

### Twisted All To Hell

J E Moore

Copyright © 2014 J E Moore

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ISBN-13 978-1499536867

ISBN-10 1499536860

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

Table of Contents

 Dedication and acknowledgement

 Number One Munching Lane

 Murder in the Fourth Dimension

 A Fowl Covenant

 The Southernmost Ghost

 I am the President!

 I had a Dream

 X 2 4 1 B

 The Devil's Fog

 Code name: Pandora

 GARAWN

 RED EYES

 Bad Bones

 The Green Flash

 'Til Death Do Us Part

 Reset

 Game Over

 Into the Above

# Dedication and acknowledgement

"I think I can do this."

"You can do anything you want," she agreed.

This book is dedicated to Joyce, my wife and soul mate who has loved and supported me in all my endeavors.

This is what she does.

We shall share this victory together.

And... a special thanks to my friend, Gary Chapman for his proof reading and insight.

### Twisted all to Hell

A macabre compilation of bizarre and ponderous short stories featuring a Twist within. Fifteen are a combination of Science –Fiction (Sf), Supernatural (Sn), Horror (H), Occult (O), Fantasy (F), Adventure (A) and Paranormal (P), with two accompanying Paranormal (Pt) tales based on true experiences.

Number One Munching Lane

A young girl's encounter with the macabre cuisine at a nineteenth century children's orphanage. (H)

Murder in the Fourth Dimension

A criminal is drawn into the future to stand trial for a murder he hasn't committed - yet, and beats an infallible Justice System. Or did he? (Sf)

A Fowl Covenant

A man's infatuation with birds turns to demonic trickery and foul play. (P,H)

I am the President!

A U.S. president faces his deranged, cannibalistic countrymen after a nuclear war which he caused. (Sf)

The Southernmost Ghost

A true life personal encounter with a ghost who still haunts in Key West, Florida. (Pt)

I had a Dream

A bitter-sweet, black parody of life if the South had won the American Civil War. (F)

X241B

A man realizes the horrific, full impact of his motorcycle accident. (Sf, H)

Code name: Pandora

A deputy U.S. marshal pursues a group of scientists who have discovered astronomy data which originates from the Edge of the Universe and drives people to suicide. (Sf)

The Devil's Fog

A (true) supernatural shark attack in the Devil's Triangle. (Pt)

Garawn

A husband's and wife's encounter with an immortal body-snatcher in the 21st century. (Sn, H)

Red Eyes

Time's up for a man who sold his soul to the Devil and the anguish of another whose clock is winding down. (Sn)

Bad Bones

Santeria magic's effect (resurrection) on twin brothers born in the Deep South. (O)

The Green Flash

Two exotic flower hunters pass through a portal created by a Green Flash and find the Utopia on the other side is not what it appears to be. Then, there's the surprise upon escaping and returning home. (Sf)

'Til Death Do Us Part

An introverted, bitter, reclusive, rural nineteenth century woman unwantedly becomes the oldest person to ever live due to her being hyper-frozen. She successfully escapes her new gawking world through death. Or does she? (H)

Reset

A senior citizen's retirement home in a pleasant, future neighborhood is being burglarized. The man decides to take action - only for the reader to discover his life and world are not what _he_ sees. (Sf)

Game Over

Every night in dreams a man shares a death for which he was responsible, one of six former employees. Over and over the horrors intensify, grow and repeat until a game changing end. (H)

Into the Above

An expeditionary team from a civilization living underground is sent to the Above to find the source and stop a toxic gas flowing down into the Colonies. (S-f)

# Number One Munching Lane

The year was 1902. The location was the Marlbury Orphanage in the countryside outskirts of the bustling, ever-expanding birthplace of American independence: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The converted institution, originally constructed in 1841 as a hospital and sanitarium for disabled war veterans, had been adeptly administered by Mister Silas Huntington and his loyal staff for the last twelve years.

Times were good. Overall, America was prospering - the adoption rate had been going well for the children of six years or under. However, sometimes the older ones required a little different attention in order to dispose of them...

"Mary had a little lamb, little lamb," Katie sang softly to herself. "Its fleece was white as snow." She was a happy child, as happy as one could be while growing up in a crowded, county orphanage filled with a hundred other unwanted or unclaimed little souls. Katie was ten years old which was four beyond the prime-select age group. She reasoned and was resigned to not having been, nor her ever being placed with a foster family due to her frightening shock of orange hair and dull brown eyes. The 'new parents' always chose the youngest, prettiest or blue-eyed children first. That was the way it was - akin to picking the cutest kittens from a litter. Of course, the big ugly wart on the end of her nose didn't help matters either, but then everyone had some problem didn't they?

Katie dropped both her buckets onto the hard, packed dirt with a 'thud'. She then stepped up on top of the fruit crate, reached down, picked up one of the containers and threw its contents over her shoulder into the awaiting five-foot high, two-wheeled, wooden trash wagon. While doing so, she wondered if she would fortunate enough to see Mister MacIntosh today. Probably not, she had only a few minutes left before they rang the bell for class and he could arrive 'at any time' on these Monday mornings - weather, road and horse permitting.

It certainly was a treat for her when she got to see him. He'd open the padlocked, large, double gates in the rear of the compound, ride in, circle around and swap his empty wagon with the now filled, stinky one. He'd carefully replace the fruit crate right next to the new trash wagon: he knew a small person, usually a girl, was assigned to this particular chore. Katie had spoken to him quite a few times over the last couple of years and knew the fellow better than any other 'insider'. He was a nice, old _Irish_ (whatever that was) man who had a heavy accent which she couldn't always understand. Sometimes if she was lucky, he would let her pet his horse, Cleo. It was fun. There were no animals allowed in the orphanage grounds, not even cats to kill the mice. The county welfare administrators were afraid some of the 'more aggressive' children would harm them. Once, long ago, she dared to ask Mister MacItosh if she could go outside the gates... to see what was there... and maybe touch a tree or something growing green, but he said, "Sorry, no, m'darlin'. I can't do that." Being a kind man and father, he went on to explain he would like to but if that happened he could lose his job and jobs were _very_ hard for Irishmen to come by. She said, "I understand," but she didn't.

Katie threw the second bucket over; a few scraps caught the top edge of the buck-board and dropped back toward her, falling to the ground. "Oops." She jumped off her perch to retrieve them - no garbage could be left scattered about. Mister Huntington required perfection for everything. His rules demanded all children complete their chores with thoroughness or appropriate punishment would be applied. "This is not a high-class, city slicker child care center," he lectured. "We will be neat and clean or else!" Katie quickly scooped the fallen items into the bucket. As she did her eye caught an unusual looking object lying on the ground between the crate and wagon. It appeared to be a short, beige, worm-like thing. She felt positive it wasn't anything she had brought. "What's this?" She picked it up, inspected and rolled it in her palm. It wasn't alive so she decided to dispose of it with her other trash. She was about to re-sling the bucket but then thought twice about it. Katie placed her unusual 'find' aside and decided to have a grown-up examine it. After all, it couldn't really be what it looked like could it?

While walking back to the main building and passing by one of the old brick classrooms her concentration was broken by Jimmy, who was beating erasers against the wall. She said what was logical to her, "Hello, Jimmy. Are you being punished again?"

"Nah, what makes you say that?" he answered in defense. "This is a 'good' chore, a reward. It shows that Headmaster Blackburn likes me," he falsely asserted.

"Yeah, sure," Katie dismissed and returned to staring into her bucket.

He noticed her preoccupation, "Hey, whatcha got in there? Something neat? A frog?" he spoofed. "Lemme see." Jimmy rushed over, peeked in then frowned, "Huh...?" Pulling out its contents and holding it up to the light he stated, "Looks like a finger to me. Whatcha doing with a cut-off finger?"

"A finger? That's what 'I' thought it was," answered Katie. "I'm taking it inside. Put it back in the bucket, please."

"Uh, okay, in a minute." Jimmy sniffed the suspected dead piece of meat and wrinkled his nose. "See this brown stain on the end? That's dried blood. "Yuck!" and as he squinted, a puzzled look of recognition crossed his face. "Golly gee. This is Oggie's finger! How'd you get this?"

"Huh?" she questioned. "Are you sure? I don't think Oggie lives here anymore."

"Yeah, but he did last week!" Jimmy countered. "And, he had all his fingers. Where'd you find it?"

"By Mister MacIntosh's trash wagon. Why do you think that's Oggie's finger?"

"See the freckles," he directed. "Oggie had freckles everywhere... even on his rear end," he snorted as he dropped the severed appendage back into the bucket. "Where'd you say you're taking it? Inside? Are you gonna show it to a teacher?"

"Yes, I was thinking about Miss Applebee."

"Miss Applebee? Yeah, I guess she's a good choice... better than most," surmised Jimmy. "Okay, go find Miss Applebee but don't tell her or nobody else I talked to you or even saw it. I'm supposed to be cleaning erasers. Agreed?" Katie nodded consent. "Tell you what girl; I think that finger's got a story to tell. Meet me here at the same time tomorrow and we'll look for more clues. I got lots'a 'free time' tomorrow. Maybe we'll find an arm or leg... or maybe Oggie's chopped-off head filled with long, black slimy worms!"

Katie's eyes grew wide and her jaw dropped as she emitted a frightened, Eeek."

"Silly little girl, I'm just a funnin' wit cha."

Katie quickly scurried away to find Miss Applebee, who she felt sure would calm her newly risen fears which Jimmy had instilled. Yes, Miss Anabelle Applebee would know and explain everything. She treated the children with kindness which was far different from the other workers and the kids believed whatever she said. Even better, the young woman was attractive, seemed smart and smiled often. In fact, she was the only adult at the orphanage who _ever_ smiled. Surely, that must be the reason why all the children wanted to be around her.

Katie soon found her working in the school's library and offered her coveted bucket without comment.

"Oh, my. What do we have here, Katie?"

"Is it Oggie's?" without further misgivings, she blurted.

After studying the finger, the young girls custodian knelt to Katie's level and slowly said, as if searching for the correct words, "Yes, my dear, its Oggie's... or rather, it was. He's not with us now." Katie's arched eyebrows asked, Why? "He was adopted four days ago, late at night."

"Adopted" Katie repeated. "Oggie's been taken away? But he was so ugly..." Miss Applebee frowned. "Sorry, ma'am. I mean, we all thought he was too old and looked... er, not _pretty_."

"Ah, well, I understand what you mean Katie. Perhaps 'adopted' is the wrong word. Let's just say a long-distant relative... an uncle, came for him."

For some unknown reason Katie felt Miss Applebee was making up her story as she went along. To appease her? To fool her? If so, why? She peeked at the finger again.

"Oh, that!" exclaimed Miss Applebee. "The finger and the blood, of course... An accident happened... as Oggie boarded the carriage. Yes, an accident!" seemingly pleased with her choice of words. "The horses bolted. They were frightened by a flash of lightning. The carriage jerked, he fell and became caught in the ironwork. His finger was ripped off in an instant, just like that!" clapping her hands. "Very unfortunate. His uncle... pinched it and tied off the stub. They drove him into town to have the doctor stitch it up." She paused for effect, "Oggie was very brave, but still happy to leave... in spite of the tragedy. We all will miss him very much. I'm sorry you had to find out about it this way. Apparently the finger wasn't disposed of properly." Giving her best, condescending smile, "Is there anything else, Katie?"

"No, ma'am. Thank you, Miss Applebee."

"Leave it in the bucket here. I'll take care of it. You run off now to your class. It must be starting soon."

Katie sat in her classroom with three other girls about her own age. No teacher was present - there seldom was. An old, decrepit science book had been placed on every desktop. Each student had to read it for two hours, no talking permitted. An attendant would come in and announce when the class was finished. There would then be an hour for chores before the next class. Without the least bit of interest she flipped through the thirty-year old pages and wondered why she hadn't heard the storm or Oggie's screaming three nights ago. "But then," she reasoned, "Miss Applebee said it happened late at night and I must have been asleep."

After the class, Katie was her way to the cafeteria for her next chore and just by luck passed by a window overlooking the front courtyard entranceway. She stopped in mid-step. Outside, was indeed a startling sight to behold! Mister Weolf, the grounds keeper, stood aside the roadway, a shovel laid at his feet, head bowed low and his hands clutching his cap in a wad to his chest. He appeared timid... and afraid. And for good reason too! Directly in front of him stood Miss Applebee wailing and failing her arms all about. What a spectacle! Katie couldn't hear the words she screamed but Mister Weolf, a giant of a man, looked so assailed and distressed Katie thought he was going to break down in tears. The empty trash bucket lay at their feet. Miss Applebee waved Oggie's finger in his face then threw it down and ground it into the dirt with the heel of her shoe! She next pointed at the shovel, said a few more choice words, then stormed off. Katie wanted to see more but had to rush to the cafeteria before the cook became mad and threw the overflowing garbage against the kitchen walls. She would have to clean it up and not get dinner.

The following day: "And that's what happened," Katie related to Jimmy.

"Wow, I can't believe little Miss Applebee would talk to Mister Weolf like that! He's so big and scary. I've never seen him smile... or even heard him speak," marveled Jimmy as he shook his head.

"I told you true, Jimmy."

"Yeah, okay."

"And what I told you about Oggie's finger too," she added.

"Well... if Miss Applebee says so, it must be true," he conceded. "Maybe."

"Jimmy..."

"Hey, c'mon. She's one of the 'girls' teachers. I don't know her that good." Playing the devil's advocate, "Tell me this, Katie. Don't you think it's kinda' strange so many 'ugly' kids get adopted late at night? I swear it's been going on like that ever since I've been here and probably before too. They disappear... poof, and we never hear from them again. Whatcha think of that, little girl?"

Not agreeing with his assessment, "We never hear from _anyone_ who leaves here, Jimmy. That's not so strange. No one wants to come back to see this place again."

"Ummm, well, er," he murmured.

"And," Katie added, "did you ever considermaybe Mister Huntington doesn't want us to watch anyone leave. I know I would be very sad to see them go. I truly would."

"Yeah, maybe so," he passively conceded, for the moment. But being a suspicious-type of boy, he added," and maybe not so." He scanned the surrounding area, "Guess there's no reason to snoop around the trash wagon now. I'm sure Mister Weolf has picked up all the loose tidbits or other evidence after he got fussed out."

As they wandered back toward the main building and far away from the wagon, Jimmy stopped. "Hey, look at that!"

"What?" asked Katie.

Her companion pointed and noted, "The cellar storeroom door is unlocked," - the padlock hung open. "Never seen that before... and look, the door's open a crack. Let's see what's inside."

"I dunno," fretted Katie. "I don't think we're supposed to be here. We could get into trouble. What if a grown-up comes? We might get a beating." She lamented, "Worse than that, what if Mister Weolf comes! He'd get blamed for leaving it open and who knows what he'd do to us after getting fussed out by Miss Applebee."

"Don't worry, it won't happen. I saw the big, bad Mister Weolf go to town an hour ago and all the teachers are doing somethin' else. Stop acting like a fraidy-cat girl."

Jimmy slowly pulled back the door. It was dark inside, but the outside light showed stairs leading downward. They both put their heads in the entranceway. "I don't like it," whispered Katie. "It's spooky." "Nah, it ain't so bad. I can see the floor. There must be a torch or somethin' burning down there." He gently grabbed her arm, "C'mon, let's go in."

In no hurry and one behind the other, they descended. There were no handrails which prompted from Katie, "Boy, if you didn't know these steps were here, you could fall and break your neck."

"Maybe that's what _really_ happened to Oggie," touted Jimmy. "Maybe he and all the other missing children are hidden down here... their bones stashed in a storeroom filled with giant, hairy spiders! Eeee... ohhh," he teased.

They arrived at the bottom, the floor was worn-smooth stone, the air felt dank and still. There were two tunnels. One was faintly lit with a few scattered candles - the other appeared pitch-black. Each tunnel entrance had an iron-bar door which had been opened fully against the wall. An unlit oil lamp hung between them on a peg. "Too bad I don't have any matches on me now; we could use the lamp," assessed the young boy.

"We're not allowed to have matches. You know that."

"Oh, yeah," he giggled. "I 'forgot'. But it don't matter none; we got enough light to see down that one tunnel," gesturing to his right. He set off, his boyish curiosity leading the way with Katie in close pursuit. After a few dozen yards Jimmy said, "I don't see any storage area. It must lead to a coal bin." His voice rose an octave in excitement, "Yeah! A coal bin means there's a dump chute and its top opening would have to be on the other side of the wall. We can climb the chute and escape to the city!" He picked up his pace only to soon run into the path's dead-end. "Shucks," disappointed. "It's not here." He spat on the ground. "There's no way out."

"Sorry, Jimmy. But look, there's a secret room over here." Katie pointed and waved her hand in the open, dark doorway. "See?"

Jimmy retrieved a near burned-out candle from a tunnel ledge and thrust it inside to reveal a sparsely furnished room containing a table with four chairs surrounding it. They stepped inside. "Whew! What's that stinky smell?" asked the boy.

"It smells like rotten, old meat," answered Katie. "Very bad, old meat. I've smelled things like this when I worked in the kitchen. Thank goodness they never cook it; they throw it out. Maybe, this is where they dump it."

"Down here? I don't think so," retorted Jimmy. "Phew," as he pinched his nose. He held the light toward a wooden box sitting in the corner next to a large, ancient, cast-iron cooking pot turned upside down. "I think the smell is coming from over this way." He dipped the candle inside the box - it appeared empty except for brownish gunk (dried blood ) on the bottom which stank very badly. Jimmy's foot kicked a heavy, gunny sack marked, 'Lye'.

Katie read the labeling. "This must have been a salted-meat locker once upon a time and they were trying to clean it. This whole place looks very old; maybe it's from the Civil War."

"Shoot, it could be from the Revolutionary War," countered Jimmy. "We're outside Philadelphia, remember? As for cleaning the place, they didn't do a very good job. If I did a chore this bad I'd get a whippin' with a switch for sure." The candle flickered out. "Oh, no! Let's get outta here." Katie agreed wholeheartedly. With quick, probing hands they felt their way out of the room and back into the dimming tunnel. "We'd better hurry, all the candles are going out!" They scampered back to the stairs. Before going up, Jimmy gave a quick glance at the other tunnel on the left.

Katie, reading his mind asked, "Do you think _that_ one has a coal chute that goes under and outside the wall?"

"Nah, it's going in the wrong direction... away from the wall," her disappointed friend answered.

A few moments later at the cellar entrance, "Well, I guess that didn't lead to anything did it, Jimmy? Nope, nothing at all except we could have gotten caught and been in big trouble. I've decided from now on I'm not going to explore anymore _secret_ places. It's too dangerous."

"Yeah, well okay," Jimmy agreed while admonishing her at the same time. "Don't tell anyone what we done and especially that I was with you. I'm already on probation. I could git a belt whippin' and tossed in the Hole for a month." He patted her shoulder, "Thanks for going with me, Katie. See ya around."

As time passed, Katie became more dissatisfied with Miss Applebee's explanation - it sounded too 'made up'. She began asking other children about the storm no one seemed to have heard, and the mysterious carriage which came for Oggie. Katie wouldn't let the sleeping dog lie. Even though she tried to be careful not to ask questions when the adults were around, they still got wind of it and began to look at her with a suspicious eye.

About a week later, she was working inside the Main Office's front foyer when a well- dressed man and woman made an arrival. Katie piddled about with her cleaning in order to remain nearby - within earshot. Mister Huntington met them at the reception desk with, "Good day, Silas Huntington at your service. May I assist you?" The pair were trying to locate a boy, John Long, a distant nephew of theirs, for his grandparents in New York. They were just seeking information to aid a family's random search of the eastern big cities. No one had any idea where the lad actually resided and prior investigations had drawn a blank.

Mister Huntington acted compassionately; he parried their questions and assured them the lad was not, nor had ever been at his facility. After politely conversing for a few minutes he bade, "A good day and best of luck in your venture."

Katie, upon hearing his send-off, piped-up and announced, "I knew him."

The coupled focused on her in true surprise. Mister Huntington's reaction was more diverse; his mustache and ears began twitching. He looked clearly far beyond mere surprise - he was aghast. "I'm sure the girl is in error,' he stammered. "I know every child who has ever been under my supervision." Giving Katie a sharp look, "Run along young lady and stop bothering these nice people."

"One moment please," interjected the man. "You say you knew this boy?"

"Yes, sir... yes, ma'am," she answered.

"Why? How so?" they chimed.

"Because of his name. John said his name was 'Long', but he was 'short'... for his age. I thought it was odd and funny."

"Yes, indeed," agreed the man. "I see that it would certainly strike you as such." He whispered in his wife's ear, "Everyone in their family is short in stature."

"What else, m'dear?" plied his wife.

"I don't remember anything else. We didn't speak much after he arrived because the boys and girls are kept separate... except for a few classes and the cafeteria."

"And when did you last see the lad..." began the gentleman.

"Enough! Untrue... entirely wrong," interrupted Mister Huntington in a huff. _As_ I stated before, the boy has never been here and I can prove it." He retrieved his Registration Ledger and hurriedly flipped through its pages. With a stiff upper lip he displayed the entries. "As you can see for yourself, there has never been a child admitted by that name. However, we had a boy here with a similar name a few years ago... a John Louder. Perhaps, he is the one Katie is _confused_ with." He shrugged his shoulders then glared at the girl. Gritting his teeth, "As I said before, Run along _dear_." Mister Huntington was clearly infuriated at being contradicted by anyone, especially a simple child. "We will talk again later, Katie and I will 'refresh' your memory as to how we do things here."

With a strained smile to the couple, "As you can see, children's accounts are neither factual nor reliable. I apologize for her misleading you." The couple left without further comment.

Katie sprinted away - putting as much distance between herself and Mister Huntington as she could. She knew she would be receiving a bruising, blood to the skin, paddling tonight but now she had even more questions to ask!

Days passed and as they did, the living conditions worsened for Katie - greatly. She had been given more difficult, punishment chores - those normally assigned to the boys, increased separation from the other children and isolation at night. And of course, she received corrective, physical discipline on a regular basis to re-educate her: "Children should be seen and not heard." She cried a lot but her spirit had not been broken, she never faltered and mentioned Jimmy's name to lessen her load.

Then it stopped. Miss Applebee became officiously 'civil' although she didn't act as friendly as before. Even mean old Mister Huntington and the other staff members ceased scolding her. In fact, other than Miss Applebee, none of the staff would speak to her at all... or even look her in the eye. She was being shunned by everyone except Mister Weolf, who became quite the opposite. He had never spoken to her before, but now went out of his way to make pleasant comments such as, "You're looking nice today, Miss Katie," or "Maybe this will be your _special_ day, Miss Katie" - meaning her day to be adopted. He'd give her a gentle arm squeeze or a playful poke in the tummy. His face and eyes smiled but his mouth did not fully reflect his happiness - his lips remained closed tight. She concluded the standoffish Mister Weolf had observed her unwarranted mistreatment and tried to make her feel better in his own oafish way. "Could he be a new friend... who's embarrassed by his bad teeth or is it he has none at all?" Katie wondered.

A few days later, after all the children had gone to bed at the usual hour of eight p.m, Miss Applebee came to her bedside and awakened her. "Shush, Katie. Arise and get dressed." Being quiet and careful not to disturb the other sleeping girls, the girl quickly did as ordered. Her mind was aflutter; this had never happened before. Oh, no... was she in trouble again or... was Mister Weolf right? Had someone come to claim her? Were some strange, nice people going to take her away to a new home? She became so excited but held her tongue and expressions in - she could hardly wait until they got into the hallway so she could ask.

Finally, "Miss Applebee, Miss Applebee," she gushed, "Is it _my_ turn?"

"What... your turn for what?" the woman repeated.

My turn to go. It's nighttime, so the other kids won't see me leave."

"Oh, _that_ nighttime. No it's not your turn." Katie was very disappointed. "Something unexpected has come up and we require your assistance in special chore immediately. It must be completed before morning, so hush-up now." Then, for no apparent reason her demeanor became quite stern, "And don't give me any of your sass, girl," she snapped. "Do as I say!"

Surprised and taken aback by Miss Applebee's abrupt mood swing, Katie bemoaned to herself, _More work. I'm back to being punished again._ She was crushed she wasn't leaving the orphanage, and fell into a silent stride, head downcast, behind the woman as directed.

They came to the cellar door, the same one she and Jimmy had ventured into weeks ago. "The cellar?"

"You know this place?" challenged the adult.

"Uh," Katie stammered. "Some kids said it was here."

"What else did they say?"

"Oh... er... nothing. I don't know anything else about it," Katie lied to protect herself and Jimmy.

"You children shouldn't be poking around in restricted areas. You could get hurt. Do you understand?" then unexpectedly giggled to herself. "Now, that is funny considering."

"Yes, ma'am."

Soon they were at the bottom of the stairs, where Miss Applebee struck a match and lit the lantern which was still hanging between the passageways. Katie peered into the dimness and could discern a faint light at the far end of the left tunnel, this time the right one was dark.

"What do you want me to do, Miss Applebee?" The woman stared back at the child as if she hadn't understood the question. "You said you have a special chore for me."

"Oh, yes. I did, didn't I?" She raised the lantern toward the left passageway. "We have to move some... old furniture up to the courtyard for trash pick-up tomorrow morning."

"Is it big or heavy?" Katie asked. "I'm just a little girl. Is Mister Weolf going to help us?"

"Herr Weolf? Oh, I'm sure we'll see him shortly and he'll be a big help," informed her mentor. "And believe me, we know _exactly_ who you are," with a twinkle in her eye. "Step this way, please," and as Katie did the woman closed and locked the iron-barred gate behind them. 'CLANK' "We don't want anyone to accidently stray down here and get lost."

Traveling down this corridor seemed more eerie than the other one because there were no scattered candles to lead the way as before. Katie cocked her head, thinking she heard indistinguishable voices coming from the far end. Peeking around Miss Applebee, she saw light coming from another side room. "This tunnel must be built like the other one," she thought.

They arrived shortly. Miss Applebee paused at its doorway then turned around and roughly seized Katie's arm. "We're here, Dearie," and shoved the young girl inside.

The room was identical to the first she'd seen. It contained a table with four chairs and a wooden box on the floor next to a giant cooking pot - this one was upright and had a blazing fire beneath it. Candles in the corners of the room and on the table revealed Mister Huntington, Blackburn, and Weolf in attendance; the fourth chair stood empty.

"Hello, Annabelle,' hailed Mister Blackburn. "Did you bring us a treat tonight?"

"Yes indeed, and a good evening to you gentlemen... and did I ever," answered Miss Applebee. "Just look who I brought for dinner... our own little Miss Busybody." She nudged Katie closer to the center of the room. The candlelight danced on the men's glistening faces. Seemingly from out of nowhere, the reserved, polite Miss Annabelle Applebee waved her arms above her head and gave an uncharacteristic, full-throated laugh, "Just call me the Gourmet Catering Lady!"

