrick read the intention in Rick’s eyes, instinct telling him that if he pushed it too far he was going to end up with the gray matter of his brainpan spread out on some industrial parking lot. He averted his gaze toward the window. “Just keep driving.”

“I hear one peep out of you and you’re history. You understand?”

“Yeah.” Derrick sulked like a spoiled brat denied an afternoon of play.

“Okay.” Rick turned his attention back toward the freeway, hands gripping the steering wheel in tight concentration. Frank was silent as they hit congestion on the freeway. The police banner came through at intervals, and now it was announced through a mechanical voice that two LAPD officers had been kidnapped, identifications pending. Rick snaked his way to the shoulder lane for passing. “Where’s the flashing lights on this thing?”

“Switch to your left on the dash.” Frank was checking the traffic, his mode on red alert status. Rick hit the lights and accelerated, making as if they were legit patrolmen on a secret pursuit. They drifted past the congestion with ease until they hit free flowing traffic. Once there, he swung into the fast lane, accelerated to ninety. They had to get out of the city.

Rick drove, his mind racing and formulating a way out of this mess before the shit hit the fan.

FORTY MINUTES LATER they were in Riverside County, and attempts had already been made to contact the officers via police radio. Rick ignored the inquiries and was positive that a full alert was on in the Southern California area with complete descriptions of the officers and himself. It wouldn’t be long before somebody in the air—local news networks had helicopters all over the place, and various law enforcement agencies also employed helicopter patrol throughout the region—noticed the vehicle identification number painted in large black letters on the roof of the car and commenced a high-speed chase. Rivulets of sweat ran down Rick’s face as he pulled off the 91 Freeway into an unincorporated hilly area of south Riverside County. “We gotta get ourselves another vehicle.”

Frank and Derrick remained silent. Frank had tried coercing Rick into giving up and letting them go. No charges would be pressed; they would turn themselves in for unprovoked assault on a civilian, they—

But Rick nixed that. What they did to amend the situation would prove worthless. Their superiors and the city of Los Angeles would be hungry to press charges anyway.  His wrong move had been herding them into the vehicle during his citizen’s arrest. Legal sharks on the D.A.’s side could categorize that as kidnapping and interfering with a government agent. Either way you looked at it, he was going to jail no matter how innocent he’d been initially.

Rick voiced his views and Frank seemed to consider them. True, he said. The city could press charges. But he was willing to testify against himself for Rick. At that statement, Derrick once again exploded into a tyrannical fit. Rick pulled off the freeway into a quiet cul-de-sac and pulled up to the curb. He got out of the car, opened the door to the back seat, and shoved the gun barrel down Derrick’s throat.  Rick gazed into the quivering cop’s face. Next time, you won’t be so lucky. Do you understand me?

The rising acidic stench of urine filling the interior of the car told him that Derrick understood too well.

After gagging the little fuck with black duct tape he found in the glove compartment, he debated on doing likewise to his partner. Might as well. He gagged Frank, too, not really wanting to, but knowing that it was still him against them until this thing was over.

He got another car easy. He jimmied the lock on a ‘78 Camaro parked around the corner, behind an empty storefront, and herded the officers inside. He ditched the patrol car behind the storefront. The neighborhood was silent and asleep. He jump-started the Camaro easily and cruised out of the parking lot and hit Interstate 91 at the legal limit.

IT WAS TOUCHING on one a.m. when they hit the Barstow City Limits.

Rick had ungagged Officer Frank some two hours earlier. Frank wasn’t a threat, and there was something in the older man’s demeanor and tone of voice that suggested that he was of semi-rational mind. Not too rational, though. After all, he was a cop.

Rick had ungagged him for the simple need of communication. Derrick was out of the question. As long as Frank kept away from the negotiation attempts, he was okay. Rick had kept the radio on KFI, an all news station, until it grew fuzzy with static when they started climbing over the Cahon pass toward Barstow. The Camaro had a full tank of gas and wouldn’t require refueling until they hit the state line. When he pulled over earlier to ungag Frank, he had taken inventory of the backseat and trunk’s stock. There was a large dirty brown quilt thrown over the top of the backseat, which he could use to conceal the officers when they reached a gas station. The trunk had yielded a makeshift toolbox equipped with the necessities: wrenches of various sizes, pliers, screwdrivers, a couple of saws, and two hammers. A rusty tire iron sat locked within the spare tire. If Derrick acted up again he would use it to bash his skull in. It would make killing him more pleasurable.

But he knew he wouldn’t do it. No way.

His sole reason for ungagging Officer Frank was for a rap session, a hopeful man-to-man talk. Once his vocal cords were free, Rick nodded that he wanted to talk, just so long as they didn’t touch on the subject of turning himself in. Frank agreed. Anything to keep the channels open would keep them both alive.