The three men howled in glee and stamped their feet in delighted anticipation. The woman then slammed the door closed behind them. Mister Weolf with a thin line of drool in the corner of his mouth flashed a big smile - revealing pearly white, filed-to-a-point teeth. Katie's eyes darted to the other two men's open, grinning mouths. Their teeth were the same! Frightened, she jumped back, bumping into Miss Applebee's legs. Her mouth dropped as she squealed, "Nooo!"

"Ha. The boys are scary aren't they?" quipped Annabelle. "Sometimes they can act like such animals. Not everyone uses a knife and fork as I do, Sweetie."

Mister Huntington said, "I personally am extra pleased to have you here for dinner, Katie. I've been waiting for this some time."

Which prompted her new friend, Mister Weolf, to rise from his seat with a meat cleaver in his hand. He gushed, "I hope she's more tender than Oggie was."

Bon appétite

# Murder in the Fourth Dimension

Louisiana, May 1974, 2:45 a.m.

"This blasted dumpster I picked to park my butt in stinks," Wade Thornton thought to himself. "Why? There ain't supposed to be any garbage in here, just dry packing material." He then spied the pungent odor's source: a busted plastic bag containing old coffee grounds and the remains of a dozen half-eaten lunches. "People should be more careful." Peering over the top, toward the end of the warehouse where the night watchman would be rounding the corner, he considered abandoning this hiding place for one less aromatic. Evaluating the position of his trash bin against the others in the area, he thought, "No, they're too far from the dock and in bad lighting. This is definitely the best vantage point." He lowered his thin, wiry frame back down onto an overturned five-gallon paint can and squinted through a slit of the horizontal, sliding access door.

Wade ached for a cigar but couldn't take the chance of the lit butt being seen. "Gonna smoke me a mess o' stogies on that pretty little riverboat," he consoled himself. "Yes sir, ten thousand dollars buys a whole lotta wine, women and song... and fine cigars." That's the figure his fence quoted for the goods he intended to steal tonight.

The anticipated approach path remained clear. Wade was getting antsy. He mumbled aloud, "Where _is_ this guy? Did he stop for a leak, or what?" He double checked the opposite direction and then placed the bulky, thirty-eight caliber pistol with its attached homemade silencer between his feet. He reasoned, if he was rousted by a police patrol, he'd cover it with cardboard, climb out and pretend he's just another home-less person looking for shelter. The worst he'd get would be a night in the slammer for vagrancy.

Blinking and bobbing his head he thought, "I need a hit to set me right." He fumbled in a pocket, withdrew a small plastic dime-bag and held it up to the light - it appeared empty. No wait; there was a powdery coat inside and a small clump in one corner. Using a wet index finger, he 'saved' the last pinch, took a snort, turned the bag inside out and licked it clean. "Ah, good to the last drop," as the warm glow poured over him.

He was 'jacked' now, feeling fine and courageous due to the drug's charge. He began psyching himself up, "Easy picking's, if you got the balls for it. And, I gots em." as he rubbed his crotch.

Thornton, a career criminal at twenty-eight had always operated alone; he couldn't get a partner, due to his quick temper. He had done some 'Chump-time' in the local jails and 'Real-time' once in the 'Big House'; he had no intentions to return to either one. His new operating policy: "no witness, no sweat". Life had become cheap to him now, even his own.

The security guard's routine was to walk a figure eight- pattern around these four warehouses every hour, which would have him pass within forty feet of Wade's concealment. Thornton reviewed his plan for a last time, "Gonna pop that sucker, grab the keys and then fetch my pickup truck. Hafta load the flatbed and be outta here in fifteen minutes..."

Wade stopped. A hundred yards away, at Building Three's south corner, the watchman had finally made his appearance. He ambled in Thornton's direction while sweeping the doors and barred windows with his flashlight.

After what seemed an eternity the guard arrived at Intercon Industries, Wade's target, the loading dock rear entrance. The watchman's feet grated on the concrete and loose sand as he turned to check if the door had been secured within. Rattling the knob and giving a gentle push he seemed satisfied and took a step back to continue to the next outlet.

Without making a sound, Thornton sprang up from his crouched position. Eyes peeking over the rim, he saw the guard well defined by the dock's single, overhead lamp but angled sideways, presenting a bad target. Resting his wrists on the dumpster's top edge for support and aiming down the gun sight, Wade called out, not too loud, "Hey, buddy, got a light?" which caused the man to turn facing the alleyway, but not in alarm. Thornton's exact whereabouts were difficult to determine due his dark backdrop. Wade saw the guard's eyes dart from side to side as he tried to locate the speaker. Using a two handed police-style grip, Wade trained the weapon a tad to the left of the cheap, shiny gold badge pinned to the man's pale blue shirt. Gonna be a dead bang! Breathing hot and shallow, Thornton tensed to squeeze the trigger.

"Is someone there?" called the night watchman.

A blue flash! An acrid smell, similar to burning electrical wiring, filled Thornton's nostrils and stung his eyes. Hissing reverberated in his ears. Stifled for breath, he felt himself falling down... down, in a free-fall with his arms outspread... into an endless quicksilver pit. Liquid rainbow walls closed in. Wade lost consciousness.

Thornton's eyes fluttered open. His extraneous discomforts had disappeared, he felt fine, no lingering drug aftereffects. Lying prone on his back in a faint twilight, he rotated his head in slow motion to the left and right to get his bearings but was unable to distinguish any surrounding features. Wade then raised his left hand to his face to test depth of vision and the room immediately became lighted with a soft, luminescent glow. He reasoned, "It's a motion detector. No big deal." Rising to his feet, he noted the floor felt firm but not hard. "Nice texture. I might get me some o' this tile for a hide-out someday, after I make a real big score." The chamber appeared pure white, no marks or seams evident: its domed ceiling and curving walls appeared to form a circle. Hands on his hips, he stood for a moment waiting for something to happen. Patience being not one of his strong points, "Okay, out there. I'm awake, now what?" He began pacing, but without references, distance was difficult to judge. His foot soon struck the wall, causing him to instinctively fling his hands in front to prevent from falling. "Whoa! The room's smaller than I thought." Sneering, "You people having a good time hoping I'll fall on my ass?"

A red 'X' appeared in the middle of the floor. A robotic voice said, "Step on the mark, Wade Thornton."

Studying the image, he retorted, "No way, Jose. Ain't doin' nothin' til I gets some answers. Now where am I, and what's going on?"

After a few a few moments of dead silence, he perceived a faint whining sound and softly touched the wall with his fingertips. There was a slight vibration. Pressing an ear against it he felt his head being gently pushed back. Then, the bottom of the wall struck his shoe again, this time forcing it to slide backward on the flooring. He realized with shock, "Sonnavabitch, the wall's moving. It's closing in on me!"

"Step on the mark, Wade Thornton," repeated the automatron.

Ignoring the command, he raced around searching for an exit or telltale crack to attack and pry open. The whining grew louder. Wade came to a halt. Had the enclosure shrunk several feet, or more?

"Step on the mark, Wade Thornton." Panic sat in. He bolted and slammed into another part of the nightmarish prison. He pushed with all his might, the veins stood out on his ever-reddening face. The barrier kept coming: the chamber measured now less than eight feet across.

"Step on the mark, Wade Thornton."

Eyes bulging, Thornton stared at the red 'X' as if it were the escape hatch from Hades itself. He leapt in the center, jerked both arms up and bellowed, "I'm on it!"

A transparent, seven-foot tall cylinder slid over him. He excitedly poked and prodded it with vigor to no avail. The surface felt like soft plastic, yielding, yet unbreakable. Movement again, he braced himself inside his new confinement. "What now?" A similar shaped doorway opened and his container began sliding toward it. As he passed through, lights turned on and off - there was blackness ahead and blackness behind as he traversed a network of underground tunnels to an unknown destination. "I can't breathe!" he cried out. "Help! Can anyone hear me?"

"We hear and you will not suffocate," droned the metallic voice. He proceeded through the final corridor, took a right turn and came to a stop. His heart pounded and he had developed a headache from the string of flashing lights. Another portal materialized and Wade quickly discerned five people sitting at three tables inside a large, austere chamber. He felt a little better upon seeing some human faces. "Bout damn time, you worthless piece of plastic tubing," chastised Thornton. The transporter glided into the open center area and coasted to a standstill.

A disembodied voice rang out, "The New Order versus Wade Thornton!"

Wade waved his arms back and forth inside his capsule to make sure he had their attention. He ranted, "Hey, you people. Let me outta here. Like, right now would be good!"

"No, you shall remain where you are," answered a new voice. "Be silent and listen to your proceeding."

Staring straight ahead with his mouth agape, he first gawked at the three figures behind a long table: two men and a teenage boy. The young man on the right wore a green jump-suit, in the center sat a middle-aged man clad in blue and on the left an older gentleman in black. To Thornton's left rear, a similar scenario was presented by a fellow donned in red attire stationed at his own table and to Wade's right rear, a young woman dressed in white also sat alone.

The prisoner gazed about and speculated, "Another barren room, no frills. Is this a hospital? The Nuthouse?" He declared, "Hey, you guys, I ain't sick and I sure as hell ain't crazy neither."

"Silence, Wade Thornton. Your presence is a privilege, not a right."

Wade simmered, he knew he had rights, lots of them, but decided to button up and see what was going down.

Mister Blue rose, "Mister Green please state the charge," and sat back down.

The green teenager popped up, "The defendant, Wade Thornton, is charged with murder in the fourth dimension of James Glover, a human being," and returned to his chair.

Mister Blue stood again, "Mister Red, your presentation."

Wade watched with curiosity as the people bounced up and down and thought, "Is this some kind of game? Is someone going to pin the tail on the donkey next?"

"The New Order asserts, and will prove conclusively, Wade Thornton did indeed willfully and wantonly, without remorse, terminate the life of James Glover during the course of acquiring unlawful personal gain."

Again, from Mister Blue, "How does your client plea, Miss White?"

"My client pleads 'guilty' and begs for the mercy of the court."

Thornton's head jerked in her direction, "Hey, wait a damn minute here! If you're talking about _me_ , I don't plead guilty to nothin! Just what is this? Kangaroo court on the Funny Farm? And, who the hell are _you_ , little girl?"

"Miss White," interjected Mister Blue. "Your client apparently needs consultation. Elucidation is permitted. You may have a short conference."

The first thing she said to Wade was their communication was confidential and private. Then, "Do you have a question or objection, Wade Thornton?"

"I sure do, Baby. I knows some law; enough to know I'm entitled to counsel before a trial. If that's what this here circus is supposed to be. Nobody's told me a dang thing! You better put some words on me or else I'm really gonna start making a fuss."

Annoyed, she glanced at the clock on the wall and mumbled under her breath, "I have a personal, physical enhancement session at the gym in twenty minutes."

Wade's eyes followed hers; the glowing digital display showed, 7-30 15:10 2145. Miss White then checked her terminal notes and nodded her head in understanding. "That explains the problem. You're dated before the New Order." She turned to Thornton, "I'm going to make this short and sweet by making a parallel even _you_ should understand. I'm sure you're very familiar with the archaic judicial system from your own time period. Thankfully, it no longer exists... In _our_ system: Mister Red at the single table like my own, is the Prosecutor and he has no assistants. The three people in front are the Governing Council. Mister Green is the Referencer. Mister Blue is the Master of Ceremony and Mister Black is the Magistrate. I am your defense attorney; there are no assistants for me either. And lastly, there are no jurors, nor spectators permitted. Pretty simple system, isn't it?"

"Uh, if you say so Cutie," returned Wade. "But what's that about a New Order? What do you mean?"

"Look," while throwing her head back. "This is the _future_ to you, Wade Thornton. Are you so dense I have to spell out everything?"

"Caution," admonished, Mister Blue. The Court had recognized this was Miss White's first Time Travel case and some leniency in protocol was being extended.

Composing herself, "Yes, Sirs of the Court, thank you." Readdressing her client, she pointed at the timepiece. "July thirtieth, fifteen-ten p.m., twenty-one forty-five. You have been transported forward in time. And, in answer to your question: the New Order, our system of government, was established in the year, twenty-one hundred. Get it now?"

Wade stared at the blinking digits. "Twenty-one forty-five? The year is twenty-one forty-five?" Dumbfounded, he stuttered, "Wait. This is crazy. If this is the future as you say then I must've died over a hundred years ago. Why bring me here now? What's the point?"

Exasperated by the amount of time being consumed on this simple open and shut case, "Oh, well, I can kiss my p.e. session goodbye, thanks to you." She rapped her knuckles on her table and took a deep breath. "Mister Green, my client wishes to know the Avoidance Postulate."

"Certainly, Miss White. Crime procreates crime," he stated.

"Elaborate in regards to this session please, Mister Green." directed the M.C.

"Yes, sir. Public record informs us two years after the James Glover crime and during Wade Thornton's final apprehension, the defendant killed a priest and two nuns during a robbery and shoot-out at a Catholic Church fund raising bazaar. As a direct result of his actions, four other incidents were perpetrated by copy-cat offenders which led to three additional deaths. Those later losses of life have been classified as Crimes of Influence, hence avoidable and worthy of intervention by the New Order. Our Time Warp recording personnel have researched and determined the life extensions of the afore-mentioned victims will not have a detrimental effect on our present existence. Therefore, this retrieval has been deemed humane, beneficial and functional."

Looking Thornton in the eye, she said, "Do you understand the mechanics now? Quite simply, the more crime this council eliminates in the past, the less crime we have in our present." She let the postulate sink in then added, "Also meaning, in your particular application, neither the murder of James Glover nor your indirect responsibility for the subsequent related losses of life can be evaded. There is no escape, either via a statute of limitations or even by your own prior death." She smiled, "And, especially by your era's favorite avenue: the technical error. Justice will be served when dealing within the Fourth Dimension."

"Fourth dimension?" he repeated.

"I thought it had become clear by now, even to a dimwit as you. The Fourth Dimension is Time. You shall face justice here for the crime you committed in the year nineteen seventy-four, Wade Thornton."

"Justice. Humph." He then put the shoe on the other foot and accused her, "You sure don't sound much of a _defense_ attorney to me. You talk like you're working for the other side." Rubbing his scraggly beard, he demanded, "So, just what kind of justice are we talkin' about? How many years in the Slammer?" She lackadaisically ignored his question and Wade quickly became angry and turned defiant - spurred on by her apparent superfluous attitude. "Tell you what, screw the Slammer and these guys in their rainbow suits. How a new plan? For starters how about getting back to the basics and you acting like my lawyer and not like that Red clown over there? Honey, it's nigh past time for you to get your head on straight and stop playing these fools' silly game. C'mon girl, tell me true, how do we beat this rap? There's always a way out!"

At first, she was caught off guard by his aggressiveness, then automatically answered, "Be found not guilty?" She thought for a moment then laughed so hard, tears came to her eyes. Even the rest of the council snickered with a knowing grin - they had seen this drama before. Her response embarrassed Wade and knocked his ego down a notch. "Not guilty?" she repeated. "Impossible. No one has ever been found, not guilty." She dabbed her face with a tissue. "Moving forward past this obvious moot point, _Mister_ Thornton, we are now brought to the issue of dispensing your punishment. Its nature primarily depends on whether you contest the charge or not. If you plead guilty and beg for the mercy of the Court you will be dealt with in the most expeditious and humane way possible."

"Which is?"

"You'll be vaporized where you stand immediately after the Magistrate renders a 'guilty as charged' verdict. There is no appeal. On the other hand, if you try to contest and lose, your execution will be identical to the method you incorporated on James Glover." Turning away, she asked, "Mister Green, exactly in graphic description what was the method of James Glover's termination?"

"Four fatal gunshot wounds to the chest and abdomen." Wade gulped and paled.

"Are you ready to proceed, Miss White?" queried Mister Blue.

Arching her eyebrow, "An interesting death. Thank you, both. Yes, I'm sure we're ready now to enter a plea of guilty and beg..."

"No, no, no!" Thornton languished, "This is a nightmare. I didn't shoot him. I... I can't remember." Spinning around in his holding cell, he saw at the rear of the courtroom on either side of the portal he came through, hung an old fashion wooden grandfather clock. Both were silent: their pendulums still; there were no hands on either face which denoted the reference of time didn't apply here. "Nooo!"

"Miss White does your client wish to enter a plea of not guilty against your advisement?" questioned an incredulous Mister Blue.

"Yes, yes!" roared Wade. "I'm innocent. I didn't shoot him. I woulda remembered it. You freaks are trying to trick me into confessing to something I didn't do. It won't work. I'll never confess!"

"Very well, the defendant has spoken. Mister Red, resume your case presentation and submit the evidence please," instructed the M.C. Under his breath, "At least this is a break from the usual routine."

Mister Red began with: "The historical, publicly recorded, 'nolo contendere' is on file depicting James Glover's termination and the method utilized. Therein and in addition, the manifest listing the specific stolen merchandise has demonstrated the defendant's motive. Although there were not any witnesses none are required and in the same respect, confessions per se have been adjudicated as non-definitive articles. At this time, I submit as evidence for the council's inspection, the perpetrator's murder weapon." An image of the pistol appeared on the video screen. "This antique, thirty-eight caliber revolver with an attached muffling device bears the d.n.a. of Wade Thornton. Wherein, establishing an irrefutable link between the defendant and the scene of the crime. 'Ipso facto', which conclusively proves the premeditated murder of the victim by Wade Thornton."

"Yeah, yeah, I held the gun," Wade butted in. "Still don't mean I shot him."

"Mister Red, please submit the hard copy of the ballistics report to the council," directed Mister Blue.

"I'm sorry; I don't have it at hand. I didn't anticipate a challenge," he sheepishly returned. "I'll have to query the computer. One moment, please. Turning to the rear wall, "Computer, display the ballistics report pertaining to case, 5-24-1974WT."

All parties together reviewed the data presented on the rear video screen. Mister Red's jaw dropped, the council gasped. The tenth line from the top stated: 'Weapon not discharged.'

"How do you explain this discrepancy?" barked, Mister Blue.

Wade immediately recognized the implications. He began laughing and dancing in his tube. Joyfully, he kept pointing out the report to Miss White. "See, Honey, that's what I'm talkin' about. Tell me, Sweetie is that one o' them famous 'technical errors' you people don't have no more?" He poured it on while Miss White, in disbelief, read it over and over. "Beat you mothers. You ain't got no case!" he bellowed.

"That's enough, Wade Thornton!" commanded Mister Blue.

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you," but he kept dancing and making obscene gestures at Mister Red.

"Come to order! Mister Red, your explanation."

He sputtered, "I am without one. Again, I must query the computer. Computer, how is it the report states, 'weapon not discharged'?"

The metallic voice answered, "Seizure of subject and time transport occurred prior to weapon discharge."

"How could this have happened?" wondered, Mister Red.

"Searching archives one moment, please," responded the computer. "Search complete. Time warp tractor beam technician, SENHL200 committed a programming error when transcribing timing data into the activation module. There had been produced a one minute disparity between the proposed and actual system execution."

Embarrassed, Mister Red meekly admitted, "Yes, that would explain it. I beg the court's forgiveness for my oversight and request a continuance."

The three other colors rose and faced Mister Black. A ruling necessitated.

He stood, stone-faced, curt and to the point, "Your continuance is denied. Your case preparation is inexcusable. Technician, SENHL200 is hereby demoted and reassigned to the Sanitation Bureau". The Magistrate's eyes drilled the prosecutor, "Mister Red, you will assume his vacated position. He paused for effect as Mister Red's shoulders slumped. "Wade Thornton will be remanded to his own time. So judges the Fourth Dimension Court of the New Order."

The four other colors bowed their heads and spoke in unison, "So judges the Court." The prisoner's cylindrical cell began sliding toward the reopened exit.

Wade, his face beaming, heckled Miss White. "See, Sugar, ya gotta have faith." He hummed a tune while snapping his fingers, "Uh-huh, dum, dum, uh-huh" and was subsequently put to sleep by an invisible gas en route to the Time Warp Transporter chamber.

"Is someone there?" called the night watchman.

Thornton shook his head and thought, "Whew, I must be trippin' from that little hit." He blinked his eyes and refocused on the target. Wade squeezed the trigger. 'Poof, poof, poof, poof'. Four rapid fired shots slammed into the victim's chest and abdomen - driving him against the rear entranceway. Whump! He hit the door. His knees buckled; the guard slid down to a sitting position. Dead. Thornton scrambled out of the dumpster and quick-stepped it to Glover. The killer kicked the guard's left arm and his body fell on its side. Thornton checked the alleyway in both directions; it appeared still clear. He reached for the building keys...

Exactly one minute after the deadly shots had been fired: A blue flash! An acrid smell, similar to burning electrical wiring, filled Thornton's nostrils...

The end

Note: The author wrote this preceding story when he was a fifteen year old high school sophomore.

# A Fowl Covenant

"It must be seven fifteen. There goes Mister Weinstein out to feed the birds again," remarked Sophie Peterson. "Every morning, just like clockwork... before he goes to work."

"Humph," returned Jack, her husband of forty years.

"He's been doing the same thing for over three years... ever since we moved in here," continued his wife. "What do you make of that, Dear?"

"Frig'n nut case is what I say," as he placed his coffee mug on the kitchen table. He glanced up from his newspaper and stated, "Birds, all the time birds. He has a dozen cages on his patio and probably twice as many more inside his house judging from my nose. I told you what happened last week didn't I?"

"Yes, Dear. Several times."

"Humph, damn moron," as he turned a sports page and continued to talk to himself - reliving the incident anew. "I went out to get the newspaper and noticed his carrier had thrown his into our yard. I picked it up and walked toward his house to toss it at his front door, being a good neighbor and all. Well, he just happened to be coming out to retrieve it at the same time. He accused me of trying to steal that rag of a paper he reads, The Herald. Can you imagine how stupid that is? Me, steal his crappy paper! I'll bet all he uses it for is to line his bird cages... to catch bird poop. Weinstein probably can't read at all!"

"The fool's front door was open when I handed it to him. The stink coming from inside smelled like the County Zoo's aviary if they hadn't cleaned the cages for a month. I said, "Geesh, Harvey, do you have any _live_ birds in there?" and pinched my nose closed. He called me a Cretin and made bird whistles at me as I returned home."

"I know, Dear. You've told me before," as she topped off his cup and handed it back to him. "What's a Cretin, Dear?"

"Never mind, Sophie. I think you've missed the point, again," and dropped the subject.

She took a last peek at her neighbor's back yard to observe Harvey sitting in his lawn chair with bits of bread and birdseed spread all about him in a twenty-foot wide circle. No birds came to sample his offerings. They kept their distance - sitting on the telephone pole wires until he went back inside his house and left for work at eight a.m.

It was the same routine year after year. The weekends were different: he would sit out in the field for an hour in the morning and the same in the evening - waiting in vain for his 'wild' friends to join him. It made Sophie often wonder why he didn't give up on the wild ones and just tender to the domestics he had and said as much to her husband.

"Because he's a nut job, that's why," retorted Jack.

"Yes, Dear."

Poor Harvey Weinstein. He cherished his own birds, but wanted more - the affection of the wild ones also. Isn't that a typical human weakness to seek after what we can't have? Sometimes even to our own detriment? For eleven years, he watched from inside his house the blue jays, brown and grey doves, black birds and a dozen other varieties enjoy his foods, water dish, handmade birdhouse and a perch he bought and assembled in the hope of luring their elusive companionship.

He lived in a small two bedroom 1970's 'starter house' located in a neighborhood consisting mostly of fifty years or older residents (primarily retirees). It certainly suited his needs, he being alone and never been married. Most of the folks around him were basically in the same situation. There were perhaps as few as three children in the entire complex of a hundred homes. Quiet, just right - nothing to scare the wildlife away. His house, in a string of seven, butted up against a nine acre lot owned by a Baptist church group who were 'temporally' having their services in an elementary school auditorium ( for the last ten years ) due to the fact they had over-extended themselves financially in buying the large piece of 'rural property'. Their hope for developing this land into a permanent church site in the near future had been hamstrung by the meager cash flow from their small congregation. However, placing their unrealized good intentions aside, the town ordinances still required them to keep the property maintained even though there was no activity other than an occasional member's picnic... thus creating a perfect 'status quo' situation for the neighborhood and especially Mister Weinstein.

But alas, for only Harvey, it seemed there was always something to screw things up his plans. One particular irritating drawback to our bird-lover's pursuit was that even if he moved his lawn chair into the middle of the most open part of the church's field, he discovered he still couldn't lure the birds in to feed. "Most strange and very wrong indeed," he reasoned and felt denied of what he rightfully deserved. He deduced the birds were afraid to come to him because of those nosy, prying busybodies next door. "They're always looking out their windows at me. The birds can sense they're being watched. At least I have enough sense to turn the lights out, put a black towel over my head and hide behind my living room couch when I watch them. Those stupid gawkers really tick me off! As a matter of fact, _all_ the gawking, damn neighbors tick me off," he fumed as he picked up his folding chair and threw it toward his house.

As expected, things again turned quite the worst for our unlucky Harvey: his weekly work schedule at the library changed to10 a.m. to 7 p.m. which now gave him only one opportunity to observe or try to entice his quarry. He argued his case to retain his current hours to his supervisor, the new guy, who laughed so hard he almost passed out. "You want to keep your current hours so you can try to feed birds which have never shown up in three years! Look, guy, I know that's _real_ tough on you but I now have to provide adequate job coverage with two less people because of those retirements last month. Birds... silly me. And to think I was told before I transferred to this department we had 'team players' working here - apparently, not all! Whatta joke on me!" and laughed some more.

His fellow co-workers had long considered the obnoxious Mister Weinstein to be many cards short of a full deck and this well-deserved embarrassment to him served as great entertainment.

Then, one typical Saturday morning as Harvey sat in his lawn chair in the middle of the field bemoaning and cursing his fate a stranger walked out of the underbrush toward him. He didn't immediately notice the tall, slender man donned in black because he was engrossed in scanning the trees as he mumbled and spat on the grass.

"Hello, partner," hailed the approaching figure.

"Shush!" rebuked Harvey. "You'll scare away my birds."

"Sorry, friend," returned the newcomer. "I've been watching and didn't see any. In fact, I've been watching you for quite a while and..."

"Quite a while?" interrupted Harvey. "Are you some kind of stalker? You better be careful, Buster. I was quite the man not too long ago and I can still put most men down."

"I'm sure you can," agreed the intruder as he viewed the fat, one hundred pound overweight couch-potato wedged into his extra-heavy duty constructed chair. "No offense, friend. I just came over to help you with that little problem you're having."