During the three-hour drive to Barstow they talked. Rick gave him the rundown on his previous subjection to police brutality and gave him some vital stats. He was thirty-six, divorced, father of three. He was an ex-gang member, joining the Gardena Trese street gang when he was twelve years old. He had spent the next eleven years as a hardcore gang member; committing robberies and drive-by shootings, dealing coke and smack and getting hooked on the latter; and being a general badass. The lifestyle had gotten him a lengthy rap sheet, with the most severe being attempted murder—he had served two to four for that at Chino Hills. His uncle had helped him get out of the gang, had put him through rehab. Of course, the Man Upstairs had a lot to do with his sudden turn-around as well. He always acknowledged that. Now he was a law-abiding citizen. He held a full-time job as a warehouse supervisor. In his spare time he acted as a big brother and mentor to kids at risk. He played softball in the summer, jogged frequently, and had practiced martial arts for the better part of ten years. Purely for physical and metaphysical reasons, mind you; it did wonders for both the body and the spirit. He truly thanked God for saving him, and for showing him that there was more to life than life in the hood, which was why he tried to reach out as much as he could to the younger homies.

Officer Frank had nodded. He told Rick that he admired and respected him for turning his life around. Rick could tell that Officer Frank was sincere about this.

Officer Frank continued: the reason he had gotten into law enforcement was to uphold the law and protect the weak. He’d fought in Viet Nam at the tail end of that conflict and pulled in rookie time in Watts and South-Central Los Angeles. Despite his work on the force, he'd never been promoted to anything higher than his present position. He never even made the detective bureau. He worked his ass off for eighteen years and watched as the weasels wormed their way ahead of him. His protests over their lack of qualifications fell on deaf ears. And look where it had gotten them today.

Rick knew what the man was talking about. They delved deeper into the topic, discovering that they shared many qualities. Both were avid gun owners, both were Christians who believed in the basic faith but thought organized religion and its leaders were a bunch of hypocritical assholes. Both agreed that the judicial system was going downhill, mankind was going downhill, and those in power weren’t doing shit to stop it. Frank said that he’d once dreamed of working his way up to Police Chief and then, hopefully, running for Mayor. Beyond that, the potential was limitless. He had spent his youth being stepped on by the system; those in power could step on you anytime they wanted. When he was an infantryman fresh off the boat in Vietnam, he learned that the only way you could change the world, make it a better place, was to gain a foothold in the political ladder. Four weeks after his honorable discharge he was majoring in political science and criminal justice at Long Beach State. He became a cop in 1981. He was still a cop. So much for working his way to the top.

Rick asked him what had happened—why couldn’t he ascend higher?

Frank sighed and laid the cards on the table. The good-old boys network was rife with the scum that controlled and manipulated society. They were airtight, maintained a strong defense, and rarely let newcomers in. Frank had tried to barrage his way past the red tape and political bullshit. He petitioned for a detective job and was turned down. When the job of police Lieutenant opened recently, he petitioned the Police Commission for the job. He was denied. Despite his strong arrest record, psychological profile, and his commitment to law and order, liberty and justice, God and Country, and twenty-four years of dedicated service, he had lost out to some pissant who had been on the job a mere two years.

Rick nodded. He felt a strong kinship with Officer Frank. They talked some more, discussing various topics and finding out they agreed on many issues. The racial tension in this country, especially Los Angeles, was bad. If you were a black male, or if you had a shaved head and wore clothes that were two sizes too big you were automatically branded a gangbanger. If you were Hispanic, you were thought of as an illiterate immigrant; if you were male and sported hair that touched your collarbone, you were a heavy-metal druggie punk out to cause trouble. If you were a Caucasion male with a shaved head or a buzz cut, and you owned firearms, you were assumed to be a right-wing racist. It didn’t matter that fairly normal looking people committed most crimes. Corporate suits get away with murder all the time and were never caught because they just don’t look the part. Everybody knows that if you don’t look normal then, by God, there must be something wrong with you. No wonder the world was so fucked up.

Which was why Rick couldn’t turn back. He explained this to Frank, who nodded, agreeing on most of the salient points. The system had never really protected him for anything. Yeah, he had gangbanged when he was a kid. But he had done his time. He'd turned his life around. He'd tried to live by the straight-and-narrow. And all it had done was come back and bite him on the ass even more. He hadn’t done anything to invite harassment from the authorities on his behalf. Either way you looked at it, he was fucked.

Frank agreed. In a way, he was fucked, too. Unable to gain justice for victims of violent crime and robbery due to judicial corruption, he had gone on in his job, dutifully making arrests and not doing much of anything in beating down crime. He had held the aspirations of being a police officer since childhood, hoping to make the world a better place by getting criminals off the street. The bureaucrats and red tape involved in politics made it virtually impossible to do that. The Criminal Justice system was aptly named; the criminals were the ones who got the justice while the victims remained imprisoned by death, disfigurement, or the pain that will last a lifetime. It was a never-ending wave of corruption that would only cease when somebody put their foot down and took action.