"I ain't having a problem, Mister."

"Oh, sorry again. I had the impression you wanted some up-close and personal feathery company. My mistake?"

Harvey cleared his throat as he eyed his smiling visitor's matching black cowboy hat, shirt, jeans and boots. "Oh, that... well, er." He quickly assumed his usual belligerent demeanor. "So what's it to you? Who do _you_ represent? The Audubon Society? Got some hot tips for me? You can forget it, Bub. I've read all the books. These little peckers just won't come to me." He rested his chubby chin on his chest, "I must be cursed."

"Well now that's an outright shame," asserted Mister Black. "I don't think it should be that way at all, especially for a caring man such as yourself." This perked up Harvey's ears and stoked his ego.

"Damn straight," agreed Weinstein. "I guess I could bring myself to accept a good suggestion from a fellow bird-lover if I had a mind to."

"Glad to hear, sir but let me tell you right off I'm not affiliated with any particular group as you would know it and I'm not asking for money. However, I can assure you I can definitely help you fulfill your wishes regarding these birds and many other things if you so desire." Harvey gave him a discerning scowl meaning the 'other things' had better not be sexual in nature. "Oh, no, Harv," reading his mind. "Just two friends sharing their thoughts. Trust me, nothing else. So now we've broken the ice, what in the heck do _you_ want? I mean, you're been sitting out here countless hours... months... years. Tell me. Just between the two of us." He opened both arms wide like an evangelist, "I know I can help you. Speak to me, Buddy."

Harvey, although distrusting and cantankerous as ever finally broke down and confessed, "I want birds to pet, lotsa birds... different from the usual domestic ones living in my cages. Is that so wrong? I want to be able to touch and love the outside ones also. Do you think I'm crazy? Hell, I've seen it on TV. Why not me too?"

"No, no, friend. Nothing wrong with that." He paused, "But you must understand those people you've seen on TV had to pay a price for such a privilege."

"A price? What do you mean?"

Mister Black rattled off some of the possible corporate details with, "Training, props, sponsorship, insurance and who knows what else. It's a complex presentation."

Harvey considered, "Oh, well sure," admitting it was logical for concessions and coordination being made.

The visitor smiled to himself and asked, "And you my friend, what would you be willing to concede for a short period of time in order to receive prized moments with your new-found friends? Wonderful experiences which no one else could have... only you, Harvey Weinstein."

"Concede?" caught his ear. "Do you mean to give up something?" The stranger nodded, 'Yes'. "It depends on what it is. Why would you ask such a dumb question?"

"Because I can make it happen for you."

"Sure," Harvey mocked. "You have a magic trick or some kind of bird-attracting whistle or mating scent spray?"

"No tricks or gimmicks," he laughed. "But I do have a gift... a sort of a power I'll use, for you."

Weinstein pondered this offer while thinking, "What the hell: I've got nothing to lose. Did he say I had to pay a price? I don't remember," and concern crossed his brow.

Mister Black saw him mulling over the prospect and offered, "Tell you what Harvey. I'll give you a free demonstration for a week. Say we start this coming Monday? It'll be for Monday through Saturday... not on Sunday. Then we'll talk some more... talk price. Whatta you say, Harv? A _free_ demonstration."

"Free? Well sure. Er, who do I call you, what's your name?"

"Oh, just call me Mister Black," as he pointed at his clothing. "Simple," and gave a reassuring 'thumbs up'. "Just come on out here Monday morning, do your usual routine and see what happens."

Harvey rose up, faced his house, folded up his chair and remarked, "Can you do anything about these piss-ant neighbors of mine?"

No reply. Mister Black had disappeared.

Monday morning

Harvey didn't sleep well for the last two nights due to fitful anticipation and as he finally shuffled out into the middle of the field carrying his trusty lawn chair and a plastic bag full of bread crumbs he was already in a surly, semi-depressed mood. He felt sure he was being taken for the fool. Mister Black was most likely hiding in the brush, perhaps even videotaping 'dumb-ass' Harvey Weinstein. "Those scumbags living next door undoubtedly hired him. Maybe _all_ my neighbors put this plot together to embarrass me. Bastards. I hate them all!"

He opened the chair, plopped down and aimlessly tossed about some of his bread crumbs. His spirits were in the dumps and mumbled, "Okay, you worthless turds, you've got me. I'll sit here long enough for you to get your jollies off!" He then shouted toward the houses, "But I'll never come back to this field again!" He thought, "I'll just stay on my patio where you can't see me. Maybe I'll tear down all the things I've built, chop them into pieces and throw them in your backyards in the middle of the night. Ha," he smirked. "Just try to prove it was me, you assholes." He stewed some more, "Better yet, I'll kill all my birds and throw _those_ in your yard."

All of a sudden his ears discerned a fluttering in the trees. "What the...?" He knew the sound of flapping bird wings but hadn't heard them this close before. It was in the correct place but out of place at the same time. He finished setting-up as quickly as he could and started tossing more crumbs all around in a wide circle. "I'll bet that damn Mister Black is projecting a cd sound tract at me. All to make me look even more foolish," but a spark of 'the impossible happening' fired a glimmer of hope within him. "What if?" as he sat mesmerized at the wind-driven swaying tree branches. He didn't detect any movement. Then came a bird call, 'coo'. And another call, this one distinctly different from the first, then followed by a 'cheep'. Next, a 'wheat-wheou' from behind him. "I recognize those sounds. That last one was a blue jay, a red-winged blackbird and a grey, ring-necked dove." Harvey knew his birds. Soon he heard dozens of calls from all different types. He sat very still. A blue jay swooped down from a poinsettia tree and landed ten feet in front of him. It hopped up and down in their usual manner and pecked at the bread. Then four more arrived to complete its family. They all ate the crumbs right in front of him instead of picking them up and returning to their home nesting tree as their custom. "Wow." He could almost reach down and touch them. "This is amazing!" More and more of all types came, a total of at least fifty. They arrived so fast he couldn't count them. Both Harvey's eyes and mouth were wide open when the best of all occurred: a spotted brown dove landed on each knee and began cooing at him for food. He was so shocked he couldn't move and just stared. A small blackbird landed on his right shoulder and a mockingbird on his left. They snuggled up to him, rubbed their little faces on Harvey's ears and playfully kissed him on his cheeks... he almost wet his pants. His hand trembled as he retrieved from his pocket a plastic baggie full of wild bird seed. His new found friends took turns sitting on his wrists and eating the food out of his hands. "Unbelievable," he gasped. In thirty minutes all of his provisions were depleted and yet they wouldn't leave him. They kept taking turns hopping up and kissing him then returning to the ground to sit and rest. Harvey shed a tear of happiness.

An hour and a half had passed before he noticed his watch. "Uh, oh, it's time to go to work. Drat, maybe I'll call in for a sick day, get more supplies and come back out here." He surely didn't want to leave and end this once in a lifetime experience. "But wait, didn't Mister Black say this could happen to me _every day_? I believe he did!" Enforced with the prospect and with a happy heart he gladly packed up his gear, bade 'goodbye' to all his friends and added he'd be back tomorrow. He also swore if the birds weren't here he'd go looking for Mister Black in a most unkind way. After-all, it would be a crime to show him all this happiness and then snatch it away. Harvey had become confused again as he ambled back to his house. "Did he say I could buy this? Or rent it? I don't quite remember." He then saw Sophie peeking from her kitchen window and quickly flipped her the finger. "Die, Bitch."

The next morning came ever so slowly. Harvey, ever the pessimist, dreading a heart-breaking disappointment, slogged into the field to the same spot where he had set-up the day before. He brought with him triple the amount of supplies. "Did it really happen? Was I sick, delirious on my couch and imagined yesterday? It was utterly impossible... after-all, these are _wild_ birds, not domestic pigeons." To his infinite delight, it happened again on even a grander scale \- a hundred birds and more varieties. Harvey fell in love.

Almost a week passed and it seemed like a mere few minutes. Saturday came. He ran out of goodies after two hours and his friends retreated into the trees to rest as Mister Black made a reappearance. "How'd it go?" as he gave a knowing grin.

Harvey was so grateful a tear ran down his cheek again. He quickly turned away - not wanting to show a sign of weakness. "Okay... good," he croaked.

"Hey, friend, cheer up. They'll be back this early evening. Wild birds feed twice a day, morning and evening. You probably forgot since you've been working those crazy hours at the library."

Weinstein's heart did a joyous flitter and answered, "Oh, yeah, yeah. I knew that," trying to appear knowledgeable.

"Of course you did, Harv. They rest at midday and all day Sunday. Nothing on Sunday, Partner but I'm sure you knew that also. Right?"

"Oh, yeah. Everyone knows, especially me. I'm known as somewhat of an authority," he bragged.

"Yes, I know what you are," returned his benefactor. Then getting straight to the point, "Do you want this to continue?" Harvey just glared at him in response to the ridiculous question. "It's your call, Buddy. You've sampled the wares. It's time to talk turkey, or in this case, wild birds," and grinned at his play on words.

Harvey and Mister Black were an arms-length apart. The salesman gave him a few moments to reflect on his recent experience. "Are you satisfied; are you happy with my demonstration?"

Weinstein reflected in his mind, "Is this a trick question? I've never felt so wonderful, alive, vibrant... I can't even describe it." Not wanting to tip his hand and reveal his innermost feelings Harvey answered, "Yeah, yeah. You really delivered the goods. Thanks a lot." Unsaid, he reasoned, "Did you do anything at all? Or was it just a coincidence? I don't see any evidence indicating you personally lured these birds here."

"Thanks a lot. Is that all you have to say, Partner? Are you actually ready to bid a final 'goodbye' to these magnificent creatures who in turn have grown to love you?" Harvey gulped. Mister Black raised and dropped his hand. All the birds gave a resounding chorus - a blend of beautiful music to their yearning, wanting, last caretaker.

"Oh, my god," whispered Harvey.

"Well, not exactly... but close. Which brings us to the knitty-gritty. Harv, my good friend, you can have this for the rest of your life... even an extended life... for a small price," he stated as he waved a wide circle around the bird lover. "What do you say, Sport. Are you ready to deal?"

"I'm a man of little means..." began Harvey.

"No, no," raising his hand, interrupted Mister Black. "I have a different proposal; no money involved."

"I'm listening," acknowledged the ardent bird-lover. "What do you want?"

"Your soul... just for a _little_ while," while showing a slight gap between his index finger and thumb.

Harvey stood waiting for the punch line of this silly joke. Mister Black folded his arms and stared him down. Harvey finally smirked and said, "Good one, Bro." A pause. "You are kidding, right? Cause you sure don't look like the Devil and I don't think the Big Red One would be trading bird feathers for souls."

"You'd be surprised my friend at the deals made. Good deals, for people as yourself. Oh, and by the way I'm not the 'Big Red One'. Consider me to be an agent for him. A travel agent if you wish; that would be most fitting."

Harvey gave him a cynical look and returned, "Do I look like some kind of smuck? Sounds like a load of crap to me." He surveyed the surrounding area. "Am I on America's Funniest Home Video's or something?" He waved his two middle fingers at the trees. "Up yours, folks. How'd you like that, Mister Travel Agent?"

The salesman remained calm and retorted, "Yours is a typical response. We both know what you really want. You'd be surprised to learn that nearly all of our contract holders didn't desire money, fame or power either. They wanted things which were personal to them, most involved some form of love. In that regard, you're just like them. You're in the majority, Bud. The initial problem I have at the beginning is that people don't understand the conditions and details of the contract which is called a covenant. Don't worry; we'll go over everything thoroughly."

Harvey stopped making smart remarks and began to listen. "I assume you're not an overly religious person. Are you?" Weinstein indicated, 'no'. "Let me explain the highlights, the Big Picture for you, my friend. Most people, uninformed people, are afraid of being thrown into a firey pit called Hell when this life is over and burning forever. I would be too! But it doesn't work that way. I admit there are a few warm spots here and there reserved for some truly bad to the bone folks but that's not what the system's about. Here's the lowdown, Sport. Hell is not much more than a big, giant holding tank, full of souls waiting for the Resurrection. You've heard of the Judgment Day, right Harv?" He nodded a meek, 'yes'. "It's going to be a real and true happening; you can count on it. On that particular 'day', which is a figure of speech in relation to actual time, God will decide who's good or bad and send them off to their proper final destination. I'm sure the _group_ I'm affiliated with will get a few returnees to be dealt with appropriately when the time comes. But you're a 'good' man so you've got nothing to worry about. Correct?" Harvey nodded his head vigorously, 'yes' again. "I thought so." He raised his hand once more and the birds chorused in anew. "And they think so too. So, as I was saying we have all these souls just hanging around in a big staging area waiting for the Big Day. They're not being hurt or tortured, just biding their time. Here's the kicker. What I know and am willing to pass on to you to seal the deal is that the Big Day is right around the corner! Yes sir, my friend you'll end your human days here on earth and just like this," as he snapped his fingers, "it'll be your turn to be picked to go to Paradise. What a deal! It's a win-win situation which you so richly deserve."

Weinstein rocked back and forth on his heels. "Well, er, it sounds awfully good. You present a hellava... oh, sorry, a 'good' argument indeed. Can I have some time to think about it?" Again, he wanted to see first if the birds would return to him without his getting tied up with this possible con-artist.

"Of course, Harv. I'm an easy man to deal with. I'll return a day when I know you've made up your mind. But, my friend, I'll only extend this offer one more time. Remember if we go through with this, your new-found friends will be with you morning and evening six days a week. Not on Sunday. I'm leaving now; I have lots more customers waiting to make a deal." He gave Weinstein a 'thumbs up', 'win-win' sign and strode off into the foliage.

Saturday evening, twelve days later

All the nagging points had been proven and Harvey became surlier with each disappointing, passing day. No birds came, to say the least - not even a rustling or an occasional call from the trees. He couldn't even see the high-flying predators which were always visible overhead or on the horizon. His neighbors only 'thought' he had been hard to deal with before. Yesterday he kicked over their curbside garbage can when he found it a couple of inches over where he had deemed his property line to be.

Sitting in the open field with his stack of provisions he mumbled, "All right, Mister Black I agree. Let's get it done. I'm so miserable I'm just about ready to kill myself or someone else."

"I heard you, partner," called his old, bosom buddy.

"It's about time," snarled Harvey. "I've been waiting three weeks!"

"I think not but I'm sure it felt that way." Stoking Weinstein's ego, "I know a good, deserving man when I see one. This is going to be so easy you won't believe it. All you have to do is say, 'I, Harvey Weinstein, agree to the previously stated covenant,' unless you have some further questions."

"No, I'm fine. Let's get this damn thing done." Mister Black smiled. "I, Harvey Weinstein agree to the covenant."

"Okay... that was the short version but it'll work," and the two men shook hands.

"Now, bring em' on," ordered Harvey.

"Sorry, Buddy. It's too close to sundown. They'll be here first thing Monday morning."

"Monday?" Harvey furrowed his brow, "How about tomorrow?"

"Sorry again," waving a finger at him. "Not on Sunday. Remember that part of the contract?"

Harvey frowned, "Humm, I guess you're right. But I'm not happy about it."

"I understand, Buddy." He patted him on the back, "Monday'll be here before you know it and you won't be disappointed."

Harvey folded up his extra-wide, oversized for greater stability chair and said, "Better not be," to no one in sight.

He was not disappointed. There were over a hundred feathered friends who clamored to show their affection. Harvey didn't feel just being happy, he was in near ecstasy.

The months went by and he increasingly neglected his home birds. Finally, one day he declared, "I've had enough of feeding you and cleaning up your poop." He emptied his cages one by one and threw his pets outside with a harsh hand until they were all gone. "Good riddance. I've got bigger and better now." The freed birds, lost and disoriented scattered in all directions. None wished to return. High overhead and from atop the tallest trees the predators did not let this go unnoticed. (Note/Fact: Any bird shop or home pet released into the so-called freedom of the wild will be killed and eaten by a predator within forty-eight hours.) And Weinstein thought he knew all about birds. Rid of this messy, domestic encumbrance, he gleefully returned to the field for his personal doses of happiness.

This lasted about two years at which time a couple of new intruders entered his Shangri-la.

Harvey didn't remember the exact day because all of his were semi-wonderful and running together. Even with all he had he was becoming a bit jaded with his good fortune.

There lived a family of four, harmless, black garter snakes who had made a home at the base of one of the trees in the church's field. Two of them had become curious at the human's on-goings and slithered closer to his position for a better view. They knew the birds would not attack them and kept scooting nearer and nearer. Mister Weinstein spied them at thirty feet away and approaching. Although he knew right away they were harmless, black snakes, he jumped up and rushed to them. He violently stomped on them and shouted, "You're violating my sanctuary you slimy bastards!" Then grabbed them by their tails and threw them against the closest tree trunk. They weren't killed but were certainly bruised and battered. The birds retreated into the trees and went silent from viewing the rampage. He called to them, "What? Where are you going? This is my ground and you are mine to command." However, they didn't return that day or the next and Harvey became truly pissed. Three days later on Saturday, a third of them flew back but wouldn't let him touch them. Weinstein remained angry, especially at the lesser showing. "Sonnavabitch, I better have a full boat here tomorrow and get this show back to normal."

And as he should have known, none of his feathery friends returned the following day - Sunday. He cursed up one side and down the other.

The following Monday through Saturday ran as usual except for the fewer head count. Then out of the blue, it dawned on him there were many other types of birds which never came to him - he was being denied! He saw them far overhead and skirting between the trees beyond his allotted perimeter. "I've been short-changed. I've been cheated! Where are you Mister Black? You conniving shylock."

No sooner than the words had left his lips his 'travel agent' appeared. "Nice trick," attacked Harvey. "Flashing in and out of here like some kind of magician. And by the way I figured out your little scheme. How you've tricked me into getting less than what I paid for. The gig's up, _Buddy_."

"The gig? What are you talking about? What's ailing you now, my boy?"

"My boy?" contested Harvey.

"Yes, since I'm many thousands of years older than you are, I believe I'm qualified to use that particular term."

"Whatever floats your boat, _old_ man."

"Now, since we're clear on that issue would you please explain your accusations Mister Weinstein?"

"It's simple," Harvey blurted.

"You didn't give me all I bargained for." He gestured at the big birds flying overhead, the hawks on the far outside of his cordon and a few others by the waterways. "And I'm sure they are even more than those."

"Oh, I see," returned his benefactor. "Are you aware those birds you're referring to don't get along with the ones I have provided you? They're sorta in a different class. They're predators... meat eaters. Your mounting greed will endanger these more docile birds."

Harvey became angrier, "That's a load of crap! I know you can control them; you lying weasel."

Mister Black was getting a little short on patience also. "Anything _else_ , partner?"

"Since you mentioned it," Weinstein continued with a new demand. "I want Sundays too!"

Mister Black's eyebrows shot up, "What? Need I remind you again the contract excludes Sundays?"

"Of course I remember but I am hereby initiating an amendment. Get it? And stop defying me. It's my soul. You remember that!"

"I don't have the authority to make those kind of changes without approval," answered his antagonist. "I'll have to pass it on to my supervisor for a ruling."

"Yeah, another cop-out," mocked Harvey. "You sound like one of those corporate lawyer assholes."

"Well, I guess we'll both find out tomorrow won't we?" He turned to leave and warned, "You may be surprised how binding a verbal contact is."

"Up yours," heckled Weinstein. "Just get me my birds. Everyday!"

Sunday morning came and went without any type of bird making an appearance. Harvey was steaming mad. "I'll be back later this evening and they'd better be here or come Monday morning I'll bring my gun. After I shoot a few of his pansy birds he'll know I mean business. I'll show him he can't mess with Harvey Weinstein!"

Later that evening...

Harvey camped out like a soldier awaiting an enemy attack. He inspected his provisions: a massive amount of bread and seed. "Humm, this stuff may not do. I may have to check at the pet shop to see what the big un's prefer to eat."

It was 6:45 p.m. Sophie peeked out her kitchen window, "Why look at that, Honey. Mister Weinstein is in the field again... and it's Sunday. I saw him there this morning too but no birds came."

"I'm amazed," returned Jack. "I thought they were all on the same wavelength. Bird-brains. Stop watching that moron; it's almost time for Wheel of Fortune."

"Yes, Dear but it's so strange," as she closed the curtains. "I've never seen him out there on a Sunday. I'm sure he'll be in soon. You know he watches 'Wheel' also."

"He's still an idiot," commented her husband as he settled into his TV recliner.

Harvey was about to call it another uneventful day when all of a sudden he heard the flapping of wings. Big wings! Then two, twenty pound Turkey buzzards dropped down in front of him 'Swoosh' ten feet from his chair. "Good grief!" he exclaimed. "You two are a coupla big, ugly-lookin' dudes." They just blinked in response. A bald eagle and three Black vultures joined them. "At least I have one pretty one in the batch," referring to the eagle. Next, a Broad-winged hawk landed on each of his knees. "Whoa, careful, big claws here now." Ospreys and cormorants circled immediately overhead. Harvey was happy but a little wary. "Looks what I'm giving up in quantity is being replaced in poundage." A nervous laugh, then, "Got some big suckers here. This'll take some getting used to." These birds made no cooing noises nor attempts at snuggling for affection. They just glared. "Must be because I don't have the proper food. Sorry, next time guys." More arrived.

Harvey felt a tightening from his knees to ankle and from his forearm to his wrists. He stared down to his horror and found there were black garter snakes entwined around his arms and legs - binding him to his chair! He tugged against their grasp to no avail. "I thought I got rid of you vermin!" he yelled. A Red-tailed hawk landed on Harvey's head, knocking his hat off and took a stance. Harvey shook his head, "Get off me!" The bird dug his claws into his skull so he wouldn't be dislodged. Blood flowed down both sides of Harvey's head. "Arrugh! That hurts! I said, get off!" The hawk pecked the top of his head. The skin ripped; the blood flowed freely as the bird peeled it from his skull and ate. The other predators anxiously watched and decided it was 'chow time' for them also. The two hawks on his knees eyed the tasty morsel inside Harvey's open mouth as he screamed and took turns ripping his tongue out to consume it. Harvey wasn't so loud then. His nose, lips and ears (soft and tasty) came next for the trio. It was a win-win situation for the ravenous predators which hadn't eaten since the day before. The rest of the assemblage swarmed from the ground as the airborne aviaries swooped down and joined their voracious fellows. They viciously rent and tore him to shreds. The efficient, flesh-eating killers were quickly satisfied with their evening meal.

"I thought I heard a noise coming from the field outside a few minutes ago," remarked his neighbor, Sophie.

"That fat, moron probably stepped on his own foot," reasoned Jack. The Wheel of Fortune jingle was playing, then followed by, '...and Vanna White.' "She sure looks good for an old lady," as he rubbed his crotch.

Sophie caught his motion, "Jack, what _are_ you doing?"

"Huh?" as he pulled his hand away. "Just a little bit of rash, Dear. You know, caused by sweat from working in the yard. Nothing else."

She drew back her curtains just in time to see the snakes slithering away and the birds taking flight. They were finished, very finished. Sophie stared at the bloody skeleton slumped in the lawn chair. "Oh dear, I think Mister Weinstein is going to miss 'Wheel' tonight."

The Bloody End

# The Southernmost Ghost

Saturday morning, July the fourth

It was hot - damn hot. The relentless heat, coupled with a few other noxious irritants, had made our home in south Florida a very uncomfortable place to be at the moment. Definitely not Chamber of Commerce weather - it never was during the brutal summer months.

I was reading aloud from the newspaper and commenting about various tidbits in the weather section. "Geez, the forecasts are bad." Then, something caught my eye I thought was interesting. "Ah, ha! Joyce, (my wife) you know that brown halo we've been seeing around the sun?"

"Yesss ... it's ugly. What about it?"

"You're not gonna believe this. It's African dust."

"What?"

"Yep, African dust."

"Somewhere around eight hundred billion, zillion tons of dust from the African deserts has drifted across the Atlantic Ocean and stopped right over the south Florida mainland."

"That's all we need," she replied. "but I question your numbers."

"Yeah, whatever," I dismissed. "But not only that, the westerly winds from the Gulf of Mexico are holding it in place. And, because of the drought, there's no rain to dissipate it."

"Great. Is that why my eyes are tearing, my nostrils burn and the air stinks?" she complained.

"No, that's from the everglades fires. Over twenty thousand acres have burned so far."

"Why doesn't someone put them out?" she asked.

"Too many fires and they're too remote. The counties can't get their fire-fighting equipment to them and chemical aerial bombardment is ineffective because they are so scattered. We're at the mercy of Mother Nature ... and the pyromaniacs, who, according to the Wildlife officers, are having a grand old time."

"That's a damn shame, John. Actually, it's quite horrible. They're killing all those helpless animals."

"I agree. If they ever catch one of those bastards, I'd vote to throw their ass into the flames."

"I don't know if I agree with your manly punishment and not to beat my own girlish drum, but you know my breathing isn't so good," she continued. "I'm not a jogger with the big, athletic lungs like you. I'm suffocating. Does the paper say when we're going to get some relief?"

"Sorry, dear, it doesn't. It looks as if we're in for the long, hot haul. Unless...," I flashed a smile. "You know, we really need a break. I say it's time to get outta Dodge City and get some fresh air! Let's go to Key West!"

It didn't take long before we had loaded the SUV and were headed south to the Conch Republic which was below the smog bank. I had read in the sports section there was scheduled a small, low-key, five kilometer road race on Sunday morning. But then, all activities in Key West were low-key. Everything they did down there was so easygoing it made the heralded, laid-back California lifestyle look like a Chinese fire drill in comparison.

Oddities occur, even in Paradise and the first one you'd notice in Key West is there seemed to be a dire shortage of non-tourists. You couldn't find a home-grown native or an actual resident, who call themselves Conchs, anywhere other than the select few who work in their own novelty shops. And after finishing their gig , they'd disappear like a puff of smoke - as if they had never existed. Another strange thing down there is no one walks the virtually crime-free streets outside of the established tourist section, Mallory Square. There are nothing but empty sidewalks on the whole eastside of the island. Why do you suppose that was? I had pointed out several times to Joyce that Key West was the island of the phantom resident. Were they hiding? And, if so, from what?

Soon, on our venture after passing Homestead, Florida, we merged into the usual, endless stream of cars, campers and towed boats trekking down the only route heading south - good old U.S.1. The scenery was postcard beautiful and the two and a half hour journey passed quickly. As we crested the Seven Mile Bridge, sixty-five feet above the azure gulf, I posed the inevitable question. "Where would you like to stay? Have any suggestions?"

"How about one of those nice motels downtown?" she responded.

"On Duval Street? I think there's only one hotel left and it could be rather pricey."

"Maybe not, it's the summer," she countered. "However, we rushed out and you didn't give me time to call for prices."

"Sorry 'bout that," I conceded. "We'll see what goes." 'We'll see,' was my stock answer. It covered everything from the Bubonic plague to the Immaculate Conception.

"A hundred dollars a night! ... per person!" My mouth hung open. "That's outrageous! It's usually half that price for the both of us. Less!" I argued.

"I'm sorry. It's the holiday weekend," the pretty, young receptionist returned defensively. "It's the same everywhere, sir."

"I think not!" and stormed out. "Gouging, outright gouging! That's what it is. Two days from now we could get the same room for a song. Let me tell you right now I'm not paying that kind of money." I ranted on, "I'm a working man ..."

"Enough, John!" interrupting me. "The girl's right, it'll be the same everywhere. Besides, we should have called."

More pain. I crossed my arms and stewed. Finally, I said, "Let's stop and think about this. There must be _somewhere_." I searched my memory banks and out of the murky mist came a revelation, "The Las Palmas Motel!"

"Where?" knitting her brow.

"You remember, Joyce; we stayed there a few years ago."

"Vaguely. Was that the cheap one on the other side of the island ... the deserted part ... five years ago?" She shook her head, "All those buildings and roads and no people. _There_?" with a shrill in her voice.

"Hey, I saw some people, I think ... in the daytime. Humm, I'm not sure now. They may have been some lost tourists. But so what, let's go check it out. We've got nothing to lose. Right?"

We hopped in our car. Joyce said, "I don't recall where it is."

"I do," feeling better already. "It's just one block on this side of the southernmost point in the United States. Remember the marker? It's a classic."

"Yes, I do. It's a huge block of concrete shaped like a bell and painted similar to a deep sea buoy."

"Atta girl! Right where U.S.1 dead-ends." I was impressed she recalled the particulars. "And, how about the guy who looked like a bum and tried to sell us conch shells?" I added.

"Yes, him and the old Cuban fisherman who came over and told us not to buy them. He said the shells had been drilled and the conchs inside had been pulled out alive with a hook. He said they were cursed because the conch souls had been ripped from their home and would never be at peace."

I laughed, "That bum was really perturbed the fisherman warned us off wasn't he? Amazing, some of the weird things we've experienced isn't it? Cursed souls ... zombie conch meat. Yummie! Think of that next time you chow down on one of those greasy fritters. Zombie souls, u'mm, so good." My wittiness was rewarded by another, 'You idiot' stare from Joyce.

The Las Palmas motel looked just the same as it always had: a squared pattern consisting of thirty, vintage 1950's era units which enclosed a botanical garden and a strip of ten more, older units - the motel's first built which lined the far side of the parking lot.

Inside the manager's office: "Carlos, my friend, you're still here? You look well," extending my hand and receiving his handshake in return.

"Gracias and thank you, senor. It's been a while since I see you. Como esta? Y, Senora?" to Joyce. She nodded, a "Hello," in return.

"Bien, Carlos, bien," using my limited, high school Spanish. Y su esposa, Yolanda?"

"Bueno," he beamed, pleased I had remembered his wife's name and asked about her.

The pleasantries aside I asked, "So how about a room, amigo? Just one night this time. Cold beer, shrimp pasta, a run in the morning then back to the polluted northland."

"Ah, sorry, amigo, no room. All filled up," he dead-panned - except he was not joking.

"What?" I scanned the smoldering parking lot from the office window: no cars, nary a one.

"Convention in town," he explained.

"Convention of what? Vampires? There are no cars. Did they fly in as bats?"

"Vampires, bats? Er, I think, no." He appeared pensive, as if he were really mulling over the idea. Finally he said, "Everyone went to the high school auditorium. Mel Fisher, the deep-sea salvager, he make a new sunken treasure display today. Grand opening, first day. National news!" He raised his palms outward, "That, and the holiday weekend ..."

"I told you we should have called ..."

I glared at Joyce. " _That_ horse is extremely dead, thank you very much."

I turned my attention back to Carlos. "Would you happen to know of another place we may find a room? Something we can afford? The hotels on Duval Street want blood or body parts."

He stared at the counter top, "No, sorry, senor. All the same."

"Boy, this is turning into a real crock." I pressed, "Come on, amigo. Are you sure you don't have a room ... to be cleaned or refurbished? We're not picky."

He glanced up, then looked across the parking lot at the old units 1 through 10. I spied a single key hanging behind him. It was marked #8.

"How about number Eight? Is it vacant?" He twitched as if he'd been pinched on the arse.

"Eight, oh. Vacant? Er, yes, it's vacant."

"Well! How about it, Carlos?" I challenged. "Old friends here!"

"We no rent that unit. We save it for an 'emergency'."

"An emergency?" I barked. Was I being insulted? "In case the President drops by? Got news for you; he ain't coming!" I was more than a little peeved. "So is it clean or what?" I didn't wait for the answer. "We're not driving back to Miami. We'll take it!"

Yolanda was carrying room supplies and watching us from the courtyard. She waved to Joyce then stopped dead in her tracks when she saw her husband reach for #8. Her hand went to her mouth. She dropped her basket - a dozen little bars of soap and plastic bottles scattered across the cobble-stoned walkway. She closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross.

Carlos reluctantly removed the key from its hook. He placed it gingerly on the counter. "You look first at room, si?"

Reaching for my wallet, "I said, we'd take it."

"No!" his hand moved swiftly to cover the key. "You look first!"

"Ooo-kay, Carlos, whatever." I snatched up the disputed key. "C'mon, Joyce. Let's go 'take a look'." As we left I mumbled, "Be back shortly," while giving him the, 'You're wasting my time' scowl.

Irritated, I quick-stepped it across the burning asphalt then paused and waited for her to catch up. "Sorry," I apologized. "I believe my patience is running a bit thin about now."

"It's all right, John. Let's get this done and settled in. I'm getting tired."

"Right," I agreed. "Number Eight, we are here. Prepare to be boarded." As I slid the key in the lock, I noticed the air conditioner wasn't running. It hadn't been for a while; there wasn't a condensation drip puddle below it like the other nine units. "Just great, it's gonna be hot as a pistol in there." The brilliant and analytical part of me declared, "We'll turn on the a/c then go sight-seeing. It'll be fine when we return."

The door, with a little push, creaked open. I flicked on the light switch as we stepped in - nothing came on. Typical. Either no bulbs or old, faulty electrical wiring. "Swell."

It was cold. Not cool, _cold_. "What the? How come it's so cold?" I commented. We took a few more steps.

Joyce shivered, "Brrr ... it's freezing!" as she rubbed her bare arms.

"I doubt that." Being a technician by profession, I reasoned, "Maybe it's sixty degrees. But to tell you the truth it's probably just the shock of coming in from such intense heat." Underneath, neither of us really bought that idea.

What struck me right off was it felt different from just being cold. It felt like a tomb. It was dank and soundless with no circulation.

"I have goose bumps already," said Joyce.

"Yeah, I can believe it." As we shuffled to the center of the room the hairs on my arms rose. "Static electricity," I stated. "They must have a new carpet." It was old and worn thin. "Kinda dark in here isn't it? Ah, well you know, these low budget operations ... always trying to save a buck." I went to the picture window and drew back the heavy, insulated drapes then closed the front door.

The sunlight revealed the typical motel room of yesteryear: a single standard, double bed, a dresser at its foot, a night-stand on either side and a closet-sized bathroom with a small vanity before its entranceway.

"Still not very bright in here is it?" I remarked. The sun was striking directly on the glass. We should have needed sunglasses except for the fact the light seemed to die after passing a few feet inside. It was as if it were being snuffed out. "Must be smoked glass," I reasoned. It was clear. Joyce pulled her arms across her chest; her eyes darted about the room. "I'll turn on the vanity lamps. 'Pop' the single bulb in a row of four flashed dead. "Humph, figures. I'll tell Carlos to get some decent ..." as I turned back to her. She hadn't moved an inch. She stood as a pillar of stone - except for the eyes. They were very large and straining to see into every corner and crevice. She couldn't distinguish anything. "Are you all right?" I asked. No response.

What was that? Did I detect a slight movement on the ceiling? Was it something passing by outside and throwing a shadow? I glanced at the parking lot - nothing moving. I knew Joyce saw it too. "Probably a lizard. I'll ask Carlos to shoo it out." I stared hard at a corner where I felt certain the critter had to be hiding, but I sure wasn't about to brush my hand against the wall to find out. Hell, it could have been a scorpion! As hard as I tried, I couldn't penetrate the darkened haze. "The light's playing tricks," I whispered, trying not to disturb the unknown. The shadows deepened ... it was as if we were developing tunnel vision.

The vanity mirror behind me slowly turned opaque as if a breeze of hot air had whisked across it. A trickle of water formed - resembling a stream of teardrops. Suddenly, a faint noise crept though the room, very faint but clear. It wasn't music. It sounded like a high-pitched wail from far away. I cocked my head to hear better while keeping my eyes glued on the mirror - half expecting to see a face materialize as in a horror movie. I then sensed an unseen presence. Someone was watching us. I felt as if I were breathing in a vacuum. I kept taking deeper and deeper breaths without fulfillment. The wailing became louder. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. The presence loomed all around us \- an arm's length way. Behind - above! "Oh, God ..." A face began to form in the mirror.

"John, John! It's a ghost!" Joyce screeched. "Someone died in here!"

I nearly jumped out of my skin. "Wha, who?" I croaked. Joyce bolted for the door, ripped it open and dashed into the parking lot. I was right on her heels! "How ... how do you know it's a ghost?"

"I _know_." I believed her.

She headed for the office but then with a quick jerk took a sharp turn toward our car. "I'm outta of here! I'm not staying in this town another instant." I caught up. "Don't say a frig'ing word, John. I'm going home, stay if you want." Man, she was really ripped.

We talked a few minutes and she calmed down ... some.

"Okay, we'll go but I have to turn in this key first," waving it to emphasize my point. Leading her slowly with my arm around her shoulder, "Just stand over here in the shade of this palm tree. It's too hot to wait in the car. I'll only be a minute. Okay?"

Silently, she simmered but stood stoic in her assigned place with her back to unit Eight.

"Yes, sir, gotta turn in this puppy and find out what spooked Joyce, and me," I said to myself as I hustled toward the office.

I leaned on the counter and tried to look casual and tossed the key down. I gave Carlos a long, hard look. He appeared rather uncomfortable. "So, no vampires ... just ghosts, hey amigo?" I saw immediately he knew exactly what I was talking about. He didn't try to deny it, too much.

"Ah, ghosts?"

"Yeah, a ghost. It scared the poopy outta my wife."

"Is she all right?"

"More or less. What's up, Carlos? Did someone actually die in number Eight like Joyce thinks?"

He fidgeted for a moment and sought relief by looking into the courtyard only to find Yolanda scowling back at him. He mumbled, "Ghost bad for business ..."

"Well? I'm waiting," as I drummed my fingers.

"You see her?" he asked.

"Her?" I repeated.

"Si. The lady ... the lady killed in that room."

"No, thank goodness, but we sure as hell _felt_ her or saw a _part_ of something ... a presence of some sort." I checked out Joyce still standing under the palm tree. She appeared a lot calmer. Carlos said 'killed', not died, so I decided to risk staying a couple of minutes more to ask the obvious question, "What happened to her?"

"About a year ago, very close to today, her husband kill her. He use his fishing knife, very messy."

"A fishing knife!" I gasped. "Good God, why?"

"Her husband loco... crazy," pointing to his own head. "They come here for several years. He always act like the 'Macho' man. He loud, pushy. He think he 'own' his wife. Show no respect. But in his head, 'I' think he act this way because he a very jealous person. Jealous of his pretty wife, muy bonita, and he be 'mucho' ugly - like a pineapple face. Comprende? (Understand) Anyway, on that day he come back from fishing with his amigos. They really be his drinking buddies; they never catch the fish. He very drunk." Carlos furrowed his brow, "I think he be drunk most of the time." Continuing, "He see his wife hug another man in the doorway of number Eight. He hide behind palm tree. The same tree your wife is standing under now. Man leave, he run inside. Do the bad thing with his knife."

"Gosh, how terrible."

"Worst. The man was her brother. He in the Navy. He just docked at the Key West Navy Station down the street that morning. She no see her brother in years. He visit her ... nothing to it. It was a 'goodbye' hug. Her husband never meet the brother. He didn't know his face. I learn all these things when the brother come here to see her body for the police."

Flustered, I exclaimed, "Why didn't she tell him right away ... when he came in the room ... to stop him?"

"He no listen. Police say he stab her in the throat first. She no can talk or scream. He then gut her like a fish and do other things too horrible for me to say," as he gestured with his hand over his chest and genitals. Carlos paused and sighed, "I clean up much blood. Yolanda still no go in room. She say it haunted. I think maybe it's true."

I felt queasy, light-headed. I thought I was going to barf my lunch. I gave my thanks, but now regretted I had ever asked, 'What happened?' Half-dazed, I fished out my car keys and fumbled my way out the office door. "Goodbye, Carlos. And I do mean, goodbye."

As we eased out of the lot, I saw the motel door was now closed and the drapes were drawn tight again. "Sonnava beach" I knew damn well no one had entered the unit after us. In the car, Joyce's eyes were riveted straight ahead and she asked no questions. I put two fingers to my right eyebrow and bade, "Adios" to the Southernmost ghost. An anguished spirit trapped in the bowels of her own personal hell. Was she waiting for her husband to return? To explain about her brother? Or to kill his worthless, macho ass!

A ghost waiting forever in the Las Palmas Motel, room number Eight, Key West, Florida.

We sped away, never to return.

Based on a true story

# I am the President!

Spring, 2027

"Ready?" She nodded, 'Yes.'

Ironsmith's strong hands seized the steel hatchway's lock wheel and turned it slowly counterclockwise. It was difficult, having been six months since its last opening. The retracting bolt stopped and he took a final scan of the hallway television monitor before pulling the heavy vault-type door toward him. He carefully inspected the one hundred-foot long concrete corridor which ended at a darkened elevator as he used his entire six foot, three inch/ two hundred and twenty pound frame to dislodge the ponderous device. It swung free. Turning to her he said, "Let's go."

The President of the United States of America, Warren Ironsmith, age fifty-six, and his thirty-six year old Black Cultures Advisor, Claretha Hightower, stepped cautiously into the passageway. Neither bothered to steal a last look at their home/prison of the last three years: a hardened bunker eight stories below ground level. No second glances were necessary; they knew every inch of the interior - too well - often to the point of their own personal shame. Even though he had no intention of returning, Warren closed the door and spun the wheel to lock.

The subterranean fortress they were vacating located in suburban Front Royal, Virginia, fifty miles west of Washington, had been constructed sixty years earlier as a product of the Cold War with the former Soviet Union. The government had and still needed a remote presidential command center in times of national crisis or a catastrophe which may have endangered the Capital. The eight thousand square foot facility contained its own power plant, environmental recycling system, living accommodations, food stores and a clinic which could support ten people for two years before their resources were exhausted - barring a break in the leaden superstructure. A separate high-tech communications room was to have served as an interim operations hub but it had never gotten off the ground prior to their occupation due to poor maintenance and the lack of updating the equipment because of congressional budget cuts, had taken its toll over the years. All their efforts to contact the outside world had been met with frustration and futility: they hadn't been able to establish a link with any type of transceiver, domestic or foreign. This lack of response left them wondering if they were really alone or just temporarily cut-off in a dead zone.

The multicolored digital tracking maps were still frozen, displaying the horrifying results of that most fateful day: the day of worldwide nuclear war and the end of modern civilization. Thirty-four direct hits on American soil by enemy atomic weapons had transformed President Ironsmith into a leader 'in absentia' of roving bands of mutants and the walking dead. Unknown to the bunker occupants, the majority of surviving mankind had regressed into a primitive state and in some areas, far worse - lower than Stone Age barbarism.

Ironic, it appeared the enemy's warheads had missed their primary target, Washington, possibly because the President had diverted forty percent of all air defense resources to concentrate on protecting the greater D.C. metropolitan area. Or, maybe it had been pure luck. Not to imply the Capital had escaped unscathed, nearby Baltimore had been turned into a smoldering pit, along with most other major eastern cities, which resulted in airborne radiation poisoning nearly as deadly as the initial ICBM blasts. As it stood, the surviving ten percent of the country's population existed in a ninety percent burnt and barren wasteland.

The President had decided it was finally time to leave their so-called cocoon of safety. As far as Clare was concerned it was way 'past' time. She desperately longed for fresh air, freedom and especially, contact with different people. Besides, staying was no longer an option since their food stores were near depletion. Due to intelligent rationing and having less than the planned capacity personnel, it had enabled them to stretch the original estimated survival time frame.

Clare had packed and carried in a satchel over her shoulder all the remaining MREs (meals ready to eat) except for three pouches of Italian. Warren hated Italian; the garlic and peppers gave him heartburn and ordered her not to bring them. She hid a couple for herself; she liked Italian and who knows how valuable a little food pouch could be in the unknown future.

She and the President were the last two remaining in the bunker; the six other survivors had been sent on scouting missions in three month intervals apart and none had ever returned. The environmental sensors now indicated the radiation had decreased to an acceptable level and the air quality had tested poor but breathable in their immediate vicinity. Ironsmith had grave doubts regarding the accuracy of the instruments but stood convinced that whatever the actual conditions were immediately above it would be much better on the other side of the Appalachian Mountains twenty miles southwest of their present location.

The elevator loomed dark and foreboding. Ironsmith panned the inside with his high-powered, six-cell flashlight and patted for assurance his vintage pearl-handled .45 caliber semiautomatic pistol stuffed in his waistband. He soon found their first challenge would be to climb upward through the elevator shaft (its power feed had been severed in the attack) to the ground floor of the building above - a small, fabricated, two-storied brick schoolhouse. The building, typical in every outward respect of a Hollywood movie set, had been constructed to blend into the surrounding neighborhood. The one conspicuous exception to the facade was that no children were ever seen near this facility, only the comings and goings of black limos transporting stone-face men graced these schoolyard grounds. As intended, a passerby would never guess the building's true function from the quiet, tree-lined street a hundred yards distant. Even the extensive radio tower network had been camouflaged as well as the helicopter landing pad; it being disguised as an asphalt basketball court.

The wooden stepladder placed inside the elevator by the first scout sent out was still there; its top step positioned three feet below the compartment's upper trap door. "I'll go first. You hold the light." Ironsmith drew himself up and through the emergency exit then extended his hands down to assist her.

They stood atop the passenger compartment scanning the shaft walls with the portable light. Clare wrinkled her nose, "What's that smell?"

"I don't know," responded Warren. "I hope it's not the air from above." Then his foot struck something soft - forgiving. He swung the beam on it. A clump of dusty clothes? The mound took form. Why, it... it was a man's body... and clearly a dead one judging by the stench. Not wanting to touch the corpse with his hand, Ironsmith turned the man's head with his flashlight to examine the face. Studying the decomposing leathery skin and eaten-out eye sockets, he announced, "It's Jackson."

Clare gasped and turned away from the ghastly sight. "Paul? Are you sure?" Paul Jackson had been the last dispatched, six months ago. Apparently, he had slipped and fallen to his death - unknown whether it had occurred on his departure or his return.

"Of course, I'm sure," rebuked Ironsmith. With an air of sarcasm, "Feel free to examine him for yourself if you wish. Perhaps I missed something." She folded her arms across her stomach and cringed.

Being practical and no stranger to the deceased, having served as a three-star Army general prior to his election, Warren proceeded to roll Paul over with his foot in hope of salvaging the flashlight he had been issued (the scouts had taken all of them but the President's).

Roaches! A hundred grotesque brown roaches scurried from under the body - scampering in all directions, including Clare's. She screamed. The one hundred bugs became five hundred; Paul's body cavity was filled with them! The President and Miss Hightower jumped up and down to keep the insects from crawling up their legs. "Up there!" shouted Warren while pointing at the iron rungs attached to the shaft's wall. Clare clambered up the workman's ladder as fast as she could, squealing with each step. Thirty feet up and far enough away from their immediate insect threat, he cast his light down on the elevator's roof - the surface had transformed into a brown, shining sea of movement. "Aggh. Apparently we made it up here just in time," declared Ironsmith. Sweeping the area above, he coaxed, "Easy does it." Adding, "We're okay now, but be careful. Jackson may have slipped on one of these rungs."

Sure enough, no sooner than he had finished uttering the words, Clare grabbed a swinging iron U bracket. She called to him, "You were right; this one's broken. Paul must have fallen from here," as she stepped over the rung hanging by a single bolt on the left side. And thinking caustically, "But then, you're always right aren't you, Mister President?"

Arm weary and winded by their efforts of hard climbing coupled with multiple rest stops the pair finally crawled through the open first floor doorway. Clear of the shaft and its pungent odor, Ironsmith sniffed the air and declared, "Not so bad. Better than I thought it would be." He then began searching for the compound's maintenance shop. As Clare trailed in the semidarkness, Jackson's body caused her to recall a particularly disturbing incident of six months earlier. She touched Warren's arm; he stopped. "Do you remember the banging we heard coming from the elevator a few days after Paul left? That must have been him trying to signal us he was hurt."

"Possibly," returned Ironsmith.

"Possibly...? What do you mean? It had to be. Don't you remember when I told you that noise could be Jackson?"

In a terse voice, "I recall the incident distinctly. I couldn't see him with the video camera and he didn't give the password."

"But..."

"No buts, Miss Hightower. The rules were established to insure the safety of the group. No password, no recognition, no entry," and turned away to resume his search.

Clare knew full well the conversation had been terminated; it was pointless to question the President on anything. He would never admit to making a mistake or listen to a mere woman. She stood there feeling belittled and cursed anew the day she had gotten herself into this predicament. She sadly recollected the excitement she had felt when she received the job offer call from his personal aide. Imagine, the President of the United States requesting _her_ to join his staff. What an honor. She felt ecstatic and confident she could be a significant contributor and gladly accepted the position. Clare soon learned it was solely for appearances sake - she yielded no power nor influenced the President in any respect. Alas, she served as only a plug-in public relations prop to retain selected votes. Yes, she had been duped Big Time. The man had charisma, there was no denying it. Outwardly, Ironsmith catered to almost every influential group or organization of both Parties and won their overwhelming support with his American Pride and Tough on Crime campaign. Inwardly, he remained acutely close-minded and refused to place anyone in a position yielding authority who failed to meet his own narrow personal standards: women and minorities fell into this category. Therefore, even though she was highly qualified: an educated black woman (earning a doctorate at a prestigious Ivy League school) who had paid her dues with years of community service and state representation, Clare's true function was to be in the spotlight close to the President's side which kept 'them black folks happy.' She passed as window dressing, nothing more... until shortly after they entered the Hell-hole.

"Coming?" an order, not a request. Ironsmith had located what he'd been seeking: a work shop containing tools for building and landscaping maintenance. Four tall personnel lockers and a chest of drawers stood beside a three by ten foot long work-bench. At the opposite side of the room sat a parked golf cart and riding lawn mower. "Bingo," he beamed.

Over the years their clothing had become stained and threadbare. The original architects and planners of the bunker had forgotten to provide a washer/dryer combo and cleaning their clothes in the kitchen sink hadn't quite cut it. Durable, fresh apparel would be a welcome find. Warren popped open the locker doors - nothing of value there. Next, he rummaged through the dresser drawers which rewarded his efforts: workman's coveralls, long-sleeved shirts and padded socks. Several pair of leather boots were lined-up in a row under the bench. "Aha." He selected large coveralls for himself and tossed a small pair to Clare. "There must have been a Greaser working here. Lucky for you."

"Pardon?" she replied.

"A Greaser. You know... Hispanic... Spanish. Petite build, same as yourself. Probably another damn, illegal immigrant who snuck his way into my country. I never did trust any of those assholes in the Border Patrol to do their job." After finishing his disparagement he began disrobing to change into the clean clothing.

She frowned at his derogatory, ethnic bashing and turned her back to him. Her frayed blouse and skirt dropped to the floor. Clare felt a heavy, warm hand on her shoulder. Twisting her neck around, she found the President standing close; he had a crooked grin on his face. Ironsmith wore only an undershirt, no skivvies. Her countenance drooped, "Now? Here?" Clare shook her head in disbelief and made a low groan as she leaned over the work bench and submitted.

Now, as in the past, she had steadfastly refused to face the men, especially Ironsmith, as they took their satisfaction in their alleged stress level correction. Clare was backed into a corner, one of which only a woman could feel. She thought by using mental disassociation she could cling to her last thread of dignity. But regrettably, it also had failed. The years of sexual abuse had taken an incalculable toll. She lost her witticism and her sharp mind dulled as her self-esteem drained while complying with the President's 'recommendation' she 'service the troops', for the common good.

Clare remained silent with her eyes shut as Ironsmith partook of the official 'Program to maintain emotional stability,' which was to be performed by each man once a month, except for the President, who chose to partake much more often.

The fresh image of Jackson, though decreased, had opened her mind for other ex-survivors to invade her mental torment. She consciously separated her thoughts from her defiled body and concentrated on remembering the chain of events which had led to each man's demise. There was Bruce, only twenty-five years old; he had always volunteered to be last in using 'The Program' and delayed with every excuse imaginable until he missed his turn. Ironsmith finally caught on and openly confronted him, "Don't you like women? Are you some kind of faggot?" The youngster tried to side-step the accusation but the cat slipped out of the bag, or rather, the closet. He admitted to being gay even though he knew the President's viewpoint regarding homosexuality. In a bold effort to counter and make light of the uncomfortable situation he now was in, Bruce made an extremely ill-timed, reverse logic joke by suggesting perhaps one of the men could service him, as Clare had been doing for the rest. Ironsmith went ballistic. "I thought he was going to have a stroke," she recalled - too bad he didn't. No question about it, Warren would have killed him right then and there if he could have gotten away with it. In a sense he did kill him because Bruce became the first selected to be dispatched for reconnaissance even though the environmental monitors still showed dangerous radiation levels present. The young man had no choice: he had sworn his allegiance and couldn't refuse a direct order from the President. No one could. In retrospect, I sure wish Bruce had confided in me before his fateful run-in with Ironsmith. I may have been able to save his life or at least prolong it. We would have gone to 'the room' (behind closed restroom doors), just talked and been able to deceive them.