Both men laughed. They quickly learned that they had much more in common. Both agreed that if they were running things, they wouldn’t give in to political pressure and special interest groups. Everyone currently on death row would get waxed, and most of the lawyers would go with them. Frank suggested that urban battlefields like South Central Los Angeles and other areas in big cities were lost causes. All the gang bangers should be herded out, sent off to a deserted island somewhere where they could kill each other off, and the whole dilapidated urban section from which they sprang razed down. Rick nodded and thought about it; as much as he hated to admit it, Frank was right. You could only do so much to help the homies in the 'hood. If they didn't want the help, fuck 'em. Tear it all down and start over. Build newer tenements and housing and shopping malls. Create jobs so people would really want to live there. Make it affordable. Poverty bred crime, which in turn bred fear and prejudice toward certain ethnic groups. The only way to kill most of that was to cut the cancer out. And start over.

The Barstow City limits were rapidly approaching and Rick mentioned that it was time that he gas up. He pulled to the side of the road and gagged Officer Frank again with the black duct tape, apologizing for the inconvenience as he did so. The conversation had been good, but he couldn’t take chances. Officer Frank nodded in understanding. The glitter in his eye said he didn’t blame him.

He covered the duo with the blanket and cruised to an all night convenience store/gas station. He filled the Camaro’s tank with the last twenty dollar bill in his wallet, then, on an afterthought, pulled one of the police issued nine millimeter's from his jacket pocket and demanded all the cash in the register. After the clerk handed him the money, he herded him into the storeroom and locked him inside. He couldn’t bear shooting the clerk because the man had gotten a good look at his face. All he wanted was the money to live on while he was on the road.

Ten minutes later they were on the outer fringes of Barstow, heading for the Arizona desert.

Cop status notwithstanding, Rick finally felt he had found a comrade in Officer Frank.

Forty miles into the state of Arizona and the early morning sky was still black as night. Daylight would be rising in another hour. The Camaro’s tires ate rubber on the two-lane blacktop highway as it purred over the interstate. The rolling desert hills of Arizona was an endless sea of sand and cactus without a rest stop in sight.

Rick had ungagged Frank outside the Barstow city limits and they had resumed their talk. Despite his growing fondness for the man, Rick still felt it necessary to keep him cuffed. Derrick was still bound and trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. His features had gone from macho swagger to hollow-eyed, trembling fear. He’d been listening to Rick and Frank talk for the better part of four hours now, and Rick was unable to tell if Derrick was more scared because of their situation, or Frank’s sudden outpouring. Rick didn’t feel that Frank was bullshitting; the waves coming off the man were genuine, reflecting that he meant what he said and that getting all this off his chest was cathartic to him. Like sitting on a psychiatrist's couch. He was a man trapped in the wrong profession for the wrong reason.

Frank told Rick that if they were caught it was most likely that all three of them would go to prison. For violating his civil rights, and for violating police procedure, which stated that you never handed your piece over to a suspect. If prison wasn’t he and Derrick's outcome, getting booted from the force would ensue, and at his age Frank would have a harder time finding a job. Derrick would probably bounce back easier. He could get a job beating up longhairs as a security guard at thrash-metal shows.

But what good would that do?

Twenty minutes into their talk Derrick began making unintelligible mewling noises from beneath his taped mouth. Rick ignored him, engaged in conversation with Frank. Derrick’s whines rose in insistence until Frank batted him in the ribs with his elbow. “Be quiet!” he barked. “Can’t you see we’re talking?”

Rick pulled to the shoulder and stopped. The interstate was empty and silent as he yanked open the backdoor and pulled Derrick’s gag off with a rip of facial fuzz. Derrick grimaced at the pain, blinking. “What the fuck are you trying to say?” Rick stood over him, a dark silhouette against the lightening sky.

“I’m just trying to tell you that I’m thirsty.” Derrick’s voice was a parched whisper. “I was wondering if we could stop somewhere for a drink...”

“We’re not stopping anywhere.” Rick’s defenses were up. He wasn’t going to put up with any bullshit.

Frank spoke up from the backseat in a defiant tone. “He doesn’t need a drink, Rick. He’s the root of all your problems. If it weren't for him, both of us wouldn’t be in this mess now. Just look at him.”

Frank’s revelation stung him as he looked down at Derrick. The puny little cop looked up at him with wide-eyed innocence. He shook his head. “No, man. I just want a drink. I’m not going to cause you any more trouble—”

“It’s a lie!” Frank was insistent.  “His kind always lie. He’s been a brown noser since he got on the force, and he’ll go through the rest of his life eating the peanuts out of his superior’s shit so he can get ahead. He climbs over people like us so he can get to the top. He’s not smart, and he’s got no skills with the exception of his drone-like qualities and his pissant little attitude. That’s what got him into his job, and that’s what will get him ahead in life.”

Derrick’s features metamorphosed instantly. He snapped his head toward Frank. “Hey, fuck you! If you weren’t such a pussy, you would have taken him down—”

Rick reached inside the car and grabbed a fistful of Derrick-flesh and hauled him out screaming from the car. He touched the barrel of the nine-millimeter to the outer juncture of Derrick’s left eye. He scowled as he leaned close, breathing harshly. “And look who took you down, fuckface. You took the first swing, unprovoked, and I beat you. If it weren’t for asswipes like you...” he flustered, then threw the cop to the ground. Derrick rolled on his side, squirming on the pavement in a halfhearted attempt to get up. His face was blushing, hot and sweaty with exertion and anger.

Frank slid out of the rear drivers’ side of the vehicle. He stood next to Rick, cuffed hands behind his back, glaring down at his partner in anger. Derrick stopped wiggling like a decapitated worm and glared at his partner. “Motherfucking piece of shit, I swear to God that when I get out of this....” He couldn’t finish.

Rick looked at Frank. Frank met his gaze with an unwavering set of steely gray eyes. He was under the impression that Frank was royally pissed and angry. But not at him...

He stepped behind Frank and unlocked the handcuffs with the keys he’d confiscated earlier.

Frank massaged his wrists gingerly, gazing down at his partner in disgust. Derrick spat at him in anger. “Get him, you fucking sonofabitch! Get him!”

Frank rubbed his wrists and glanced at Rick. Then he looked down at Derrick, who had risen to a sitting position on the asphalt of the interstate. Faint tints of red were beginning to bleed through the black sky, signaling sunrise. “And then what, Derrick? Watch you beat this man to death after I uncuff you? And what happens after we take him back? You going up on a murder charge, and me...God knows what will happen.” He traded a sidelong glance with Rick who stood leaning against the Camaro, arms folded in front of his chest. “I’ve seen you beat enough innocent people during your nine months as a cop. You give good cops who are trying to make a difference a bad name.”

Derrick howled. His biceps swelled with exertion as he strained to break free of the handcuffs. “Motherfucker, let me go or I swear I’ll fucking kill you!”

“I know.” Frank was panting. His eyes clouded over with memories of his nine months with Derrick as a partner from Hell. “I’ve seen you lose it too many times, Derrick. Losing it when somebody we’ve pulled over for a traffic violation mouths off to you; how do you respond? You hit him, he hits you back, or tries to, and you beat the shit out of him and arrest him for assaulting a police officer. You intimidate people who don’t deserve to be intimidated; you take bribes from people we’re supposed to be busting...dealers, pimps, hookers. I know you get blowjobs from hookers in alleys off Hollywood and Vermont. Know what they tell me? That if they do you for free, you won’t bust ‘em.”

“That’s a lie!” Derrick was screaming.

“What about that little thirteen year old girl you felt up when we raided that house on Cahuenga for drugs?” Frank ignored Derrick’s screams. He was on a roll. “Fifteen officers invaded that house, and you had to herd a thirteen year old girl into a back room, stick a gun in her face and rub your hands all over her tits. I think if I hadn’t come looking for you, you would have done more.”

Derrick was breathing heavy. His eyes were damp with tears of anger. “Shut up, goddammit, just SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

“NO!” Frank lashed out a kick, which connected with Derrick’s ribs. Derrick doubled over and yelped like a dog that had just been whacked with a folded up newspaper. Frank leaned over Derrick, his features a mask of disgust. “I’m sick and tired of people like you always fucking everything up for the rest of us.” Frank’s fists were balled at his side, ready to lash out.  “You don’t deserve to be a cop, you don’t deserve shit!”

Rick stepped forward before Derrick could answer in an expletive. He hauled Derrick to his feet by the back of his shirt and spun him toward the barren wasteland at the side of the road. “C’mon. I think it’s time we take a walk.”

Frank looked momentarily irritated that his moment to kick righteous ass had been stolen, but grinned when he read the implications in Rick’s eyes. He nodded. Yes. This would be perfect. This was the way it had to be. It was the only way.

Red bled into the darkened sky as the two figures herded the short, handcuffed man out into the desert.

WHEN THEY GOT back to the car, the sun was already up and burning overhead. The desert nightlife had retreated into burrows and caves to sleep off the hotter part of the day. The desert was a vast wasteland of emptiness, accented by the dry winds that blew from the north. The wind felt good against Rick's skin as he opened the driver’s side door and leaned against the car, eyeing Frank on the other side. In another hour the heat would be hot enough to fry an egg on the black asphalt.

Still uncuffed, Frank grinned at him from over the roof of the Camaro. His police uniform was mussed with sand and dark splotches of blood. His hair was ruffled, his face still sticky with blood from his bashed nose. The glimmer in his eyes was different now; they reflected a deeper, more cynically refined purpose. A mission.