Next, came John, an extremely moral man who on religious grounds also refused to participate. Ironsmith considered their non-compliance to be an affront to his decision making so naturally he became the second sent. Then Calvin was selected... because Ironsmith thought I had some feelings for him? Yes, I admit I once had a measure of respect for the man but that was before we sealed ourselves in the living tomb. Respect fades swiftly when you're being victimized and used as a sexual outlet. And so on it went, Ironsmith paring them down, one every three months for a year and a half until only he and I remained. Finally, faced with no more expendable troops at his disposal he decided to wait an extra six months for the outside conditions to further improve before he would chance a peek for himself. Another winter passed, bringing us to the present and our turn to be confronted firsthand with God only knows what. She looked across the room at a dust covered window. Morning had broken but nothing was visible. "We'll be leaving soon," she wondered. "What will we find?" A chill ran up her spine. "Deadly radiation, poison gas... or something else just as fatal?" She heard him moan.

"Get dressed," ordered the President - he didn't even consider asking or being forgiven for his transgression, after all he was the President - and she was merely a subject who should readily comply.

Four hours and twelve miles later: Warren and Clare were journeying southwest on State Road 320. A wooded valley lined the highway on their right, foothills and the Appalachian Mountains graced their left. It was early Spring and Mother-Earth had begun to show signs of healing. Trees were budding, new grass sprouting: it appeared quite normal except for the absence of insects and birds... or any movement of any sort for that matter. Ironsmith's calculations had been correct, the atmospheric conditions were better on the west side of the mountains; they provided a natural barrier from the toxic eastern coastline.

Travel was slow; the riding lawn mower had a top speed of three mph. The constant maneuvering around abandoned or disabled cars had made their progress snail-like but at least they didn't have to walk. Clare preferred the golf cart for its comfort but Ironsmith couldn't get it started or they would have taken both. The cart's battery had drained due to attrition and there wasn't any way to recharge it because of the loss of electrical power. As for having only the mower's use, Warren appeared quite pleased, saying it was the superior of the two for dealing with road obstacles primarily because the tires were solid rubber and couldn't be punctured like the inflatable ones on the cart and secondly because the mower's travel range was solely limited by gas and oil supplies. He felt both these items could be obtained from the abandoned vehicles, whereas and again, finding a recharging source for the cart would be impossible.

Miss Hightower, being towed in a utility cart, sat snug behind the mower - wedged between two smelly five-gallon cans of gasoline and a cardboard carton of MREs. Under her knees sat a rusty tool box and in her lap she cradled the repacked satchel which now contained extra clothing, the heavy duty flashlight and Ironsmith's two spare .45 ammo clips. He kept the weapon itself tucked in his back waistband. Clare's neck and shoulders ached from the frequent jerks caused by Ironsmith navigating the numerous road hazards.

She called to him, "Excuse me, sir. I'm tired and hungry. Can we stop for a little while?"

He grunted, pulled to the right side of the road and parked parallel to a barren elm tree. "It's been a tough morning," he commented. "I could use a bite to eat and a nap before continuing."

"Have you decided where we're going?" asked Clare.

"Harrisonburg, for starters. It's roughly forty miles from here. If I find people there I can begin my restoration program."

"Restoration program?" she repeated. "I don't recall you mentioning that before."

"No?" as he dug into the carton for an MRE. He had discussed it with several other people on his staff but intentionally omitted her. After all, how could _she_ possibly contribute? He became defensive and challenged, "What in the hell did you think I was going to do when I got out of the bunker? Go to the beach and work on my tan? Not that you'd have to worry about such things." She lowered her head: hurt by the callous discriminatory debasement and again ashamed of his insensitivity. "America needs rebuilding!" he declared. "Strong leadership, more now than ever. There is a great task at hand. And who better suited than me, the President, to carry it through?" Ripping the foil pouch open without reading the label, he smelled the contents, 'Italian.' Ironsmith tossed the precious package into the weeds and growled, "I hate damn Italian. I told you to leave this garbage back in the bunker," and glared at her. "Stupid woman, can't follow simple orders."

Later, after lunch, Warren rested, sitting on the ground and dozed with his back leaning against the elm when sounds of scuffling jarred him awake. Looking up toward the mower forty feet away he saw a man with his left arm wrapped around Clare's chest... and pressing a knife against her throat with his right hand! He was trying to drag her to the other side of the highway. The woman's eyes were filled with fright as she held her arms outward toward Ironsmith in a silent plea for help.

Warren bolted upright and sprang to his feet.

The man saw his movement, "Stay right there," warned the attacker, "or I'll cut her throat!" Ironsmith, calm and collected with his hands at his side, studied the assailant. He appeared to be of medium height and wearing an Army field jacket. He had scraggly hair and beard, a thin, drawn face - ravaged by some sort of disease and seemed to be blind in one eye judging by the angle he kept tilting his head from side to side. "Take it easy, son. Let's talk this over." The man stopped pulling Clare and gawked at Ironsmith. "I see you're wearing a field jacket. Are you in the Army?" plied Warren as he ventured to take a step.

"No! Stay there!"

"Okay, whatever you say. You're the boss." Ironsmith withdrew his foot. "I'll repeat, are you in the Army, son?"

"No... no. Not anymore," stuttered the stranger. "Once was... before this." He swept his hand at the devastation.

"Look at me, soldier. Do you recognize me?" The fellow squinted with his good eye.

"Huh...?"

"I... I am the President. Your president, Warren Ironsmith," and gave his best politician's reassuring smile.

Recognition finally washed over the assailant. "President Ironsmith?" His good eye started twitching; his facial muscles went into spasms. "I know you. You're the one who caused all this!" waving the knife in the air and then quickly returning the blade to Clare's throat. "You dropped them atom bombs on Iran and Egypt. You started the chain reaction. I should kill you right here, you no good son of a bitch!"

Ironsmith whipped out his forty-five. "Watch your mouth, boy and don't get hasty. I had to drop those bombs. Those Arabs were saying some real bad things about the U.S.of A. I had to show them that Americans weren't going to sit on their hands and listen to threats coming from a bunch of Muslim rag-heads. But enough of that. Tell me, son, what do you want? Right now. What would make you happy?" Ironsmith raised his weapon and drew a bead.

The attacker saw Warren taking aim and scrunched behind Clare for protection. He peeked over her shoulder and hissed, "I want her, you old fool." Then shouted, "And I'm taking her! Possession is nine-tenths o' the law!"

Ironsmith replied in a soothing voice, "You can't do that. She belongs to _me_ ," and began inching forward.

Dragging his prisoner, the newcomer yelled, "I told you before, back off or I'll cut her! I swear!" As he retreated his buttocks bumped into the mower's motor casing.

Clare realized with horror Ironsmith had decided to put the man down in spite of her! The President's masculinity had been challenged and she was inconsequential. She became no more than collateral damage. To Warren she sobbed, "Please don't. Please don't shoot him."

"That's right. Listen to the lady, Mister President Ironhead," and smirked at his own wit. "I..."

'Blam!' The pistol's tumbling lead slug whizzed by Clare's cheek and ripped off half of the man's right ear. "Yaa!" he screamed and reflexively jerked his knife hand toward himself. The stainless steel tip dug deep into her neck muscle - severing the carotid artery. He dropped his weapon and grabbed his ear. And that, was a split second too late for Clare, the damage had been done. Blood spurted from her neck, her knees collapsed and she slumped to the ground.

"See what you done," accused the assailant.

Ironsmith scooted three steps closer. "Eat death you low-life scumbag." 'Blam! Blam!' The rapid-fired rounds slammed home and spun the attacker around to face the mower engine. He flopped across the casing and lay stone dead.

Warren approached the fallen man with caution, keeping his forty-five trained on the motionless figure. He grabbed the assailant's jacket between the shoulder blades and gave a mighty pull which sent the corpse sprawling into the dirt on his back. Satisfied, after kicking him in the groin a few times that he was dead and pleased with himself, Warren turned his attention to Clare who sat perched upright against the front tire of the mower. A puzzled look crossed his face; he didn't know she had been slashed.

She was holding her neck with one hand; the left side of her coveralls were soaked with blood - she appeared glassy-eyed.

Kneeling beside her he said, "Here, let me see," and pulled her hand away. Bright red erupted from the severed artery through the air and splashed on his thigh. "Damn!" he cursed. He repositioned himself directly in front and placed her hand back on the wound but it dropped away - listless. The blood kept spurting, but not as far as before. He peered into her eyes and saw she was slipping into shock. Warren grabbed her jaw and shook her head. "Clare, Clare!" She blinked; her dazed eyes tried to focus on him. "Clare, can you hear me?" She gave a weak nod. Ironsmith, all too familiar with the face of death, knew she would be gone soon. "I want you to know that you served your country and president well. Do you hear me, Clare? You served me well."

A spark of life, fired by deep hatred, flashed momentarily, she whispered, "You depraved bastard." Her chin dropped to her chest and she faded away.

Warren rose to his feet and stared down at his deceased assistant, "Poor confused woman. I forgive you." The President surveyed the immediate area while thinking, "I probably should bury her, but I don't have any tools. He laid Clare on the side of the road, closed her eyes and folded her hands across her stomach. "What a shame. If it weren't for the bloody clothing, you would think she was sleeping."

He climbed into the mower seat and turned the ignition key. The engine sputtered, creating a blue-gray cloud which drifted up as fuel leaked from the right side. 'Pow!' The motor died. "What the ...?" Warren hopped down and inspected the outside casing. A bullet hole. "Uh-oh." He rapidly removed the covering by using a wrench from the tool box and discovered the carburetor had been damaged beyond repair by a slug which had missed its mark. "Crap!" and many more obscenities. Warren scanned the roadway; there were numerous abandoned cars available for salvage but their carburetor parts certainly wouldn't fit the mower. Resigned to now having to walk, he emptied the satchel of clothing and refilled it with the MREs and his two ammo clips. Ironsmith retrieved the dead man's knife and sheath and was about to slip the satchel strap over his shoulder when he paused for a final look at Miss Hightower. Warren leaned over and gently touched her cheek. "Hmm, how about that. Her body's still warm." He dropped the satchel to the ground. "She's always been satisfying, why pass up the last opportunity just because she's dead?"

Two hours later, Ironsmith had grown tired from walking and stopped for a break. He had leaned over to unlace his work boots when he heard a noise in the distance. It sounded like a truck engine and the high pitched whine of heavy tires on asphalt. "Yes!" He could distinguish a dot on the highway coming in his direction. Warren stood waiting, wearing a confident smile.

The vehicle, an Army Humvee, slowed to a stop a hundred yards away. The two men inside did not hurry to exit - they obviously were giving the President and the surrounding area the once-over. They finally dismounted their vehicle, weapons in hand and most noticeable, they weren't wearing military uniforms. The younger, shorter man had a toothpick in his mouth: his mannerism reminded Warren of the 'good old boys' he had met on his campaign tour through the Carolinas and West Virginia. The older fellow, maybe in his mid-forties, sported a 'Titans' cap and seemed to be in charge. Concern crossed Ironsmith's brow for a brief moment then he gave his winsome grin and a little wave. His .45 was tucked in his back waistband again, out of sight. Surprise and recognition flashed on the faces of the two men which prompted them into a hasty conference. When finished, they shouldered their M21's and advanced.

"Pardon my French, stranger," stated the leader, Mike, "but you look an awful lot like that son of a bitch, Warren Ironsmith."

Shrugging off the denouncement as good-natured, redneck humor he responded, "That makes sense. I am he. I am the President of your United States, partner."

Neither appeared pleased by the confirmation \- they hadn't forgotten the government's unwarranted escalations which led to the last days of modern civilization. "Thought you were daid," said Duane.

Warren offered a handshake and remarked, "That's quite an accent you have there young man. Where ya'll boys from?"

Accepting his gesture without enthusiasm, they answered, 'Alabama' and 'Ohio.'

Then Warren asked , "Are you fellows alone and whar you headed?" Ironsmith offered, "I'm the only one left of eight original survivors and I'm on my way to Harrisonburg. I hope to locate other people there."

"Forget it, no one's there," stated Mike. "It's abandoned... a ghost town... like most of America."

"Yeah, nobody lives in the cities no more, too dangerous," finished Duane as he bit off a plug of tobacco.

"No? Then where do you gentlemen reside? Did you establish your own community?" queried the President.

"Yes, of a sort. It's in woodland on the west side of the Shenandoah River thirty miles south of here," gestured Mike. "We constructed a fort with wood picketed walls similar to those of the early seventeen hundreds. It's antiquated but effective."

"Helps keep the bad un's out," added Duane.

"Bad un's? Do you mean undesirable people?" questioned Warren. "But I would think everyone would be welcome."

"Not hardly," spat Duane. "We gots to shoot most of em."

A moment of awkward silence passed before Mike continued, "We're going to Arlington General Hospital to search for medical supplies. You're welcome to ride with us if you wish."

"Arlington?" repeated Ironsmith as he took a rear seat in the humvee. "That's right across the Potomac from Washington. Is the radiation safe there? Our instruments in the bunker indicated dangerous levels were still present to the east."

The engine roared to life. Duane, the driver, retorted, "Dangerous, yeah, but not from radiation. The real danger is Zombies. We gots to get away from there 'fore nightfall. The Zombies mostly prowl at night... and sometimes in the daytime too, if'n they're chasing food. We being the food," and gave his shoulders an uncomfortable shiver as if he were all too familiar with the experience.

Warren looked to Mike for an explanation, who then proceeded, "The need for medical supplies is never-ending; we've depleted the local supplies. The other obstacles are another matter."

"I understand the medical needs but what's this about Zombies?" posed Ironsmith.

"That's the name we've given the 'walking dead' who inhabit the greater D.C. area," explained Mike.

"Yea, walkin' dead," echoed Duane. "Frig'n maniac freaks."

"They're ill? From the fall-out?" speculated the President.

"Not that kinda poisoning... 'neutrons' is our guess," said Duane. "Ain't that right, Mike?"

"Yes, I believe so. Washington itself, for the most part, is intact. The infrastructure remains... the buildings are still standing," informed his partner. "As far as we can tell, everyone, every living thing, died in D.C. proper. It was the fringe of the blast zone which created the physical and mental degeneration of those who were unlucky enough to survive."

"Yeah, them be degenerates. They're worse than animals, them Zombies. They don't do nothin' but kill and eat. Frig'n cannibals is what they are," added Duane. "Thousands of them. More than thousands."

Warren pondered this, "A neutron bomb? That could very well be true. It's never been tested by either side. The bomb's purpose was to destroy the enemy and leave the structures undamaged. Of course, research and development had no idea what the effects would be on the perimeters." He crossed his arms and muttered, "Interesting," which prompted a hard look from Mike and Duane. Warren ignored their visual objections. After all, what did they know about modern warfare? They were just in-the-trenches grunts.

"These people, the mutants have no regard for life or anything else for that matter," intoned Mike. "They devour their own to survive - the weakest first. They don't mate... few women are left. No children. I expect they'll die off one way or another within a few more years. Hopefully sooner."

"I find this hard to believe... the extent you're implying. Have you in earnest, tried to help them... reason with them?" tendered the President."

"Cain't be done. They cain't think straight no more," explained Duane. "They gots one track minds... that's how I got away."

"Pardon?"

"Mike, my good buddy here, rescued me I reckon 'bout a year ago. I was barricaded inside a Seventy-Eleven (7-11) stock room. Good thing it wasn't a big store or Mike woulda never noticed it when he was passin' by on a supply run. He saw right off them Zombies was actin' funny - as if they had cornered a meal. He lobbed in a coupla grenades, blasted the hell outta them bastards and got me free. The damn Zombies still standin' were so busy attackin' and chewin' up their own wounded and daid that we slipped right through em." He paused and shuddered... "They had me trapped in that hole for four weeks. More and more o' them animals kept coming. I tell you one thing I learned right off. They never leave food. Never."

"That's true," confirmed Mike.

Warren's disabled riding mower came into view. Duane slowed the humvee to a walk speed. "Your wheels?"

"Yes. Mine and Miss Hightower's, she was my assistant."

The President proceeded to expound on his bravery as he conveyed the details of how he dispatched the assailant while unsuccessfully attempting to save Clare. "The man wouldn't listen to reason. He viciously slashed her throat... the poor girl never had a chance. She bled to death in my arms."

Duane stopped; both men leaned toward the fallen attacker. "Blackburn," identified Mike. His sidekick nodded agreement.

"You know him?" asked Ironsmith.

"Yeah, he got banished," answered Duane.

Mike went on to explain how Blackburn was forced to leave their camp because he wouldn't perform his work assignments and had been caught stealing. "Survival is very difficult; each person has to do their share. Slackers are sent packing. We have no choice."

Puzzlement crossed Mike and Duane's faces as they viewed Miss Hightower's face-up, spread-eagle, nude body.

"The man you call Blackburn did that. I caught him raping her and sent his despicable ass to Hell. I would have buried her proper but I didn't have any tools," defended Warren.

They nodded in agreement of his action. "Don't matter no how, about the burying I mean," commented Duane.

"That's correct," agreed Mike. "I'm sorry to inform you, but the Zombies are going to find her and dig her up anyway. They have a phenomenal sense of smell and acute night vision. They can see perfectly well in pitch-black darkness."

"Yeah, some o' them live in underground caves," added Duane. "They're frig'n monsters."

"So much for that," dismissed Warren. Changing the subject to something of a more personal nature, "Do you have any women in your camp?"

"We gots some."

"Young ones?"

"Yeah, a few," Duane again.

"Good, they _do_ have their purposes," replied Ironsmith smiling to himself. "I'm sure they would be happy to service their... er, be of service to their President."

All three rode in silence and deep thought. After fifteen minutes Warren announced, "I'll need a minimum staff of four to begin with and more to be added later."

"What?" snapping their heads in his direction.

"And, my accommodations, I'll inspect what you have but new quarters will most likely have to be constructed. The National Restoration Program, under my personal leadership, will be an expansive multidimensional operation requiring a lot of floor space. I'm sure you'll agree gentlemen, the country's reorganization is one of our foremost priorities."

"I thought stayin' alive was," retorted Duane as they passed across the dilapidated Front Royal city limits boundary sign.

The President continued, "As soon as we return to your camp I'm going to form two recon teams of your six best able-bodied men, ex-military preferred."

"Say what ...?" stuttered Mike. "Six men? We can barely afford the two of us removed from the work force. Why? We've canvassed everything thoroughly within a fifty mile radius."

"Fifty miles is merely a drop in the bucket," dismissed Ironsmith then theatrically cleared his throat. "As I was saying before your interruption, the recon teams' mission will be to scour U.S. Air Force bases and some are quite distant from here. We have a dire need of pilots, bomber pilots specifically." Mike and Duane were stunned, staring and speechless. "Oh, did I mention I'm declaring martial law? It doesn't matter; I'm sure it was understood."

"What are you frig'n talkin' about?" fired back Duane.

"Why, an air strike on Cuba, of course. Then we'll bomb Columbia, Nicaragua and Argentina. If we're lucky we can do it all in one run, providing we can use one of the Big Birds (super bombers). I'm sure you understand as President my primary responsibility is the defense of this great nation. You can't imagine how distressing it has been to view every day the bunker's offensive strike status indicators which displayed that piece of crap island, Cuba, had somehow been exempted from a direct hit. Gentlemen, there's no doubt in my mind those Commie bastards are running amok all over south Florida. Yes, sir, we're going to drop the 'big bang' right in the middle of Havana as soon as we can get a bomber airborne. Unfortunately, the Florida Keys and Key West will be impacted. But, the Big Picture is what counts here; there are always minor side effects." Mike and Duane's eyes looked as if they were ready to pop out. "I'll teach those..." Duane slammed on the brakes; the vehicle fishtailed and came to a screeching halt - tires smoking. Duane threw open the door; grabbed his rifle and took a dozen emotion-filled, spastic steps away from the humvee. His face had turned beet-red and was clenching his M21 as if he were ready to break it across his knee. Mike quickly hopped out and went to him; together they walked further down the road - out of Warren's earshot. Duane started raving and waving his arms - every few seconds he'd take a quick look or point at Ironsmith. He acted very upset - near rage. Mike was clearly trying to calm him. Warren made no attempt to join them and after ten minutes the two men returned. Duane had his arms stiffly folded across his chest; his eyes never left the ground - Mike had made him shoulder his rifle.

"Step out, please," Mike requested in a firm voice. Warren did so and Duane spat his tobacco plug on the ground as he brushed by Ironsmith while returning to the driver's seat. Mike leaned in the vehicle, retrieved the president's satchel and tossed it at him. Warren made no effort to catch it and it landed at his side with a 'plop.' "This is where we part company, _Mister_ Ironsmith. We don't need people like you in our camp."

"Don't need people like you in the world," growled Duane. "You frig'n mass murderer."

"Easy, Buddy. We agreed I'd do the talking," reassured Mike. His partner turned his head away in vehement disgust.

As Mike went to his car door to get in, Warren challenged, "Wait a minute. You can't leave me here. I'm the damn President. I am your Commander in Chief!"

Mike stared him right in the eye and said distinctly, "Not anymore. Consider yourself impeached." He climbed in, closed the door, slipped on a seat belt and Duane put the pedal to the metal. Neither man looked back.

Disbelieving, Warren stood in the street; hands on his hips, watching the humvee shrink in the distance. It made a turn and was out of sight. "Deserters!" he yelled. "Traitors! I'll have you court-martialed for this! I'll track you down! You'll both face the firing squad, by God." Waving a clenched fist in the air, "I'm still the President. I'll show you," he bellowed. "Impeach me? Who the do you think you are? I am the President! I'll always be the President!" he screamed at the top of his lungs.

His tirade did not go unnoticed.

After a full minute of spewing profanities, Warren, still fuming, finally looked around to get his bearings. He recalled a couple of these storefronts from this morning's pass-by and correctly estimated he was a mere eight blocks from where he and Miss Hightower had begun their journey. "Damn!" he seethed and stomped his foot.

Ironsmith mulled the feasibility of setting up an ambush, figuring those two dirtbags would have to pass this way on their way back to their home base. "Then again, they may skirt this entire area... I would," arguing with himself. "Maybe, maybe not. What I really need is more firepower; this forty-five can't penetrate the humvee's reinforced glass. Perhaps I can trick them into stopping and..." he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun around, "Who's there?" He gasped, his eyes went wide; the words stuck in his throat.

The two most grotesque living creatures he had ever seen in his life were staring at him from no more than thirty feet away. Shocked, he retreated a step. Warren wasn't sure they were even human. Their albino, pasty-white, naked bodies were covered with pinkish welts and lesions. Blood-shot eyes, drooling like a rabid racoon, they snarled - revealing a mouthful of yellow, rotted teeth. One stood slightly hunched over, similar to a great ape. The other acted excited - jittery; as he squatted and took quick, jerky swipes with inch-long fingernails through what little patches of head hair he had left. "My god," thought Warren, "these must be Zombies!" The one standing reached out a claw-like deformed hand toward Ironsmith and screeched. He sounded like a banshee from hell. Warren's blood went cold; his bowels did a flip-flop. He started backing away. They didn't follow. Ironsmith slowed then stopped - he sensed something behind him and smelled it. Warren turned ever so slowly; he didn't want to take his eyes off these two. Another Zombie loomed directly behind him! The creature lunged with both arms. Ironsmith ducked. The monster's powerful hand raked the President's shoulder - ripping his shirt and skin. The Zombie accidentally snagged the satchel strap and tore it away. Warren was knocked into a spin and fell to the street. Furious at missing its prey, the sub-human hovered and shrieked a high-pitched, piercing wail. Warren cringed. The first two started moving in. The creature above him tore the canvas satchel into pieces - the MREs, along with his two spare ammo clips went flying. Ironsmith rolled to his left just as the monster dove where he had been lying. Warren jumped up and ran blindly, tripped on the sidewalk curb and slammed into a brick store-front wall. Rebounding, he checked over his shoulder and saw the first two were gathering for pursuit, but they were slow: one was hobbling; the other dragged a disabled leg. The third kept stumbling as he tried to rise to his feet. "Thank, God they're physically handicapped," he thought. "I can outrun them." Another sprang from a doorway a few feet away. "Yeow!" Warren yelled. The new Zombie screamed, his arms flailing in an attempt to grab Ironsmith. Heart pounding, eyes straight ahead, Warren darted back into the middle of the street and took off in a dash toward the residential area. The bastards were pouring out of every doorway! There were dozens, all screaming and grunting - and chasing him. He was much faster but they were coming from everywhere, the sides, in front and a whole lot to his rear.

He ran six blocks on a dead run. He quickly became out of breath and panted: the president was not a young man. "I've got to get out of sight, stop and rest," he reasoned. He considered hiding in a fenced-in yard behind a two-storied house. "No! They can still see me and I could get trapped in there." He rounded a corner, the pseudo-elementary school a block away came into view. By now Warren was rasping and down to a slow jog; he heard them howling not far behind. He couldn't get enough air: his lungs and nasal passages burned, he became light-headed. None were in sight as he staggered to the four-foot high cherry bush hedge surrounding the school grounds, pushed through it and collapsed to his knees in the soft grass. Head bent over, hands on his thighs, he sucked in deep, painful breaths. After a few moments, he parted the hedge and peeked through. Warren saw a crazed, scattered mob a block away shuffling parallel to his hiding place. They were moving northward, up the avenue and would be gone in a few minutes.

No such luck, a large male - not disabled, ambled at a quick, even jaunt across the school grounds. This monster remained quiet as he closed in - he wanted Ironsmith all to himself. Warren saw him coming. "Oh, no!" and pulled his forty-five from his waistband. His hands shook. The creature ran with an open chop-step like an NFL lineman and seemed to be just as large. Warren was too tired to flee and realized he probably couldn't outrun this one anyway. "He's almost here!"

"Take aim! Take aim!" he coaxed himself. 'Blam!' the shot hit the attacker in the groin. The Zombie doubled over and came flying forward on momentum. He landed with his face buried in the grass, but wasn't dead and began crawling on all fours toward Warren. It craned its neck and issued series of wild, guttural growls. 'Blam!' Ironsmith put the second bullet into its forehead. The monster dropped flat on the ground, had a series of involuntary muscle spasms and lay still. The President then peered over the hedge top; the mob had turned upon hearing the shots. They saw his head and shoulders bob up and collectively issued a blood-thirsty roar.

"Crap!" Warren's mind raced, "I've got to trick them. I can't outrun all of them; the damn things don't tire." He walked at a brisk pace, remaining in sight, behind the hedge for forty feet then ducked down. The mob adjusted to his new course and continued their relentless pursuit. Ironsmith, bent over at the waist, turned around and trotted in the opposite direction toward the helicopter landing pad next to the school building. Sweat poured off him as he arrived at the pad and dove behind the chopper's wheel assembly. Lying prone, moving nary a muscle, he waited to see if the ruse had worked. If it didn't he knew he'd be dead meat shortly, and in a most horrible manner.