Rick faced him over the hood of the Camaro. His gaze was as unwavering as before. “No turning back now.”

Frank nodded. It had gone good out in the desert. They had walked Derrick a mile and a half into the barren landscape until they’d come to a large outcropping of boulders that flanked the top of a small downhill rise. Once behind the rocks, Rick gave Frank the reins. He even offered Frank his gun back. A test of loyalty of sorts. Frank passed the test with flying colors.

He ended up not needing the gun after all.

Derrick’s first screams were deafening, torturous, and echoing. Rick heard it reverberating off the large boulders. After the first few kicks, his screams mutated into the whining sound of a coyote. The sound blended well with the terrain.

Frank worked Derrick over with his feet, shouting all the rage and hate he had ever wanted to unleash on him and others like him. Derrick fought like a wildcat trussed up in a straight-jacket. Frank hauled Derrick to his feet and pummeled his face with his fists until both eyes were swollen shut. Derrick tried to gasp for breath, his nose a ruined mass. Blood bubbled in his mouth as Frank sent him sprawling to the ground again to begin a second round of kicks to his body. Rick stood and watched it all, hands in his pockets, leaning back casually against the rock. There was the greenstick snapping sound of breaking ribs, and a wet ripping noise as something gooey was wrenched inside his torso cavity. Derrick had gone beyond howling in pain; he was still conscious, moaning every two kicks Frank landed on his rapidly breaking body. When Frank’s kicks traveled up to Derrick’s head, Rick forced himself to watch. He would have to get used to it.

The sound of Frank’s foot striking Derrick’s head was ugly. It made Rick’s stomach churn.

On the fourth kick he heard a watermelon-like wet crunch, and saw gray matter fling from Derrick’s head. Frank kept stomping on Derrick’s face until it was a mashed pulp. It looked like a grapefruit that had exploded on impact from a four-story fall.

They left him there to bake in the sun.

“Well?” Rick tossed Frank a questioning glance.  There’s no turning back now. Them and us. Frank nodded. Some quick changes were going to have to be made in the next twenty-four hours. The car would have to be ditched for another one, and Rick would have to stop shaving his head and start letting the hair grow, let his beard grow out, too. If they could hole up in a motel for a day or two, Frank could clean himself off, and they could get his uniform washed. A police uniform could come in handy in extorting a number of things.

“Let’s go.” Frank nodded back at Rick and climbed in the shotgun seat. Rick slid behind the wheel and they set off, leaving Derrick’s mangled remains a mile distant in the desert.

Derrick would be the first of many.

Story Notes

This one dates back to the late 1990’s, but it wasn’t published until 2002 in an online magazine called Gang Related, which was started by former gang member Jason Duke. Gang Related originally started as a print magazine called Hoodz in 2000. Jason ran non-fiction by me in his first issue, and an excerpt from my novel Fetish in the second issue. With the third issue came the title and format change to the web. As a small press magazine, Hoodz/Gang Related was unique; while it published fiction with a crime/horror slant, the underlying theme of the fiction it ran pertained to street gangs and their effect on society. The magazine didn’t last long – I think it stuck around for three or four issues on the web at the most. Regardless, it was a credit, and it paid real money, which was important to me back then.

I had a few encounters with Los Angeles City police officers, mostly for moving violations in my younger years. Contrary to media portrayals in the 1980’s and 1990’s, the LAPD was not only known for targeting African-Americans, they also targeted Latinos and the punk/metal-heads. I should know; I was one of them (the metal-heads, that is; I suppose I’m classified as Latino in some circles but I never identified with that ethnic culture, which is what it really is...an ethnicity, not a race; I abhor classification on general principle). Case in point: a good friend of mine was arrested one time for walking down Sunset Boulevard within three blocks of his apartment. No specific reason, they simply targeted him because he was a male with long hair. My friend didn’t take too kindly to being harassed, a few choice words were said, and he was a guest of the city jail that night. If memory recalls his case was thrown out of court.

Shit like that used to happen a lot in Los Angeles. I remember exiting a popular rock club in the San Fernando Valley in the mid-eighties and seeing dozens of cops in riot gear, simply waiting for the rest of the patrons to exit. Slayer was on the bill that night. You know heads were busted that night.

Simply put, driving or walking while Black wasn’t the only thing you could get popped for in LA.

Despite having come across a few bad apples who happened to be cops, I’ve met far more courageous and distinguished police officers in my time, including LAPD officers. I’ve also read countless books and articles about them and what they go through. I've also known gang members and have read a lot about them. Being a police officer has to rank down there with least appealing jobs I’d never want to do – I think I’d rather clean cow shit all day long in 90 degree weather then have to be a cop. Those guys put up with too much bullshit for what they receive in compensation.