The madmen tore through the hedge as if it didn't exist. Once on the other side and finding the fellow dead Zombie instead of the President they became confused, then enraged. They hopped up and down and scooted aimlessly in little circles. Then it became really ugly - gruesome. The mob pounced on the dead Zombie, tore him to shreds and began devouring him. A few of them ripped off bloody chunks and started off in the direction Warren had faked going toward; they were carrying bits of their fallen comrade to feed upon as they continued their search. Ironsmith felt appalled and sickened, but reminded logical. The important thing was that his trick had worked, not even one had glanced at the chopper which had brought him or the school building. "Safe!" Warren figured the rest would follow their leaders once they had finished off the meal he had so graciously provided them. "All I have to do is sit tight and wait them out. Humph, be my luck they'd come back to polish the bones." Bones? Speaking of which, he began to notice there were quite a few scattered about the landing pad. And a flashlight. "I guess that explains why this particular scout, whoever he was, didn't return, as well as the rest of them. It was disturbingly clear to see all the earlier staff personnel sent had been attacked, killed and eaten.

He reached out, grabbed the flashlight, held it up and 'clicked' it twice to test if the device was still operational. It passed. It came on both times, not full strength but serviceable. He rested a few more minutes and thought, "Good, this may come in handy later." Cold sweat broke anew on his brow. He lowered the flashlight to his chest and rolled a tad to his left. A premonition told him to peek around the helicopter's mid-tire. To his horror, he found a dozen pair of crazed eyes staring back at him! Warren's blood went cold. The Zombies who hadn't left yet didn't hear the flashlight clicks, but they sure as hell saw it flashing!

"Oh, no. Not again!" Warren sprang to his feet, as a demented howl rose from the hunters. They struggled to rise; their leaders not far away heard the roar and turned about.

Panic. Where could he go? These monsters were fresh and close. Their outcry had alerted even more Zombies hiding on both sides. "Where were they coming from?" The school blocked his retreat to the rear. "Wait. Is that an open doorway?" Ironsmith raced toward it. "Damn it! This is the exit from the maintenance shop, the very same one we came through this morning. It doesn't matter now!" He flew through the entranceway as the ever hungry killers hobbled in hot pursuit from three directions - they were close enough to smell him, and his fear.

"Where can I hide? How can I escape?" his mind screamed. If I exit the other side of the building they'll be waiting for me and be trapped on all four sides. They'll tear me to pieces!

How did I ever get into this mess? I'll... I'll just have to out-smart them again. I know; I'll climb down inside the elevator shaft. They'll never think of that! I'll be safe there until I can collect my thoughts and regroup." He ran to the open first floor elevator doorway, quickly descended the workman's ladder rungs and soon stood on the top of the elevator cabin - being very careful not to disturb Jackson's body this time.

Being indoors, Ironsmith's fresh (food) human scent lay heavy in the air everywhere he had passed: he couldn't have left a clearer trail.

The President waited, watching the open doorway eight floors above. One Zombie peeked over the edge, then two, then three... then a cluster: they jammed the entranceway. "Oh, no," Warren grabbed his pistol and pointed it toward the first floor landing. 'Blam!' The bullet ricocheted off the shaft wall and struck one of them in the neck. The monster fell forward and down the shaft; Ironsmith saw him coming and pressed himself against the wall. A heavy, 'Thump' the dead creature landed right in front of him. The Zombie's head and shoulders went into the cabin's open trap door; his legs prevented him from falling completely through. As Warren's luck would have it, one of his feet struck Jackson's roach filled carcass and as before, the disturbed insects poured out. Warren hopped up and down to no avail; there was no way to escape them this time. He looked up to observe several of the Zombies had started climbing down the rungs - they were slow but persistent and had no fear of falling or Ironsmith's gun. Warren wasn't sure of how many bullets he had left in his seven-round magazine clip but knew for sure he didn't have enough ammo to shoot all of them even with his two spare clips. Spares? He then remembered his extra clips were in the satchel. "Sonnavabitch!" He thrust his weapon in his front waistband, grabbed the stinking, naked zombie by the thighs and attempted to wrestle him out of the opening. His stench made him vomit. By now the roaches were everywhere... up Warren's arms, legs... on his head. He finally dislodged the dead body by pulling on the ankles. Ironsmith swatted the pests from his face and jumped feet-first through the opening, collapsing the ladder - he tumbled and landed hard on his right shoulder, dislocating it. "Ow!" White spots of pain flashed before his eyes.

Dazed, lying at the bottom of the compartment, he pulled the salvaged flashlight out of his front pocket, trained it on the trap door opening and beheld a line of grunting sub-humans descending the shaft wall. They reminded him of a trail of those venomous red ant columns on a food mission. Had he momentarily lost consciousness from the fall? He didn't know for sure but his pursuers seemed a lot closer now. Suddenly, a hideous face blocked his view. A roach covered creature kneeled on top of the compartment, pawing down at him! Its drool dripped on his leg. Warren crawled out of the elevator doorway and shakily tried to rise to his feet. His injured shoulder screamed with pain. He took a step - more pain, he had twisted his ankle also. Several Zombies were on the elevator rooftop now - they all were pushing and fighting to get through the narrow opening. Ironsmith leaned on the wall for support and limped along the corridor, grimacing with each torturous step to the sealed bunker. 'Thump,' the first pursuer fell to the bottom of the elevator compartment. More wailing and snorting as the others fought to squeeze through the hole. 'Thump,' a second one. The two got their arms and legs tangled together, snarled and clawed at each other as they struggled to disengage.

Warren arrived at the vault door and lamented, "Oh, no. Why did I bother to close it this morning?" He frantically punched in the combination 5*7#44, a green light flashed on, accompanied by an audible 'click'. He turned the manual lock wheel and pushed inward - it seemed heavier than before as his shoulder seared and his ankle began to throb. He checked the corridor - two monsters were hobbling out of the elevator doorway, their eyes aflame with the anticipated kill. The bunker's steel door cracked open a foot... a little more. Warren forced his debilitated body through the fissure then started pushing to close it... six inches, three, one. 'Whump, whump,' the two leading Zombies smashed into the other side of the vault door. Warren grunted and pushed harder - it didn't budge. One of the creatures slipped its finger into the crack. More 'Thumps,' several more demented killers had dropped into the elevator. Ironsmith stole a glance at the TV monitor - five were in the hallway. Any second now, their combined weight and strength would overpower him. They would force their way in! And then... He pressed against the door with all his might - his vision began to darken. Somehow, Warren saw or realized the hallway light switch was just below his TV monitor screen. He reached up with his good arm and flashed the lights on and off in desperation. The Zombies on the immediate other side of the door were momentarily distracted and eased up. With his last ounce of strength Ironsmith forced the door closed, crushing the one Zombie's finger to pulp, and spun the wheel to lock.

Sweat poured from his body, he dropped to his knees and panted as he rested his forehead on the cold metal. Ironsmith, next, scooted on his butt a few paces away, fell backwards and fainted from sheer exhaustion.

He awoke. Warren had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. An hour... two? Did it matter? He immediately checked the TV to discover there were dozens now clogging the corridor. They had calmed: some were sitting, some milled about - each waited patiently. A few looked at the monitor. Warren knew they couldn't see him, but the way they stared with such hatred, it seemed they could. He shuddered and mumbled, "That door can stop a rocket attack." He sat up and scanned the room. Of course, nothing had changed - the three Italian MREs lay where they had been discarded this morning. He knew with absolute certainty there wasn't any additional food in the pantry. "Three raunchy _Italian_ meals... not much." His eyes kept returning to the monitor. A sharp pain in his groin, "What? Oh." He pulled the .45 from his waistband, bemoaning, "No spare ammo either..." He hoisted the heavy handgun to eye level, ejected the clip from the butt handle and inspected it. "No bullets except the last one loaded in the chamber?" he whispered.

The monitor: he saw the Zombies were settling in for a long siege. Warren recalled Duane saying, "They never leave food. Never." And Mike had agreed.

The door: "They can't get in... and I can't get out."

The monitor. "I'll turn off the lights... and they'll leave! No, wait; those two traitors said these creatures can see perfectly well in pitch-black darkness. I would be the one with the disadvantage."

The monitor, more Zombies cramming into the hallway.

The pain - one bullet - starvation.

One bullet.

"No!" he yelled. "Not yet. I'm not a quitter!"

He began evaluating his situation, his military training coming to the fore. "I have to regroup... plan. Suicide of course, is an option which denies the enemy his final victory but it's not my only choice at the present." Warren thought and thought, studied the monitor, assessed the Zombie's strength, his own resources and limitations. He searched the facility for materials to make weapons, sat down in the game room and developed his strategy. "This old soldier isn't beaten yet you abominations of human decency."

During the next two days Ironsmith rested, reset his shoulder, iced and taped his ankle, ate all three MREs followed each time by a swig of Pepto-Bismol, rearranged the furniture to re-enforce his line of defense and made two weapons. He had turned off the monitor; he didn't want to be distracted by whatever the enemy was doing - he needed total concentration.

The morning of the third day he awoke refreshed, mentally prepared and slightly hungry. He donned his old Army uniform, smoothed the wrinkles and noted his three stars still gleamed like new. He said to himself, "Time to rock and roll, as they say in the trenches." He flicked on the monitor; the Zombies were still present to no surprise. He viewed his broken, disease-ridden fellow Americans without compassion - they were no longer his countrymen, they were the despicable: the enemy. Ironsmith estimated they numbered about three dozen, hard to say exactly because of the way they were entangled and overlapping each other in the crowded corridor. It didn't matter. He noted with satisfaction two distinct large bloody patches on the floor and correctly assumed they had killed and eaten a couple of their own. "Good; two less to deal with. I'll bet they didn't draw straws for the sacrificial honor either." He made a shallow laugh and muttered, "If I had enough food stores they may have killed themselves off. Stupid bastards." He knew his glib rhetoric was mere nervous bravado. Make no mistake; Warren was afraid and not ashamed to admit it. This was war and the 'good guys,' meaning himself, sometimes get killed also. He had decided to use the Spartan defense: force the opponent into tight quarters and dispatch them one by one. Retreat to another position if it becomes compromised, until all the foe were vanquished. He had no choice - either fight now or die of slow starvation later. He stiffly reminded himself he lived as a warrior first and a politician second. The only glaring drawback to his battle plan was he didn't have a second defensive position to retreat to. His last option; hand to hand combat. For a brief moment he started to question that particular aspect in his chosen course of action then quickly forced the hesitation from his mind. He had crossed the point of no return! He seized the lock wheel with nervous fingers and with both eyes glued to the monitor he pulled the door ajar ever so slightly.

The stench seeped through the crack; it was near overwhelming. Making no sound, he opened the door about eighteen inches, that was as far as it could travel - Ironsmith had piled up every piece of furniture he could move to create a door block. Most of the Zombies were asleep and the few who were awake were inattentive. He knew that wouldn't last for long. They would attack en masse, but have to squeeze into the bottleneck he had made, and he would kill them one by one until none remained alive. The plan was simple, efficient and deadly.

He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers and picked up his primary weapon, a full length pool cue with a razor sharp butcher knife duct-taped to the narrow end. His other makeshift weapon was a three foot long Billy club made from another sawed-off cue which he left lying on the floor within arm's reach. His pistol, still with only one bullet remaining in the chamber was stuffed in his front waistband.

Odors ebbed back and forth. The Zombies stirred, their nostrils flared at Ironsmith's scent - breakfast was served! They spied the cracked-open door and moved in slow motion toward it as if they couldn't believe their good fortune. Their tentativeness didn't last long. They transformed into a blood-lusting, frenzied mob faster than you could say, "Come get me." Four of them simultaneously slammed into the door, but it held fast. Warren stood poised with his spear on the other side. One slipped his head and shoulders into the crack - Ironsmith stabbed him in the throat, the blade went clean through his neck. The monster gurgled and dropped to the floor, dead. "One," counted Warren. Immediately a second and third squeezed in over the first body. He dispatched these also. Number four, five and six wriggled their way in and met similar fates. The opening was now clogged with the slain. The crowd in the hallway howled and pushed in vain which gave Ironsmith an opportunity to catch his breath - fighting took a lot of energy. Eventually, the Zombies realized they had to pull their dead to clear the doorway and then attacked again, three at a time. One tried to crawl in low on all fours, another pawed at chest high and the third tried to climb over the top of the other two. They had no fear of death.

Jab, jab... in the heart, in the mouth. The one above teetered atop the other two and draped itself half-way over the door! Thrust... Warren impaled him in the abdomen with his make-shift bayonet, wedging the knife point between two vertebrae in the attacker's backbone. Black fluid gushed out as the subhuman bellowed and seized Ironsmith's spear with both hands. The cue stick caught the door's top edge and snapped in two as the mortally wounded Zombie dropped to the pile below.

"Oh, no, my spear!" he cried. Holding the now near - useless weapon he shrilled, "Why didn't I make more of these?"

The enemy removed their dead a second time and continued their relentless assault. Warren drove the broken weapon's jagged wooden point deep into the first attacker's eye. He screamed and wrestled the weapon away as he fell back. Another crawled in on the floor, a third over top. He brained the one down low with his war club and backed-up a few steps to get ready for the third one who had fell safely inside Ironsmith's refuge. This Zombie didn't pursue him; he stayed back as if he were unsure... or perhaps to guard the entrance? "Why would he do that? He couldn't still be any kind of intelligent," wondered Warren. Three more came through the opening, slipping and sliding in the pool of blood. Expecting to be charged at any second, Warren backed one step at a time, slowly across the room. The enemy kept coming until the hallway near emptied. They formed a half circle on the far side of the room. Growling, snarling, they still had no fear of their prey but merely stood their ground as if they were waiting or savoring the final moments before they tore him to shreds.

Ironsmith faced the murderous horde with the three foot war club in his right hand and the .45 pistol in his left. He was trembling, "What were these loathsome, mind-less creatures up to?"

The last Zombie crawled through, dragging his leg and took a position in front of the mangy group who then quieted down to issuing an occasional grumble. The creature stood slightly hunched over, similar to a great ape and appeared vaguely familiar. In a nightmarish flashback, Warren remembered - he was the very first one he'd seen!

'Thunk' Ironsmith's heel struck the baseboard of the wall behind him, the wall which displayed the global offensive and defensive strike results. In essence, the devastation he had created.

The lead Zombie's venom-filled eyes swept the tracking maps above Ironsmith. The others looked back and forth from him to the President. Ironsmith's knees shook; his cheek muscles twitched. The Zombie returned his gaze to Warren and reached out his claw-like deformed hand in a pointing manner. He made a sound, not loud and his followers became silent. "Oon ... mit." A little louder now, "Roon-smit." Louder, "Ay-roon-smit."

The mob tried to imitate their leader's voice. Poorly, but collectively, the syllables became clear, "Ay-ron-smit."

The leader Zombie stepped aside - away from his followers. He had a malicious grin on his face. The pack shuffled toward Warren, _their_ faces were masks of fury and betrayal driven malice. Crazed, wild-eyed, teeth bared, " I-ron-smit. "Oh, my god, they... they know it's me!" Warren's body went numb; a warm stream trickled down between his trembling legs.

"I-ron-smit, I-ron-smit!" they chanted.

In last second desperation the President wondered, "If I kill their leader will they withdraw?"

"No... no, I think not." White-knuckled, he raised his forty-five.

The end

# I had a Dream

Atlanta, 2124

Christine stood silently inside the narrow confines of selection booth #7. She was nervous and for a very good reason. After all, how many things could a person steal from a public library which would cause them to be expatriated and sentenced to a lifetime of human bondage? A Black Culture prism was the only item she knew of... and that little hunk of glass was exactly what she came for!

The computer's video display terminal glowed softly: 'Service'?

She took a deep breath, glanced around the room, noting the sparsely occupied facility contained only non-familiar faces tonight. "Thank, God," she whispered. While thinking, "No one's here. Damn good thing too because I sure as hell can't afford to get derailed by some dumb-ass Romeo trying to hit on me. No, sir, not tonight."

She addressed the terminal's awaiting, 'Sign on' request. Her fingers danced deftly across the touch-sensitive screen as she typed a stolen twelve digit C.I.N. (citizen's identification number) and its matching six digit pin code. "Aw right, baby. Talk to me," she silently pleaded.

The screen answered, "Salutations, Citizen Victoria R. Cosgrove. Please make your selections starting with the Main menu. If you need help a staff member will be happy to assist you."

She mumbled under her breath, "Screw the staff and let's get this show on the road!" She tore through the menu - her recent trepidation now being replaced by steel determination.

"Your requested material: African cultures, Country - Matoba, Year - 2124, is now available in Study chamber 24. Embrace knowledge, Victoria."

She touched, 'Accept'.

"Embrace indeed, she thought as she strode toward her assigned room. "I certainly will, but not exactly the way you expect, you soul-less, electronic White cow chip."

Motion sensor lights switched on as she entered the small, non-reflective, black-walled, audiovisual theatre. The illumination revealed a square table which could accommodate up to four reviewers - for study group presentations. Each position had its own pop-up VDT and a flush keyboard which enabled the user to communicate with the main frame computer via a fiber optic link. In the center of the table was a built-in pedestal 'player' with the Matoba prism inserted and ready for activation. She turned, pressed the door sensor to 'close' then manually slid the viewing window panel down which then outwardly displayed: Occupied, please do not disturb. Only one keyboard denoting 'operational' was lit and she took her place there. Her VDT screen displayed a new menu; she selected: Language : oral. 'Begin'.

The lighting gradually dimmed and extinguished. The cone shaped, six inch smoke-colored triangular crystal prism was inverted with its tip pointed downward into the player. It began to glow. The flat base swirled the range of the spectrum then projected a holographic image of a human head at the viewer's shoulder level. A smiling, middle-aged African male spoke, "Salutations, Victoria. How may I be of service?" The head turned slightly from side to side awaiting her response.

"Conversational language lesson, primary level. Begin," she ordered.

The hovering image returned, "Hello, my name is Nebuto." Then repeated the phrase in his native language, "Nya, su bana e Nebuto."

Christine touched, 'Pause' then 'Documentation'. She needed to test that all the prism's comm paths and features were operating properly. An 8xl0" hard copy inscribing the same verbalize slid out of a slit in the player base toward her. She inspected the English/Matoban translation then fed it into a 'discard' slot where it would be shredded and recycled. There was another critical feature she had to check and stroked, 'Question'. The head gazed at her with a pleased, expectant expression. "Which race is subservient and its origin?" she queried.

"Caucasian, North America," then "Wy-tee, Nor Ammaca," in Matoban.

"Excellent. White Americans are the slaves of the Matoba" she said to herself then ran a few more minor command tests. Satisfied, she pressed 'Pause' again and glanced at her wrist watch; it read 06:50 pm. "Good, I have ten minutes to spare." Christine switched off the holographic projection leaving the prism in its 'ready mode' and exited the room while being careful to secure the door behind her. She walked back to the selector booth area where there were a lot of people moving about so she wouldn't be noticed. She stopped at the adjacent water fountain, leaned over for a drink and cast an eye at the West entrance security guard's desk. An older man who resembled the spitting image of Franklin D. Roosevelt sat right where he should be. She then took a seat at an open study table in order to retain her line of sight to the guard. She pretended to read a magazine she had brought in her purse. Soon, right on schedule, the guard leaned down and retrieved a lunch pail which he had tucked under his desk earlier. He sorted-out a few items then rose with two containers in hand - he was stepping away for a few minutes to heat his dinner. "Thank goodness, the man's a creature of habit," she sighed in relief.

Christine immediately returned to her assigned room. Once inside she leaned over the table, popped the prism out of the player, covered it with insulating bubble wrap and placed it in her handbag. She peeked out, exited, closed the door and walked toward the West Entrance at a good pace but not so fast as to draw attention. She gave a quick check down the hallway which led to the employee lounge where the guard was heating his food in a microwave. "Still clear. So far, so good," she surmised. "They won't notice the prism is missing until tomorrow morning after they review the computer's overnight inventory."

The entrance's automatic glass doors slid open; a young man was entering from the far side. Christine, the thief on her way out, was only twenty feet from making a clean getaway when an alarm sounded. 'Clang! Clang!' The doors began to close on the incoming visitor. The right siding panel struck his shoulder. He instinctively grabbed the door edge then blocked it from closing further with his foot. "Hey, what's going on here?" he exclaimed.

"Oh, no!" she thought. "The prism must have a theft detection sticker on it!" She quickly scooted in next to him and said, "Thanks. It must be a malfunction." They both wiggled and squeezed through the wedged opening. 'Clap' the doors slammed together.

With eyes wide with concern for not being at his post, the guard huffed around the corner. The young fellow stood inside the entranceway with his hands on his hips, listening to the alarm bell. "Hold it right there!" the guard ordered.

"What for?" blustered the bewildered youngster. He extended his open palms in a defensive manner meaning, 'I don't have anything. I'm coming in.' He then thumbed toward Christine fleeing down the outside marbled stairs. "She's the one in a hurry to _leave_."

The guard peered through the glass, "Oh, crap." He hustled to his desk, threw the alarm cut-off switch to stop the ringing then punched the button to reset the door sensor control. He rushed outside just in time to observe Christine jump into a private airmobile. It rose thirty feet into the air then silently sped away into the twilight. He didn't have enough time to get off a safe laser shot.

"What's the rush?" asked Jerome the airmobile driver wearing his Negro League, Atlanta Braves baseball uniform.

"An alarm sounded as I was leaving. The prism must have a detection sticker on it. Another second more and I would have been trapped inside!"

"Wow! Dat be close," he marveled. "I didn't know the library had anything 'bugged'... must be sumpin' new!"

"Must be, Jerome," she concurred while unwrapping the pilfered booty and inspecting it. "I found it." She showed him a small, round detector glued near the apex then proceeded to scrape it off with her fingernail file. She tossed the tracking label out the window. "White devils."

"Careful who you say dat around, no place be safe," he warned. "The Whites will report you to the Purification Bureau and you knows what'll happen den."

"Yes. They'll run a DNA test and discover I'm really a Black. My built-in cover will be blown."

"Right on," he continued. "They'll perma-dye your lily white skin to 'true black' and put you in one of dem desert labor colonies. You be harvesting glass (silicon) til your lungs crack (crystallize) and you flat-out dies." Her partner in crime paused a moment. "Sorry to mention dat... it weren't too smart o' me was it? We gots enough problems without thinking 'bout dat kinda stuff." He flashed a gold plated, toothy happy face and said, "Cheer up, Darlin', the worst parts is over for you. Yeah. Thanks to your stand-up (bravery) tonight we's be able to learn the Matoba language! Dat, plus new identity papers, passports and their native threads we can make our way to freedom. Be citizens in a 'Black' country!" He held her hand, "You risked so much... everything... to help us. We loves ya, sister Christine."

She squeezed his hand in return. "I know... and I know you're right about everything you said but sometimes it's so hard to contain my anger." She viewed with disgust the immaculate housing developments and interspersed plantations scattered within the Atlanta Core residential area they were passing. "God damn, White devils," she spat. "It's not my fault I'm without color. Some honky plantation owner hundreds of years ago knocked up one of his Negro love slaves, passed his genes down and ruined my life. He denied me of my rightful heritage!"

"Of course, it not be your fault," trying to console her. "Listen, Sugar, even though you've been wronged your true heritage, you should still be glad you didn't hafta grow up being a worker slave like the rest o' us. You should be grateful, yes sir-re grateful to your granddaddy and his quick thinking. His changing your race on your birth certificate after he seen how light you was when you were born. It done an awful lot of good things for you. Yes, Lordy, he was smart dat one and lucky some too. Not many Blacks ever hads a job where they could change hospital records like he done. Now you being registered and lookin' White will make it possible for a whole bunch of brothers and sisters to reach freedom. A fine man, your granddaddy, he was."

With a tear in her eye she moaned, "Yes, I've had some advantages... but pain also." It trickled down her cheek. "I'll never be able to be myself... have a _real_ life, a happy life even if I was Black poor. I can't even get married. No man would have me; it would be too dangerous. I couldn't ask that of him. Hell, the White's would shoot his ass right in the street and hang his dead body from a light pole just for the way it looks."

"But you could marry a White... be well off," he countered.

"Marry a White! Those bigoted bastards make me want to puke. You got your head up your ass, Jerome? Jeez. And what about children? Me having a child with a White? Fat chance! That baby would surely pop out being some shade of color they'd not be expecting. They'd take one look at it and kill us both right there in the hospital. Then afterwards, maybe my whole 'natural' family too." He frowned in understanding. "I'll be a prisoner of color forever. There is no escape in the C.S.A." She remained quiet for a few minutes as the city thinned out then waxed, "Jerome, can you imagine a world of freedom and equality between all the races?"

"Say wha..." he sputtered. Freedom and equality for all?" He pondered this bizarre concept for a moment then responded, "No... no, I can't. I mean there's always been slavery, right? Two classes of people in every country?"

"I'm not so sure of that," answered Christine. I heard a rumor there once existed _free_ countries called Canada and Mexico on this very same continent. If it were true then I have a pretty good idea of what must have happened."

"'Free countries'," he chuckled. "Okay, Sherlock Holmes, how you think dat could be true?"

"I believe or at least strongly suspect after the C.S.A. won the Civil War with the Evil North they kept on going and conquered all the rest of North America. And that in turn, changed the course of history for the whole world. The two class society became the norm for the entire stinking planet," summarized Christine.

"Wow! You sure gots some imagination," he scoffed. "Sorry, but dat be a little too far out for me. No, I cain't buy it. But, even if I is wrong and you is right, it musta happened a long, long time ago, girl. Either way, we'll never find out." He furrowed his brow, "Tell you true, I don't think even the Whites know what really happened anymore. Heck, you 'passin' and able to use their libraries should know dat even better than I do. The history books be fulla lies. Ain't a word o'truth in em' nowhere. Each country's mas'er race writes whatever they wants... then declares it to be the 'truth'. The gospel truth. Whatta crock!" He shook his head in disbelief, "They think we all be fools." He looked at the pensive figure next to him. "Humph, don't matter no how. We stuck who we is." He gave her a wink, "For the moment being dat is."

Jerome turned the airmobile into a 'mainstream' leading to North Atlanta and changed the subject. "I heards on Commchannel dat the Equalists shot down another Transair this morning'. It be the third one in two months. I wonder if dat why the detector is on the prism. To catch a revolutionary? Whatcha think, girl?"

"That's a possibility," she considered. "I'm really not up to date on the Equalists stuff. But I know if the C.S.A. police can capture just one revolutionary they'll end up with a whole bag full. No one can resist the state's All-Truth serum." He took the exit which crossed 'the railroad tracks' and led to Shantytown NE 4. "When are you due back at your plantation, Jerome?"

"Twelve midnight," he answered. "Dat's when the overseer takes the roll call and issues the work for t'morrow."

"The overseer? Not the Master?" she wondered.