This story came from a combination of my own experiences with the LAPD and from anecdotes related to me by friends and acquaintances who had their own brushes with them. Of course, the escalation of violence depicted in this story is pure fantasy. I wanted to explore what would happen if the wrong cops came across a guy who still looked like a badass but had moved on from that part of his life and left it far, far behind him. Of course, because of his looks, the badass would still get scrutiny from the law, right? You would think after awhile that would get to him. That badass look is hard to get rid of, especially if you’re covered with gang tattoos.

And suppose one of the cops that busted him happened to be at the end of his rope, too? Maybe his partner is the epitome of bad cop. What would happen if you throw all three of these guys into a confrontation?

Everybody has a breaking point.

What’s yours?

About J. F. Gonzalez

J. F. Gonzalez is the author of over fifteen novels of horror and dark suspense including They, Back From the Dead, Primitive, Bully, The Beloved, The Corporation, and is co-author of the Clickers series (with Mark Williams and Brian Keene respectively). With Wrath James White, he is co-author of the novels Hero and The Killings. His short fiction is collected in four volumes. He also works in other media including film, the technology sector, and other areas of publishing. He lives with his family in Pennsylvania and is currently working on his next novel. For more information, visit him on the web at www.jfgonzalez.com.

Also by J. F. Gonzalez

Clickers

(Co-written with Mark Williams)

Click Click Click Click

Phillipsport, Maine is a quaint and peaceful seaside village. But when hundreds of creatures pour out of the ocean and attack, its residents must take up arms to drive the beasts back.

They are the Clickers, giant venomous blood-thirsty crabs from the depths of the sea. The only warning to their rampage of dismemberment and death is the terrible clicking of their claws. But these monsters aren’t merely here to ravage and pillage. They are being driven onto land by fear. Something is hunting the Clickers. Something ancient and without mercy.

Clickers II: The Next Wave

(Co-written with Brian Keene)

The first wave was just the beginning...

The United States is in ruins. It has just suffered one of the worst hurricanes in history, the people are demoralized, and the president is a religious fanatic. Then things get really bad - the Clickers return.

Thousands of the monsters swarm across the entire nation and march inland, slaughtering anyone and anything they come across. But this time the Clickers aren’t blindly rushing onto land - they are being led by an intelligence older than civilization itself. A force that wants to take dry land away from the mammals.

Those left alive soon realize that they must do everything and anything they can to protect humanity no matter the cost.

This isn’t war, this is extermination.

Clickers III: Dagon Rising

(Co-written with Brian Keene)

They thought it was over, but the second wave was only the beginning. In the aftermath of the Clickers and Dark Ones’s siege and a coup against an insane President, America rebuilds. Change has come, and a better future is promised to all. But promises can be broken and there may be no future at all because deep beneath the ocean a new terror awaits. Dagon, god of the Dark Ones, is waking up...and if humanity doesn’t stop him, then mankind will face extinction.

Trapped on a South Pacific Island, the cast of Clickers and Clickers II: The Next Wave join forces with a mysterious group of occult agents to face off against the Clickers, the Dark Ones, Dagon, and an all-new threat - the deadly obsidian Clickers. The stakes have never been higher. Dagon is rising...and humanity will fall.

Survivor

Author’s Preferred Edition

Before Hostel...before Saw...there was Survivor.

It was supposed to be a romantic weekend getaway. Lisa was looking forward to spending time alone with her husband, Brad, and telling him that they are going to have a baby. Instead, it becomes a nightmare when Brad is arrested and Lisa is kidnapped. But the kidnappers aren’t asking for ransom. They want Lisa herself. They’re going to make her a star - in a snuff film.

What they have in mind for Lisa is unspeakable. They plan to torture and murder her as graphically and brutally as possible, and to capture it all on film. If they have their way, Lisa’s death will be truly horrifying...but even more horrifying is what Lisa will do to survive...

It Drinks Blood

New Castle, Pennsylvania, during the tail end of the Great Depression.

Robert Brennan has never completely forgotten those days, even though he has tried to forget them. But when the nursing home he lives in receives a patient he remembers from those dark darks, it takes his mind back to a period marked by terrible, blood-soaked violence...the very kind marked by the twisted perversity of the stories he used to write for the weird-menace pulps...the kind marked by the real-life fiend that stalked the hobo jungles in search of fresh blood!

Primitive

It began as just another day for David Spires and his wife Tracy: coffee, breakfast, and getting the kids ready for school. Then the bottom dropped out of civilization.

The world ends not with a bang or a whimper, but with a dizzying downward spiral. Instead of the rat race of commuters scurrying to beat the clock, humans are now packs of animals reduced to snarling primitives.

David, Tracy and their daughter Emily, along with fellow survivors, leave Los Angeles for the safety of the country where fewer people means fewer primitives. But as they venture farther away from the city, they realize an unnatural force is at work. Civilization didn’t just fall apart...it was overtaken by an ancient evil that was present before the first cave paintings. Human history has no formal record of it, but the dark presence that’s fueled nightmares since time began has crept out of the shadows...and its influence is growing.

The Summoning and Other Eldritch Tales

The Summoning contains seven collected tales of Lovecraftian-inspired nightmares from J. F. Gonzalez. Featured in this collection are two original pieces: "Holes" and "The Summoning" (co-authored with Mike Baker).

This exclusive digital collection of stories includes:

Opening The Way: An Introduction

Tattoos

Going Home

The Revenge of Cthulhu

Holes

The Man Who Had a Death Wish

The Summoning

The Watcher From the Grave

Each story contains special story notes penned by the author!

Back From the Dead

Tim Gaines was the town pariah. Mocked and teased continuously since he was in the sixth grade, he approaches his senior year of high school with a sense of cautious trepidation. Years before, when he was in the sixth grade, a group of boys led by Scott Bradfield - a popular, well-liked kid from well-to-do parents - spread a vicious rumor that he was a devil-worshipper. The rumor stuck, and is believed by most of the students and even a few of the teachers and administrators. It’s a rumor Tim can’t beat, and one he sometimes feels he’s brought on to himself due to his love of horror novels and movies.

Now Tim has become friends with a loose-knit group of kids who have also become social outcasts thanks to other rumors about them by the student elite. With their mutual support, Tim has begun to come out of his shell. He’s going out with them, being invited to parties, and even begins to have a romantic interest in a girl, something he never thought would happen to him in high school.

But all that will change when Scott Bradfield and his friends set their sights on Tim again. Only this time, they need his help. Like most of the student body of Spring Valley High School, they sincerely believe Tim Gaines is a devil-worshipper. And they believe he has a dark power. Now they want to use him and that power for their own sinister plight...

...To bring back the dead homeless man they’d kidnapped and brutally beaten to a pulp in the guesthouse that resides on the Bradfield residence.

They want him brought back not because they're scared of getting caught for his murder, but so they can savagely beat and murder him again...

...and again...

Fetish

Something is in search of human prey in the gang-ridden communities of Los Angeles...

When the member of a notorious street gang is found decapitated and dismembered at the bottom of the LA River, it quickly becomes apparent something is amiss. Detective Daryl Garcia connects it with the murders of six other gang members killed in the same way. It looks like the work of a serial killer, but the gang members don’t think so. They believe the murders are the work of rival gang members.

Someone has a dark desire of the most depraved fetish...

Detective Garcia becomes determined to find the killer at any cost. Together with Rachael Pearce, a journalist he falls in love with, he searches for the killer through the gang underground and the world of prostitution and drugs. And as suspect after suspect is released with no solid evidence to connect them to the crimes, the search for the killer becomes more urgent as the gang-infested areas of the city reach a boiling point to the brink of rioting. In a community of gang members – who are killers themselves – how does Detective Garcia find the most monstrous killer he has ever encountered?

Madness wears many faces...

Do Unto Others

Jim Cornell used to believe in God.

But when things went bad – his daughter getting cancer, his layoff from his well-paying job, the strain of his marriage – he began to have no use for God anymore.

When Jim’s forced into a situation that will require his participation in another man’s murder, his faith will be tested. Because while Jim used to believe in God, he’d never given that much thought to the Devil.

Now he’s going to have to. Because, like it or not, Jim is involved with people who have a deep religious faith, too.

Jim is about to discover that where there is light, there must be darkness. There’s more than one kind of religious faith and his is about to be put to the ultimate test.

The Corporation

Michelle Dowling found her dream job. The offer on her desk from Corporate Financial Consultants included a high five figure salary, generous benefits and cushy perks. Finally, after escaping the psychological abuse of an emotionally cold mother and a series of dead-end jobs, she could start planning for a future with her fiance, Donald.

However, Michelle forgot the cardinal rule for any job offer; always read the fine print. She really should have gotten more details about her overtime hours, company policies, and exactly what they meant when they said “Welcome to the Corporate Financial Family”.

Michelle isn’t afraid of hard work. She’s a dedicated employee, the kind any manager would want for his firm. But this Corporation requires much more than just dedication...

The Beloved

You've seen her before. Perhaps somebody you know is dating her, getting himself into debt by taking her out to fancy restaurants and buying her expensive gifts. Yet you see her for what she really is.

Elizabeth Weaver saw it in her brother Ronnie's new girlfriend, Diana. Something about the woman rubbed Elizabeth the wrong way. She refused to get a job and help Ronnie around the house and seemed to bask in the attention and expensive gifts he showered her with. And as Ronnie began neglecting the rest of his family, they finally took notice, only Elizabeth saw what the others didn't - that Diana wasn't quite human.

And neither were her children.