"No, I works on a big plantation. We never see the Mas'er, 'cept when there be trouble."

"Midnight is good." she assessed. "That gives us a few hours to study."

"Yeah, it do," he agreed. And speakin' of dat, did you have time to test the prism?"

"Yes, it seems fine. Oh, you'll love this. While I was testing, I learned the Matoban translation for these North American White devils is Wy-tee." They both laughed.

"Imagine, a 'Wy-tee being my slave in Matoba?" He grinned from ear to ear, "Now dat be fine justice."

Two hours later at Dion's apartment the five 'students': Jerome, Tamika, Dion, Christine and Moesha were practicing their pronunciation of the Matoban alphabet.

"No," said Dion to Moesha. "I think the word has a softer 'a', like 'ahh'. Let's check with Nebuto," who spun in slow rhythm above the stolen prism. "Nebuto..." the holographic image keyed on his name, flashed a pleased smile and turned to Dion's position, "The letter..."

BLAM!!! The apartment door blasted into pieces! They all jerked upright in unison. A split second later, two baseball-sized canisters wizzed through the smoke and debris, hit the back wall and exploded on contact. 'Hissss' Dum-dum gas, which induces an immediate temporary paralysis, filled the room faster than you could snap your fingers. The students, realizing they were under attack, started to bolt from their seats. One by one, their nerves went numb; they lost their muscle coordination and fell to the floor. The frightened young people lay helpless and fully conscious as a dozen gas-masked C.S.A. shock troopers rushed in and 'secured the area'.

"Pack 'em up, sergeant," ordered the lieutenant.

"Yes, sir." He, in turn, addressed the other lower-ranked troopers, "You heard the lieutenant! Get this vermin out the door! I ain't got all night!"

"Take the prisoners to I.L. three (interrogation lab 3) asap," added the officer. "And bag the library prism, Sergeant. It's evidence."

The sergeant sneered at the fallen bodies, "You Darkies have bought the farm this time. And you too, Cutie," referring to Christine, who he assumed to be a Equalist White sympathizer. "Collaborating with seditious Negroes is a serious offense."

A trooper new to the unit, an opinionated rookie, spoke his mind, "These damn revolutionaries, puttin' them to sleep is too good for 'em in my book, Sarge. We're too f'ing nice to these scum bags. The scuttle-butt is that in the old days they'd flog the bastards to the bone and then string 'em up. We should've hung onto some of the _old_ customs. We need a little 'getting even' time. You know, teach 'em a lesson... for the good of mankind, that is."

"You're absolutely right, Sonny," the sergeant grinned. "Don't you worry none now, we're gonna do a little 'getting even' while working 'within the system'... for the good of mankind as you said." Explaining, "That's, what we have paddy wagons for, kid." All the seasoned troopers gave a knowledgeable laugh.

The next forty-eight hours passed as a blur... a _painful_ blur - starting with the previous night's beatings in the paddy wagon. She, herself, escaped with only minor 'finger' bruises caused by the 'weapons search' and a gash on the head from being tossed into the wagon. Her friends weren't so lucky. Those hand-cuffed _Darkies_ , all claiming innocence, who hadn't resisted arrest, still needed to be 'softened up' so they wouldn't be no trouble... and remember their proper place.

Next came the interrogation laboratory and the All-Truth serum injection. It burned. She screamed and immediately began babbling within a timeless, floating, distorted nightmare without remembrance.

Christine awakened naked on a cold, concrete cell floor amid snickering projected from shadowy figures beyond grey iron bars. She scooted into the furthest corner away from them and covered herself as best she could. "Pigs!" she shouted, which prompted a return volley of guttural cat-calls from the onlookers. "Let's rut, baby." "Oink, oink." "Suwee, suwee."

The trial was short, but not sweet. The court appointed public defender argued Christine, as opposed to her co-defendants, had no intention of escaping the country and therefore should be tried separately. He conferred individually on the side with her saying, "In your case we'll plead guilty and beg for the mercy of the court to have your sentence commuted to life imprisonment in a state labor colony." He whispered, "You're young and pretty. Even after you're 'true blacked' you could survive... if you used your resources," giving her a sly wink. "It's a hard life out there, even for the guards. They have needs too."

"Resources? Needs?" she repeated. "You mean prostitute myself to the White guards? Never! I'll..."

"Can it, you worthless Negro bitch," cutting her off. "I'm doing you a big favor here. We all sell ourselves in one way or another. Get used to it. At least, you'd be alive."

"Request denied, counselor," returned the magistrate, making it a moot point. "All charged are found guilty of sedition and treason. The sentence of death is to be carried out two days hence at State Prison number Six."

The entire proceeding took ten minutes. Justice was swift in the Confederate States of America. The public defender nonchalantly accepted the verdict but stated he would file an appeal on Christine's behalf.

The magistrate nodded. "So noted," and granted a one day extension for the appellate court's review. The other convicted defendants were to be executed on schedule.

'Bang'! Sounded the gavel. "Next case!"

Christine rode alone in a prison transport bus which had 'Sanitation Department' painted on both sides.

To no surprise, her appeal had been rejected. Her friends had been taken yesterday and they were to be executed today. Perhaps they were dead already. Gazing numbly out the window at the thousands of unmarked graves lining the desolate, two-lane asphalt highway she thought, "Must be White graves. I heard the Blacks get euthanized, like cats and dogs, then nuked to ashes and buried in a land fill."

Her 'last meal' consisting of chitlins, collards and black-eyed peas with watermelon for dessert tasted like leftovers from the day before ... or heated-up, uneaten food from earlier tonight? Christine sat on the edge of the cot; her head hung low in despair as she balanced the aluminum food tray.

"What's the matter, Cutie? Ain't gots no appetite?" razed one of the guards.

"Maybe she's peeved 'cause we're outta catfish," chimed in a second.

"Well, ain't that a crime!" howled the first. "Tell you what, Honey come back tomorrow. We'll have the cook rustle you up a bucket of southern fried chicken!" They both roared.

The lights dimmed for the third time that evening. Testing? The cell door creaked open; the grinning 'Sanitation' guards pranced in, grabbed Christine under the armpits and yanked her to her feet. "Dead man walking," one called out.

The other jeered. "Woman, fool. Dead _woman_ walking."

"Huh? Oh, yeah. But I got the dead part right and that's what counts!" bantered his comrade. Hell fire, no harm intended. They just good ole boys doin' what's right and working hard for the C.S.of A.

A solemn, hooded padre with a bible in hand materialized and silently fell in behind the three-some. Christine, draped in heavy chains, shuffled past countless empty cells - all were marked with the number '13'. Dank mist oozed from every wall, cascading down onto the cold cement floor creating a surreal carpet. A mangy, black cat with bright yellow eyes darted into the passageway; 'hissed' then disappeared into a side cell. One guard threw salt over his shoulder another knocked on wood. Dragging chains... Christine spied a Halloween pumpkin - its flickering orange flame eyes mocked her. A sadistic joke? Dragging chains... A raven silhouetted by an evil, quarter moon, cawed atop the prison's outside wall. The long, long, narrow corridor was bathed in eerie shades of gray - there was no color anywhere, save for a single red light bulb over an ancient oaken door at the end of the tunnel. Dragging... dragging. She could hardly lift her legs; the chains were so heavy. It took Christine hours to get there... so she thought. It was only a few minutes.

The procession came to a halt. The massive wooden door creaked open, unaided. Inside the execution chamber, centered under a cone of sterile light, sat 'Old Sparky'. The Electric Chair. Every state had at least one. Texas had three: two for 'doubles' and one for a back-up.

Grotesque, oversized, blacken hickory... blackened from fire? Scorched human bodies? Black folk's bodies? Thick leather straps dangled. A cap resembling an 1890's football helmet hung hooked atop one of the chair-back knobs. The knobs were carved gargoyle heads. The chair's feet were animal claws.

A doctor in a pure white uniform wearing a gleaming stainless steel stethoscope stood off to one side. The stone-faced prison warden stood on the other. Three zipper-closed plastic body bags lie stacked behind the chair against the wall. The three earlier dimmed lights? A forth bag lie open, waiting at the foot of 'Old Sparky'.

To her right, in the 'official witnesses' viewing room, sat a dozen of those who used to be her best friends in high school. They seemed anxious... no, eager. Eager to see Christine die. She was the bitch who had tricked them into thinking she was a White. Burn you conniving bitch. Burn!

Christine was in semi-shock , this couldn't be happening! And yet, it had to be. She was going to be fried alive. And, the whole world wanted it... wanted it bad and couldn't be happier! Burn, Black bitch, burn!

Strong arms strapped her into place. They deliberately didn't wet her head, which prevented optimum current flow. Grinning guards fastened the electrifying helmet and then retreated into the darkness. The witnesses had elected to leave her un-hooded so they could see her eyes bulge and melt. Christine, the she-devil, who had dared to deceive _them_!

She waited, sweating drops of blood. 'Tick, tick, tick'. Her eyes flashed to the giant floor to ceiling clock directly in front of her. 'Tick, tick, tick'. The hands, shaped like dueling sabers, sped toward midnight. 'Tick, tick, tick'. Oh, no! It was 11:59! The warden grasped the switch handle which would send two million volts coursing through her young body. She'd be fried like a pork rind.

Gleeful anticipation: the witnesses had her mouth gag removed. They had placed bets of how far her tongue would fly when she bit it in half. Quite sporting of them.

Ten seconds... nine, eight, seven, the warden, enjoying every moment, leered back at her and gave a thumb's up.

'Ring, ring'! The governor's Red Phone was ringing! A last minute pardon?

The warden turned his head in slow motion away from her and glanced at the jangling instrument. Six, five, four.

'Ring, ring'! He turned back - their eyes met again: hers were filled with stark terror, his with absolute delight.

Cotton-mouthed, Christine rasped, "The phone. Please, the phone."

Three. He leisurely pulled the switch downward. _'Ring.'_

Two. A crinkle of delight creased the corner of his glowing amber eyes. His pointed, devil's tail swished beneath one pant leg.

One. Down, down the switch came, 'Ring'!

Christine screamed - a soundless, desperate shriek.

'Rinnnng'!

Contact. 'ZAP'!!!

"Momma, I can't get Martin awake. He's sleeping like a dead man. I swear his alarm clock's been ringing for five minutes 'fore I came in here. I cain't mess with him no more, I gotta get ready for school," lamented his older sister.

"You get along, Christine. I'll raise up the boy now. Thank you for trying, Sugar."

"Martin, Martin! Time to get up, honey-child," gently prodded his mother, Alberta Williams King. "A glorious new day has begun."

'ZAP'!!! - - - from the dream

The young, to be, Doctor Martin Luther King Junior, cracked open his sleepy eyes. The night's images began evaporating from his mind, fading yet still remembered. "Momma..."

Yes, child," hugged his mother. "Did you have a nightmare?"

"Kinda." Then, he spoke for the first time what many historians have deemed to be a close version of his most famous words. A phrase this future great leader would use often in shaping a nation. He said, "I had a dream."

"A dream, child?"

"Yes, Momma. I had a dream... a terrible dream. The world was filled with hate and slavery. It was awful how badly people treated each other. But it also showed me that when I become a man I must work hard to help people overcome this prejudice. We must learn to love one another. Black and white... people of all color! Maybe, then when I sleep I'll have a 'good' dream.

His mother smiled. "Martin, you are wise beyond your age. Now, listen to what I have to say about your vision. There are _two_ valuable lessons here to be learned. Number one: good can come from bad... meaning, sometimes a dream can show you the path to go from bad to good. You must try to interpret what you see and learn its message. Learn the way. Do you understand?"

"I think so."

"Good, this will become clearer as you grow older. The second lesson and the most important is love is the tool which will enable you to make the journey. Love will be your staff, your strength. You will need it, need it sorely, for the road will be very hard. But remember, no matter how difficult it may become if you stand strong, keep the faith and let God be your guide you can travel this path. One day you will have the dream we all want. And you will make the world a better place for all people."

"Yes, Momma. I won't forget."

The beginning...

# X 2 4 1 B

National Cerebral Research Center

"Where am I?" wondered Nick Anderson. He blinked several times attempting to adjust his vision but his eye lid movement felt slow as if he were waking up from another one of his famous all-night binges. He smartly rejected the impulse to shake his head after remembering the last time how it had made him dizzy and then fell off the living room couch.

"Just cool it, Dude," he moaned to himself. "It's best not to rush a hangover. I'll make some good, strong coffee, take some aspirins and in a little while I'll as good as new."

Nick peered into the darkness, his eyes roamed up, down and side to side. He was trying to figure out why there was no daylight. Finally, he obtained his night-vision and became able to make out a dimly lit red and white 'exit' sign about fifty-feet away. Just then the door below the sign swung open and the room's overhead lights automatically switched on. In strolled a middle-aged, red-haired woman wearing some kind of a white uniform. She paid no attention to Nick who was coherent enough to realize he wasn't at home and had now become a bit curious as to where he really may be. The lady, instead of coming toward him, moved to his left and then stopped to don a pair of eyeglasses swinging from her neck. She seemed to be reviewing some papers on a clipboard and making random checkmarks.

Nick, a gregarious fellow by nature mumbled, "Hello there," to draw her attention. But alas, she didn't respond. So he tried several more times, still to no avail. "Strange" he thought, "I can feel my mouth moving but no sound seems to be coming out. Damn! I must have developed laryngitis. I've never had that happen before, not even after a lot of cheering at an exciting football game."

The woman moved further to his left beyond his view and Nick discovered he couldn't move his head to follow her or to turn in the other direction either for that matter. "What the hell?" he exclaimed. "I can't move my head! It feels like I'm wearing a blasted, neck brace."

Next, he heard a distinct 'click' which sounded like a lamp's on and off switch and then sheets of paper being flipped on her clipboard. "At least I can hear, thank God," he thought. Nick assumed she would work her way over to him soon and then he could at least whisper to her even with laryngitis. "Hurry up, lady. I need some answers here. Big-time."

He began inspecting the room as he waited. All sorts of stainless steel machines, portable and mobile pieces of test equipment lined the chart-laden walls. Scopes, VDT's, recorders and cables seemed to be everywhere. "Looks like a hospital laboratory," he reasoned. Concern creased his brow. "Uh, oh, this could be serious." Another 'click' is heard in the background.

Unexpectedly, the attendant stepped in front of Nick's position and turned on his projection lamp. 'Click'. Pleased to have the company the young man forced a crooked grin.

"Agggh!" she screamed. Taking a half-step backwards she lost her balance, stumbled and fell. Her clipboard and pen went flying. Sitting on the floor with her knees raised, she stared up at the surprised patient above her. "C'mon, lady, get up," Nick mouthed soundlessly. "I got a lotta questions."

As the woman struggled to her feet her glasses fell off her face and down to her chest when she bent over to retrieve her materials. "Sorry," she stammered. "I've never seen one of you awake before."

Nick read her nameplate, 'Amy'. He extended his right hand to her in a gesture of friendship. "Amy..." the words died on his lips. He couldn't see his arm or hand. Nick held both hands up to his face, at least that's what his brain said he was doing, but they weren't there. He kicked his feet, no movement. Oh no, I must be in a full body cast! Looking down he found his vision blocked by a small stain-less steel table or a platter of some sort. Worry set in. His pleading eyes bored into Amy. "What happened to me?" he whispered as loud as he could. Still, no sound came out.

Unaware of his efforts to communicate, she reviewed his chart aloud. "Mister Nicholas Anderson... motorcycle accident... twenty-seven years old... pity."

"Motorcycle accident?" He began remembering. "Yes, yes, of course! I was riding home from the concert. I hadn't been drinking hard, just a coupla beers. The truck!" A large shadowy image flashed in his mind. He cringed. The intersection... the red light. I can't stop!"

Blackness.

"I'll be back with you in just a minute, Mister Anderson," the attendant promised and she moved to his right.

He heard another 'click', another lamp? "There must be other patients here," he reasoned. Looking about as best he could, "Yep, this is definitely a hospital ward of some type. It sure has an awful lot of lab equipment." He wondered, "Why would they need all this?" Nick struggled to move again, still no visual results. Panic rushed in and his thoughts began running amok. "I must have had a spinal injury! I ... I must be paralyzed!" Numbing shock and anguish washed over him.

After what seemed to be an eternity he dared to look down again, this time beyond the metal edge. "Wait a minute. Where are my legs? Even if I were paralyzed, I should be able to see my legs. Unless... they're gone... ripped off under the wheels of the truck. Please, no! What else?" he sobbed. "What about my arms? My arms too! Am I a quadriplegic propped up in a wheelchair? Oh, God, no! What could be worse than this? Amy! Come back! I need you!"

Nick frantically searched the room seeking for clues as to the real extent of his injuries. Perplexing, complex medical paraphernalia appeared everywhere. The closest and most prominent item was a rolling table in the middle of the room. It had a hole in the middle with a plastic neck brace fastened over it. It also had a half a dozen cylinders with rubber tubing mounted on the second shelf underneath. "Crap! I don't understand what _any_ of this stuff is used for."

'Click.' Amy returned and stood facing Nick, clipboard under her arm and cleaned her glasses. "Sorry about before, Mister Anderson. Rather unprofessional of me. As I said, I've never seen one of you awake. You're supposed to be asleep. I'll report this to Doctor Parmalee as soon as I finish with you. He'll get you back to being nice and comfy. Don't worry, young man."

"Don't worry?" he silently screamed. "What's wrong with me, woman! I can't move!" His facial contortions seemed to unnerve her. "Why can't you hear me?" Nick's motions accentuated.

"Oh, dear! I can see you're quite upset aren't you? Someone has made a terrible mistake with your anesthetics." Amy slipped her glasses back on and half-filled an eye-drop applicator. "Try to calm down, Mister Anderson. I'll give you these drops and then inform the doctor of your condition. Open wide, please."

As Nick watched, Amy using great care, slowly leaned toward him. His eyes became wider and wider. Warm liquid poured over his eyeballs, he blinked away the excess. His vision had become even clearer now... to his horror. Her face was positioned very close as she examined him. Then she backed away ever so cautious. His eyes darted to the rolling table in the middle of the room - back to Amy, table, Amy. His table. Amy. "Oh, no!" She turned to leave.

"Good boy," she called over her shoulder. "Doctor Parmalee will be here in a few minutes. I'll leave the light on for him."

Full realization began to set in...

The cafeteria

"Amy, come over and join me," entreated Gail, a fellow, medical assistant. As soon as Amy had set her lunch tray down and taken a seat, Gail gushed, "Did you hear? I just bumped into nurse Bridgewater in the hallway and she told me one of your patients died of an aneurism a little while ago."

"Really? I didn't know that. Which one was it?" returned a surprised Amy.

"X241B," answered Gail.

"Experimental, room 241, subject B? That would be Nick Anderson. Are you sure? When I left him two hours ago he seemed fine, except he was awake." stated Amy. "Cooperative too. He held his eyes open nice and wide while I put in the lubricating drops."

"Aren't those experimental subjects supposed to be in an induced coma until after the operation?" questioned Gail.

"Yes, that's true. I reported his condition to Doctor Parmalee."

Gail continued, "Nurse Bridgewater," who was the doctor's assistant said, X241B had the most horrible expression she had ever seen. She described his face as being contorted into a mask of pure terror. Finishing with: "It looked as if all of the muscles in his face were frozen in a blood-curdling scream. Even Doctor Parmalee was shocked."

"Pity," returned Amy. "I heard the young man was scheduled for surgery tomorrow morning. The Parts Department said we received a compatible, donor body yesterday."

She wanted to read 'today's lunch specials' from the menu and pulled out a pair of glasses from her purse.

"What happened to your regular reading glasses, Amy?" asked Gail.

"They're at the optometrist being repaired. Silly me, I sat on them and broke the frame. Thank goodness, I had another pair. I'll have to wear these for only a coupla days. My old glasses will be ready tomorrow. No harm done," she surmised as she cleaned and adjusted her over-sized, mirrored sunglasses, - in which Nick saw his own reflection.

The end

# The Devil's Fog

The Bermuda Triangle. I've been warned more than once not to tackle such old, over-worked themes. Thanks for the advice, but I felt I had to get it down on paper before it became lost. See if you agree with me this tale - a true story, has been worth saving.

I first learned of it about a year ago at a July the fourth family picnic which my wife, Joyce, and I were attending. I remarked to her cousin John, the ocean was too warm during the summer for fishing here in south Florida. I asked what he thought was a better time, the spring or the fall.

He answered, "Neither, to me. I don't fish out there anymore, not after you-know-what happened. Tom and I stick to the everglades now. The alligators and water moccasins are a whole lot safer."

I chided him, "What are you talking about? Did a drug runner in a cigarette boat run you over?"

"Don't I wish it were that simple," he retorted. With a puzzled look on his face he asked, "Wait a minute, didn't Joyce ever tell you the story?" I shook my head, 'No'. Surprised, he then proceeded to call over his wife, Terri, and his brother, Tom, to recount the details of their fateful trip into... the devil's fog.

Friday, May 16

"Tire needs air," pointed out gravel-voiced Tom Haskins to his younger brother while they waited in line to launch their father's nineteen foot Mako at one of the four Haulover Marina boat ramps.

"You're right," acknowledged John, "but I ain't getting out of line for that," as he surveyed the three trailers ahead of them and the five strung out behind in the parking lot. "I'll do it when we get back. I have an air compressor in the garage."

John, short and dumpy, stood cross-armed watching his wife return from the marina rental/bait shop. "Got the ticket," called Terri while waving the launch fee receipt.

"What took so long?" asked John.

"There was a long line... and hardly any one spoke English," she explained.

"Typical south Florida," muttered John. He took the ticket, "Damn, ten bucks to just drop a boat in the water. Did you try smiling sweetly and flashing some skin to get a discount?" he joked.

"Is that what you want?" she grinned. "Next time."

Tom, the tall, lanky, solemn one, ignored their good-natured bantering; their childhood of twenty years had inured him to his little brother's off-color humor. Tom walked to the rear of the boat to check the transom drain plug. On their last outing the device hadn't been seated properly; it dislodged and they took on a foot of water in less than a minute of leaving the boat basin. If they hadn't found the plug quickly they would have joined the other dozen craft submerged offshore the marina.

No problems this time and twenty minutes later John made a right turn around the last harbor channel marker. The boat's bow was pointed southeast toward open water on a beautiful, spring morning.

"Where you headed, Buddy?" queried Tom.

"Buoy forty-three. We'll anchor on the shallow side before the shelf drop-off. If we don't have any luck there, I'll take 'er straight out two hundred yards more so we can drift parallel and troll the deep-side of the shelf. We'll drift up the coast and be in line with Haulover when we're finished. Saves on gas." Big brother nodded in agreement.

Their destination, a deep-water marine navigational marker positioned two miles south of Miami, tethered in forty feet of sparkling, aquamarine Atlantic Ocean. A hundred yards away on the east side it dropped off to six hundred feet, where allegedly the big, game fish lurked. It was already nine a.m. They had left later than planned due to the unexpected crunch at the marina, but spirits were high and all were enjoying the venture under a pleasant, partly cloudy sky.

They arrived at the swaying orange and white buoy, seven miles from embarkation (with one quarter of a tank expended) and dropped anchor on the west side. Excitement was building; they were getting antsy to get their lines in the water.

"Tom, did you clear the backlash and rig my pole like I asked?" posed John as he tossed a floating wire chum basket over the stern. It made a light 'plop' three feet away. Satisfied with its downstream position, he dropped the tethered rope in a coil next to the gas can.

"Nope, you didn't ask."

"Bull! I did too," and the brothers began quibbling like two typical siblings.

"I'm ready with my hand-line," announced Terri. "Where's the bait?"

John ended his adolescent verbiage with, "God will get you for this," and redirected his attention to his wife. "Right here, Sugar." He opened a white plastic bait bucket and offered a small, split squid. "Yummy, yummy. Need me to bait the hook for you?"

Accepting the squishy sea creature, she retorted, "Nooo, I believe after changing a couple of thousand diapers, I'm more than qualified to handle this _manly_ detail." Then she deftly looped the size 4/0 hook through the blue-gray, black-dotted squid and formed an S as black slime oozed out. "Ugh. I like shrimp better," and wiped her fingers on a rag of an old dish towel.

'Zzzzz!' line spinning off a reel. John's head snapped in Tom's direction, "You turkey, you're in the water already?" His brother snickered as John struggled to untangle the knot in his reel from their previous trip.

A half-hour passed, only three small throw-back sea perch had been caught. John declared, "Time to mosey on down the trail, partner." After weighing anchor they proceeded seaward; a dozen other small craft dotted the horizon. "Must be where the big un's are hiding, it sure wasn't back there," he speculated. After two miles at a slow troll speed the wind had picked up and the seas were two to three feet with a light chop - not too much of a problem, yet.

Terri was chewing the fat with John at the wheel when she noticed a large bird skimming the water behind them. "Hey, guys, check it out!" Both turned at her hailing to observe a giant, wandering albatross with a eight-foot wingspan, soar upward and pass directly overhead. "Wow! Did you see the size of that puppy? What was it, Johnny? It had webbed feet and a beak similar to a hawk."

"I don't know, but it sure was a _big_ mother."

"Albatross," informed Tom. "Seen 'em when I was stationed in San Diego."

"Oh yeah, albatross," repeated his brother while winking at his wife. He gave a couple of cocky dips with his shoulders, "Thought those birds were found only in the south Pacific, Tom."

"Aren't they supposed to be bad luck?" questioned Terri.

"Only if you wear them around your neck," scoffed Tom. The trio watched the giant fly higher and further away, heading northeast, the same direction they were traveling.

"Where's it going?" continued the young woman.

"Must be lookin' for a freighter in the shipping lanes," assessed Tom.

"Shipping lanes?" repeated Terri. "That sounds like a dangerous place a small boat like ours. How far away are they? I don't see any ships. It's too hazy out there."

"About another five miles," informed her brother-in-law. "Say, how we doing on gas, Buddy?"

"Little over half left," replied John and killed the motor. Where they were positioned, eight miles offshore, the water was much too deep to anchor so they began drifting at about two mph as planned. Miami's skyline was still visible; they would have had to be more than ten miles off shore to lose sight of land.

The lines and the chum basket were quickly deployed into the briny again and in practically no time at all Tom and John reeled in two 'keepers'. They tossed them on the ice in the well. Terri remained happily expectant, although her hand-line only extended outward fifty feet - a fourth of the men's distance. At last, her faith was rewarded by a sharp, hard tug. The line drew taunt with no jerking. The fish had begun an immediate run. "Oh, my gosh!" she cried out. "This guy's heavy. I don't know if I can hold him!" The men shouted encouragement while clearing their lines out of the water.