Don Grant has tracked the creature for years, ever since it turned his wife into something barely more than a living zombie. He's traced its history through the centuries. It feeds off our lust for it, the violence it goads us into creating, and it grows stronger and seductive with each new victim. Now Don has caught up with it and he has to stop it fast, or the nightmare will be unleashed on a whole new family.

Shapeshifter

Mark Wiseman thought he had his curse under control. He thought he’d kept it secret.

He was wrong.

Bernard Roberts is a wealthy, influential man, and he knows all about the curse that runs through Mark’s veins. He knows how Mark’s parents were killed eight years ago. If Mark wants Bernard to keep this knowledge to himself, he’ll have to do what Bernard wants. He’ll have to use his curse to kill.

But if Mark Wiseman begins to lose control of the curse, he will lose everything he has: his life and freedom, and the woman he loves.

They

They walk among us unnoticed, unassuming.

A year after the auto accident that killed his wife, Vince Walters is finally beginning to move forward with his life. With the support of friends, he’s digging back into his career and even beginning to date again.

When his estranged mother, Maggie Walters, is murdered, Vince is stunned by the hideous nature of the crime. Maggie lived a quiet life in a small, rural Pennsylvania town, attending church, reading the Bible, and subscribing to an increasingly paranoid view of the End Times as prophesied in The Book of Revelations. Her brutal killing, which bears all the signs of being related to a sinister satanic cult, is inexplicable given her life of faith.

However, a visit from a childhood playmate confirms what Vince is beginning to uncover about his mother’s past: that she was involved with a cult during his early childhood, but later defected and went into hiding with him. As hard as Maggie worked to bury her dark past, it seems that they finally found her.

Now they’ve found Vince. And this time, they are not going to give him up.

They have plans for him.

Praise for THEY:

“J. F. Gonzalez spins a great yarn, and this one is a classic example. Creepy, interesting and devious. I loved it.” Jonathan Maberry, NY Times Bestselling author of Rot and Ruin.

Acknowledgements

"Introduction" and individual story notes copyright 2014 by J. F. Gonzalez

“Laura” originally appeared in Shroud #4, Fall 2008. Copyright 2008 by J. F. Gonzalez

“After Nightfall” originally appeared in Dred #1, October 2005. Copyright 2005 by J. F. Gonzalez

“Holes” originally appeared in The Summoning & Other Eldritch Tales, Darkfuse. Copyright 2010 by J. F. Gonzalez

“Screaming to Get Out” originally appeared as a digital chapbook from DarkFuse. Copyright 2009 by J. F. Gonzalez.

“Home” originally appeared in the privately printed anthology Set’s Quartet, Thunderstorm Books in June 2013, with subsequent publication in D.O.A II edited by David C. Hayes and Jack Burton, Blood Bound Books, July 2013. Copyright 2013 by J. F. Gonzalez

“Ricochet” originally appeared in Screaming to Get Out & Other Wailings of the Damned, Thunderstorm Books, 2013, in a 90 copy signed and numbered limited edition, with subsequent U.K. publication in Splatterpunk, Fall 2013; Copyright 2013 by J. F. Gonzalez

"Mutant" originally appeared in Horror World, June 2007. Copyright 2007 by J. F. Gonzalez

"Captivity" originally appeared in the lettered edition of Clickers III: Dagon Rising, Delirium Books. Copyright 2010 by J. F. Gonzalez

"Witness" originally appeared in Astounding Tales, September 2005, with subsequent print publication in Dark Discoveries, Winter 2006; copyright 2005 by J. F. Gonzalez

“Balance” originally appeared in Splatterpunk, Summer 2013; Copyright 2013 by J. F. Gonzalez

“The Smile” originally appeared in the deluxe limited edition of The Beloved, Altar 13 Books; Copyright 2010 by J. F. Gonzalez

"Christian Woman" originally appeared in Shroud #11, Spring 2011; copyright 2011 by J. F. Gonzalez

"The Wasting" originally appeared in The Harrow, August 2007; copyright 2011 by J. F. Gonzalez

“Breaking Point” originally appeared in Gang Related, April 2002; Copyright 2002 by J. F. Gonzalez.

This collection is dedicated to the life and memory
of my sister Trish Chervenak,
who was also my oldest and dearest friend

Now I must tend my garden...

No part of this book may be used or reproduced, stored into or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or any other means now known or yet to be invented) without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews. For information, contact the author: www.jfgonzalez.com.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed are either fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events and individuals is coincidental. This book is sold as is and neither the publisher, nor the author, will be responsible for any direct or consequential damages that may arise from the misuse of the information within.

A Signed Limited First Edition of this book was previously published in 2013 for collectors by Thunderstorm Books with a slightly different table of contents.

Screaming to Get Out & Other Wailings of the Damned © 2014 by J. F. Gonzalez

Cover Illustration and Design © 2014 Elderlemon Design

First Midnight Library eBook edition © 2014

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