"Atta, girl, don't take it in until he slacks off!" coached her husband. Alarmed, he realized Terri's hands were unprotected. "Hey, where's your gloves?" She leaned forward, straining to hold on the plastic reel with her two bare hands. "Whoa, baby, too late for gloves now! Keep your fingers clear..."

The monofilament abruptly went limp. "Oh, no," he lamented. "I think it broke," as she dejectedly rewound the loose line around the plastic ring.

"Tough..." started Tom. Suddenly, a three-foot long sailfish broke the surface. Terri's line was in its mouth with the hook secured inside. The dazzling game fish jumped up head-high just six feet from the boat. Seawater sprayed the startled onlookers as the fish seemingly hung in midair as if he were studying the craft's occupants. Then with its tail flipping violently back and forth, he arced downward and landed in the boat with a heavy, 'Thump!'

"Geez!" "Damn!" howled the men, their eyes bulging. "That damn fish curved in the air!" exclaimed John.

"The dorsal fin musta' got caught in the wind," countered Tom.

"Horse hocky," spat John. "It tried to get in the boat."

Nonplussed by their usual squabbling, Terri grinned from ear to ear. "Cool!"

After a few minutes of giddiness from the startled, but happy crew, the sailfish quieted. Tom whipped out his knife, "Gotta' toss him back before he dies. He's too small to keep. It's against the law, you know. Be just our luck we're nailed by the Marine Patrol on the way back in. This little sucka would cost us a five hundred dollar fine." Neither objected to the fish's release. Tom cut the line close to the mouth then seized him by the small joint at the tail and the base of the bill.

"Drat. I forgot my camera," moaned Terri.

"Watch that point, Bro," cautioned John. Tom grunted. Hefting the fish to his waist, he readied to throw it over the side when Terri exclaimed, "He has a red eye. Did he get hurt?"

"Huh?" Tom held the fish out for inspection. Turning it over both ways, they discovered he had two blood-red eyes. "Never seen a fish like this before. I thought only piranha had red eyes."

Terri and John were leaning close when the fish emitted a sharp, 'Hiss'! They jumped back. The sailfish repeated it two more times.

"What the hell...?" said Tom, then tossed the creature overboard. It splashed and quickly disappeared below.

"What in the world was that?" pondered Terri. "First a displaced albatross, now a red-eyed, hissing fish."

Tom speculated it had a pocket of air trapped in its gullet and John, as usual, tried to make light of the incident. "Must be because we're in the Bermuda Triangle. All the fish hiss in here."

"Come again?" responded Terri.

"Oh yeah, Baby. That's why they call it the Devil's Triangle," while speaking in a spooky voice and wiggling his fingers. "Ouuh, ouuh. Yep. We entered the western tip a coupla miles back yonder."

She turned to Tom, "Don't you fib to me. Is it true or are you and Johnny just trying to make another funny?"

"No, it's true," asserted the ex-Navy man.

"Swell, the Devil's Triangle. I don't want to be here," fretted Terri. "I've heard scary stories about this place. Don't people disappear in here? I think we should go back."

"Oh, Terri, don't be such a whinny butt!" chastised her husband. "All those stories are a bunch of caca... old wife's tales. We've been coming here for years and you didn't know that? Tell you what, when we catch a fish that's got horns and a pointed tail then we'll go back. Not before. Okay, Sweetie?" She conceded with a sour face.

Tom interrupted, "Hey! Something's banging the heck outta the chum basket!" Their attention turned to the wire container now floating thirty feet to starboard.

"How'd it get so far away?" questioned Terri.

"Somethin' musta pulled out all our slack," reasoned Tom. "Draw 'er in, Buddy."

John retrieved the nylon rope, looping the slack in a coil on the deck. At twenty feet from the boat, the basket rose out of the water - locked in the jaws of a fifteen foot long Hammerhead shark. "Yeow!" howled John and then threw down the rope. "You can have it!" The brownish-grey monster hovered on the surface. Its ominous, coal-black eyes transfixed the trio. 'Crunch!' The basket was crushed by layered rows of razor-sharp teeth. The severed rope dropped and floated to the side. The man-eater inched toward them, sinking slowly as it came until just his two-foot high dorsal fin remained exposed above the water, which had mysteriously turned from blue-green to black. 'Whump', the fin struck the bottom of the craft as it passed underneath.

"Holy crap! Let's get out of here!" shouted John. "That sonnavabitch must weigh a thousand pounds!"

"Closer to twelve hundred," estimated Tom.

"Great. If he rams us, we'll split open like a can of instant biscuits." cried out John.

"Aren't we unsinkable?" asked his shaken wife.

"Oh, yeah," retorted John. "Us and the Titanic." He jerked his hands back from the side-rail. Terri gave him a glare for his sarcasm. "Only the life jackets and seat cushions are unsinkable, Baby. And I sure as heck don't want my jewels dangling in the water with Jaws roaming about." He pressed the electric auto-start engine button. No response, not a sound. Deadsville. Again and harder he mashed it repeatedly while uttering an obscenity under his breath a little too loudly.

"Johnny, please. If you don't mind, your language..." chastised Terri.

His frustration flared, "Sorry, _dear_. Goddam motor! Is that better?" He smacked the casing with an open hand and stung his fingers. "I knew we should've had it overhauled last month."

"Crank it manually," suggested Tom.

"Good idea, Bro." He primed the seventy-five horsepower Johnson outboard motor and gave a mighty tug on the pull cord: once, twice - repeatedly, until his face turned red and his arm tired. Huffing, "Piece of junk." John used a towel to wipe the sweat from his brow as he stared toward the horizon. "Oh boy, now what?"

The situation had worsened, they were quickly losing visibility: there appeared to be an eerie, grey mist closing in from a quarter of a mile away. "Where'd everybody go?" observed Terri. They appeared to be all alone.

Tom silently speculated: "Had the other boaters seen bad weather approaching on radar and hightailed it for land while we were preoccupied with the sailfish and shark? I don't understand how so many boats could have left the area without my noticing at least one." An unidentified foreboding made his skin crawl. He whispered to himself, "Something feels awful wrong." He thought, "I'm no psychic but I'd swear there's something lurking close by that's more dangerous than this shark. Is that possible?" He forced the disturbing thoughts aside, "Nah... don't be ridiculous. Right or wrong, it's best to keep my mouth shut, for Terri's sake. No need to create a panic."

"Tom, you were a Swabbe. Where'd this fog come from?" asked John. "It's a little late in the day isn't it?"

"You're right about that." He studied the shrinking horizon, "Strange. It doesn't feel cool enough to produce the kind a fog I'm familiar with. Guess we'll find out soon enough when it gets here." Panning from side to side, "Now that's really odd. It's all around us in a big circle. Fog usually rolls in a front, a straight line. That's why they call it a bank."

"Odd?" charged John. "I think not. I've had my fill of weird and odd today, thank you very much."

Just then the shark rose out of the water again. One cold, black eye stared from the end of its bony, hammer-shaped head. He circled at twenty yards from their now-growing, tinier craft. Tom directed, "Everybody sit down on the bottom of the boat."

John nudged Terri and whispered, "What if I tell 'Jaws' we're not Cuban refugees. Think he'll leave us alone? He's probably used to Spanish food."

"Shut up, Johnny," she snapped. "You're not being funny. Hundreds of Cubans have died out here."

"Quiet, you two and _sit_ down. It'll be harder for him to see us. Maybe, he's just curious and will leave if he doesn't see movement."

"Okay, Tom," agreed John. "It's worth a try," and plopped his butt down... into water. "What the?" An inch of water swished around his soggy jeans.

Tom immediately reacted and started checking for a crack in the hull where the shark had passed underneath. He rubbed his fingertips back and forth on the side walls and flooring. "Feels solid."

John blurted, "The drain plug!"

Tom, being quick to act, grabbed it. "It's in... but wait. I feel water coming in! It's either loose or cracked!" He fought to get a good grip on it and wiggled it slightly. I..., I think it's just loose," and rammed it in tighter. He then dragged the portable gas can over and placed it on top of the plug. "That should hold it in place."

"Good job, Bro! Damn shark probably tried to push it in." No one felt like disagreeing with his opinion.

That scary scene taken care of, they returned to encounter another. In less than three minutes the boat had been completely encircled by a wall of thick, warm fog only ten yards away from them. The ocean had become dead calm. No visible current or swells; the surface was smooth as wet glass.

"I have to go pee-pee," complained Terri.

"Me too," retorted John. "But I ain't about to hang my weenie over the side with that guy out there. Hey, at least you're _sitting_ in water. Feel free."

"I said _can_ the chatter!" ordered Tom.

Peeking over the side, "I can't see him anymore. Maybe he swam away," entreated his brother.

"Don't worry, he's still there and he can see and hear your big mouth just fine," assured Tom. "Trust me."

"I want to go home now," lamented Terri. "Which way _is_ home?"

While keeping his head low, so as not to draw attention, Tom extracted a compass from his tackle box and flipped open the cover. The magnetic needle spun erratically. He tapped it \- no change. "Atmospheric interference. This is a good compass... fog shouldn't cause this." Peering hard into the overhead mist cover, "I can't see the sun to get a bearing, it's too thick." Lifting his damp tee-shirt off his neck, "Strange, fog should be cool and clammy not warm like this stuff."

"What time is it, Johnny?" asked Terri.

"Ten thirty," he advised. "No wait, my watch has stopped. The battery must be..." Terri's nerves were beginning to fray; she uncharacteristically cut him off, "No, John! It's digital. If the battery dies the screen will go blank. It can't stop working and still show time. Tom?" His timepiece was frozen also.

"I'm scared, what can we..." she started.

"Shush," Tom held a finger to his lips. "Hear that?" All craned their necks to listen. The noise, an irregular fluttering sound, grew louder.

"Birds," said Terri. "There's a flock of birds overhead."

"Must be seagulls," deduced John. Unexpectedly, a small, blackish-brown bird dropped down from the swirling mist and landed on the port railing.

"That's not a gull," asserted Terri. "That's a sparrow. We have those in our backyard."

"A sparrow ten miles off shore? How can that be," puzzled John. "Hey, mister ex-Navy man, what's the deal? How'd this little guy get all the way out here?"

"Beats me," returned Tom.

Terri took a small bit of bait and offered it, "Here, birdie." It inspected her and the soft morsel. "Oh, look, it has a broken toe." The left claw was bent, red and swollen. "Poor birdie," she held her hand closer so it didn't have to come to her. The sparrow's pointed beak darted forward, pricking Terri's finger. "Ow!"

"Sonnavabitch!" barked John. Waving his arms, "Ungrateful bastard, get outta here!" The bird was not alarmed in the least. He calmly picked up the bait and flew back into the overhead fog. "Good riddance. Let me see your finger, Sugar." A single drop of his wife's blood dripped onto a middle horizontal seat before John could apply a dab of antiseptic ointment and a band-aid from the first aid kit. A perplexed look crossed his face, "Tom, do you remember the Stephen King movie, 'The Dark Half'? Wasn't it sparrows that pecked the bad guy to pieces and carried his bones off to Hell?"

"I think so, can't swear to it though."

"I wonder where King got the idea."

"Probably a fishing trip," deadpanned Tom. Movement in the water caught his eye. Several massive, foreboding, shadowy images faded in and out, coming from the edge of the mist to the cleared circle around the boat. _Two_ sharks now? More? "Look, over there!" A dorsal fin broke the surface, then another and another. They were everywhere! He swallowed hard; his throat had gone dry. Sweat trickled by his ear as he imagined the man-eaters were massing for an attack!

Suddenly, another sparrow landed on the exact same spot of the railing then hopped down onto the horizontal seat. John grabbed an oar, "I've had enough of this bird stuff!"

Terri stayed his motion, "Wait, it's the same bird. See its foot?" Again, she offered a bit of bait.

John was astounded, "Are you out of your mind, woman? How many fingers do you want pecked?"

The sparrow ignored the food. Instead it studied the three wary humans one at a time, as if trying to make some bizarre, unfathomable decision. Flapping his wings, he hissed at each person and dipped his beak into the drop of blood. Next, it tilted his head back, closed its eyes and touched his tongue to the sticky, red liquid. It appeared to be savoring the flavor. Then, as a final insult to his captive audience, it pooped on the seat and flew back into the impenetrable mist.

Cold chills ran up their spines. Terri rested her head on her pulled up knees, "Oh, God. Fish and birds that hiss like snakes. I think we're in the Twilight Zone."

"Worse! As I said before, it's the Devil's Triangle. It's the ocean's gateway to Hell," spouted her husband as he peeled the sweat-soaked shirt from his chest.

They waited in muted, fearful silence. Each one imagining the probable upcoming onslaught. After long, long minutes or had it been an hour, they felt the boat rolling in gentle swells. Then the fog evaporated: vanishing like a fast-forward on a video. The apprehensive boaters cautiously scanned the immediate area. They searched the mystically returned-to-blue ocean and discovered the hammerheads and birds had departed. "Hey, my watch is running!" declared John.

"Mine too," echoed Tom. "Hey, give the starter a shot, Buddy!" The motor roared to life on the first push of the ignition button.

"I can't see land," fretted Terri.

Tom checked his compass - it appeared to be working fine. "It's thatta way," pointing westward. "John, get it going... and haul ass!"

Much, much later, at John and Terri's Miami Lakes townhouse:

John had his nose buried in the Sunday sports while Terri was focused on a report in the Local section. She read aloud, "Canadian tourists feared lost at sea." Then in a hushed voice, "Oh, my gosh, Johnny. Listen to this."

"Yes, dear," he replied routinely.

"Two groups of four Canadians took a fishing trip Friday morning and one boat didn't return. They first anchored at buoy forty-three. Remember our trip to that marker?"

His eyebrows shot up. "Remember? I'll never forget it. That was my last time fishing in the ocean. Tom's also."

She resumed, "From there, they split up. The first group stayed at the buoy because one of the passengers felt a little seasick and didn't want to be stuck out too far if she worsened. Both parties agreed to meet back at the motel and all go to dinner at six p.m. The second group consisted of two men and women and each couple had a cell phone. They continued out to sea looking for a better fishing spot. They were in a twenty-one foot rental, an inboard Invincible, fueled by a fifty gallon tank and had a built-in Starmaster compass.

"An Invincible?" he repeated. "Those boats are high-tech. Light-weight with air compartments in the sides and flooring. They are _truely_ supposed to be unsinkable."

Skipping a few background lines, she continued, "The first group said the weather was good except they thought it appeared hazy on the horizon and after thirty minutes of watching their friends in the distance they lost sight of them. The first boat remained at the buoy another two hours then came back in. The second party hadn't returned to the marina yet so they went back to their motel rooms. That evening, when they were ready to go to dinner, they found the other people didn't respond to knocks on their doors. And then, they noticed the car they had left in that morning still wasn't in the parking lot. They returned to the marina and also discovered the second party's boat had not been checked back in. The rental agency placed calls to the Marine Patrol and the U.S. Coast Guard. So far, there's been no word of their whereabouts or a trace to be found. It's been over three days now. Johnny, do you think...?" She sprung from the sofa; an idea had popped in her head. "I have to check something. Be right back," and raced to the den.

John was reading the article for himself when she returned with a calculator in hand. "Terri, do you remember when we came ashore and realized we were sixty miles north of Haulover? No way we could have drifted or driven so far off course with half a tank of gas. Something must have moved us while we were in the fog. Perhaps the Canadians were moved and landed further..."

Terri butted in, "No, I can't buy that. I'm sure they would have used their cellulars or flagged down a car to get to a public telephone, like we did. It's been _three_ days"

He frowned, "Yeah that makes sense... three days."

"Uh, oh," she whispered while reading the digital display. His eyes were riveted on her, wary to ask. "You're not going to believe this. We went on Thursday, May sixteenth, almost two years ago. This past Friday was March fifteenth."

"Ides of March," he remarked. "Spooky-bad, yeah. And, it was a _real_ bad day for Julius Caesar, as I recall."

An unsettling shrillness permeated her voice, " _Worse_ than spooky and Roman history bad, Johnny. It's more like _scary_ as in Jack the Ripper. It's exactly six hundred and sixty-six days between our trip and theirs. Think of it! The same buoy, the mist, the Devil's Triangle. Six, six, six! Get it?"

He grabbed the calculator and punched the numbers for himself. He exclaimed, "Oh, my god... you're right! Six, six, six: the mark of the Devil. No wonder all those creatures acted so strange. Could they have been possessed? Satan's monsters from the deep!"

At that point I had to break into their far-fetched yarn. Sporting a crooked grin, I said, "C'mon, people. You really don't expect anyone to believe this baloney do you? Monsters, ha. Sorry, folks, the six, six, six, pushed it over the edge. I have to admit though; you had me going pretty good."

However, they all remained adamant and swore it was one hundred percent true. Terri even added she had saved the dated newspaper clipping to prove it. I felt still somewhat skeptical until Josie, the brothers' mother, who had been standing nearby and listening, joined us. She attested she was the one who went and picked them up where they had come ashore - sixty miles off course and got to hear their complete story firsthand on the way back. And, Aunt Josie would never lie about anything.

"Wow." I finally conceded the truth of their frightening exploit and momentarily slipped away into a macabre daydream as they kept recapping certain parts of their story to themselves. I envisioned a most gruesome scene - but instead of the Canadians being the victims, it was my cousins. Brown dorsal fins sliced through the smooth surface; vicious, giant sharks rammed the hull again and again - shattering the fiberglass. Dull, dead-black eyes leered from the ends of ugly, bony hammerheads. Swarms of blood-thirsty sparrows dove from the swirling mist - ripping away chunks of exposed flesh as the doomed boat slowly sank into a murky, agitated sea. Spurting, bloody stumps flailed in the air while red-eyed sailfish leaped in glee - relishing the helpless, human carnage. Snapping, vise-like jaws filled with daggers crushed their chests - stilling their anguished screams. Stark, abject terror consumed each lost soul in their final moment as they were being pulled down into a watery grave. Their last conscious thought, "I'm being eaten alive!"

I shuddered, breaking the ghastly spell. I said to all, "That's the most incredible story I've ever heard. I'm sure glad I wasn't there." To Terri, I said, "It seems quite apparent to me it was a damn good thing you showed kindness to that sparrow a second time... and didn't let _John_ screw it up. I think you've got your hubby by the short hairs for the rest of his life." And to the brothers, "Nice to see you're still alive, boys." Then, I thought about my future fishing for a moment. "Say, guys, if you don't mind. Do you think you have room for one more in your everglades boat? I've just decided to give up ocean fishing too."

Based on a true story

# Code name: Pandora

May, 2136

"Link and telemetry tests, A-okay. We're ready to transfer comm-net control to you Houston. Do you read?" queried the Starfinder technician located within the American/British moon base, Beta Two.

"I read you moon base. Sync and net are ready to slide. On three, two, one, lock-in. Beginning download data check... check complete. Looks good. The Big Eye is ours. Thanks a lot. Give my love to the prairie dogs. See you in two-four."

"Roger that Houston. Make sure it's a clean machine when she comes back. I don't want to have to fly up there and pull another brick (flying space debris) out of a panel. That's what the deflector shields are for. Hint, hint"

"Will try, buddy. But in my heart, I know how much you Moonies love walking on the Eye in your mag boots checking for cracks and impact damage in those puffy compression suits. You look so cute. Say guys, while you're scooting around out there next time how'd you like to re-ionized the silicon injectors a little bit ahead of schedule?"

"Sorry, I can't hear you, Houston," he answered. "You're breaking up. There must be a meteor storm." Buzz, burr, blip! he faked with his transmitter. "Catch you on the rebound amigos, ten-four."

The gigantic Starfinder satellite telescope took eighteen years to assemble and was placed into its orbit around the moon in the year 2133. The nuclear-solar powered 'Eye' with its one quarter mile circumference, multi-plated dish could see ten thousand times further than its archaic predecessor, the 2050's super-modified Hubble Four. It gave Earth a real chance at discovering planets capable of supporting humans or evidence of other life before the completion of its sister program Starseeker, an interstellar, hydra-magnetic space ship to be operational by 2150. The Eye's main objective was to gather pic-data and relay it to analysts who would find a viable target and chart an optimal path to get there. Its primary control was managed equally by the three moon bases: Alpha One/Russian, Beta Two/American and British, and Delta Four/Chinese, who all worked together on a timeshare format for usage and maintenance. In addition to their preprogramed searches, Starfinder underwent a full diagnostic systems evaluation once a month which took twenty-four hours to complete and was conducted by N.A.S.A. in the Houston Command Center. It was Doctor Louis Atwater's task, working under a government grant, to test the telemetry's purity for depth and clarity. He had been allotted two hours and could train the Big Eye where ever he desired.

Three years later

"Okay Doc, she is all yours," stated the Op Coordinator. "Back to you at sixteen hundred hours."

"Thank you, Op. I am locked and loaded," returned the forty-five year old astronomer/astrophysicist. Louis removed his eyeglasses and massaged his aching forehead. He had been dreading this day, this very hour for a month. It wouldn't take long to test the telescope's visual and recording accuracies as he had done so many times before. After the tests were complete it became 'his time' to run the spectrum of his own personal sectional scans for one last damning sequence. He'd make another copy of the results and sneak it back to his office at M.I.T. for further in-depth analysis and review. He then planned to submit his findings and rationale to his three closest friends - former colleagues and also his brother. "The results are clear to me, but I want collaboration. The burden of proof is not going to rest on my shoulders alone in revealing Pandora," that was the code name he gave for his discovery. Inwardly, he ardently wished his calculations to be proven wrong and subsequently he had made an erroneous assumption. "At worse, if my discovery is deemed to be True, perhaps she won't be found again for another hundred years, maybe more... let's hope so." In retrospect he reflected, " _Our_ N.A.S.A astronomers and programmers have always focused on a single predetermined target, not as I have done. But then again, Starfinder is a world-shared instrument and everyone with access has their own agenda. Even though I believe I discovered her first and the data appears concrete to me, I still personally need additional trusted opinions made in the strictest of confidence." He completed his routine, gathered his findings, scrambled his files and left the facility - never expecting to return.

Four months later

At the National Security Agency's headquarters in Washington, D.C. in attendance were the directors of the C.I.A, F.B.I, N.A.S.A, D.H.S, N.S.A. and the U.S. Marshall's Office. "Gentlemen, just a couple of more items in conclusion of this initial briefing," pronounced the N.S.A. chairperson. "You have your dossiers and assignments. I expect twice daily reports to this office and if there are any breaking developments they shall be immediately relayed to _all_ agencies. I reiterate: Several scientists and astronomers have been reported missing or found dead in other high-tech communities. Their common link is they were all involved in their country's participation in the timeshare program: Starfinder. We here in the U.S. will make every effort to assist our international friends and colleagues in all ways possible but remember our number One priority is maintaining the security and safety of our own citizens and in doing so we are immediately implementing the American, Counter-Operation: Pandora. Gentlemen, it is _imperative_ we locate Doctor Louis Atwater and his former associate, a Swedish national, Fredrik Johannsen, who entered the U.S. two months ago. Mister Johannsen at this point is more than just a person of interest. It may be possible they are coconspirators in a plot to sabotage or seize control of the international Starfinder program. We cannot let that happen. The discovery and subsequent colonization of another earth-class planet is the future of mankind." He panned his rapport audience. "As they say back in my home state of Georgia, Let's git 'er done," and the respective Department heads and their underlings then broke into subgroups to discuss strategy and interagency lines of communication.

"Excuse me sir, I'm a bit confused. Why am I here?" questioned Jack Crenshaw to his Chief of the U.S. Marshall's Office. They were the sole representatives of their branch of law enforcement whereas the other agencies had a dozen or more huddled, chattering away in not too organized confusion.

"Because the White House told me to be here and I chose _you_ to join me," rebuked the Marshall, Frank Weaver.

Jack grunted, "Sorry, I feel out of place. I believe this Starfinder briefing is way above my security clearance and pay grade. It appears to be a National Security issue. I usually chase and apprehend good old, ordinary low-class, bad guys."

"Used to, Crenshaw but you're in this game now. I've been advised you're our best tracker and I wanted you to see first-hand why you've been assigned to represent our agency in one of the largest manhunts in U.S. history."

It still didn't make sense to Jack. "May I speak freely, sir?"

"Of course, my boy. I'm sure the number one thing you have learned during your fifteen years of service to the Office is that we're a family first."

"Thank you, sir. I assume I'll be acting primarily as a bodyguard to you and it's certainly a privilege to be considered and chosen. And, especially to be privy to hear all this super-secret national security stuff but I woulda thought you'd have a bunch of assistant Chiefs here for something of this magnitude and I'd be standing by on the sidelines."

"Are you questioning my judgment, Mister?" Jack gulped and shook his head, 'no'. The Chief eyed his deputy/first-class, subordinate. "They said you were open-minded and not afraid to speak your mind. I assume it's related to your cowboy-type mentality and abilities. Even so, I'm pleased you didn't miss the obvious." Weaver glanced around, "Yes, there will be many of _them_ , most likely over four hundred men and women per agency assigned to this search. The Government is pouring billions of credits into this manhunt." Sweeping his arm about, "All these folks have been given Carte Blanche; they get whatever funding they need. And _our_ branch got nothing. So in return, all I'm giving them is token representation which is in essence all they asked of me. Tit for tat. Besides like you said, we track and apprehend real criminals, not science geeks. These men they're pursuing are geniuses in their fields but they could also be deep-cover enemy agents who could become disguised as the Pope himself if they wanted to. They're that smart. It's best the C.I.A. and N.S.A. do the heavy lifting on this one." He shrugged his shoulders, "Hell, I have no idea of the inner workings of some of these agencies. Maybe that's why they didn't give me any financial backing." He waved at the Director of Homeland Security and gave the official plastic smile. "Son, you're looking at politics at its finest... or worse. It reminds me of that farce of the late, now defunct Olympic Games. The renowned event after a coupla' thousand years finally evolved into being no more than a contest to increase the number of participating nations of the previous host's games for advertising and propaganda. Everyone knows the annual 'Worlds' has always been the important stuff." He patted Crenshaw on the back, "So, I guess as far as you're concerned, it's better to find out the score now rather than later. It's just you my boy, make us proud. However, on the brighter side there are three things you'll receive on this assignment which aren't too bad. I, myself only get two... morning coffee and the newspaper before some big shot in the government drops a ton of grief on me every dang day. Let's put that aside and think happy thoughts. Number one: you'll get your own office here in D.C. and daily updates from all the other agencies. You'll be in the infamous 'loop' like me! Just to be clear, son, don't waste my time by sending me a barrage of useless daily status reports to justify your existence. You can send all the garbage to you desire to the other folks. I expect only _relevant_ information such as you saying you have one of these super-important science dudes in cuffs or tied-up in the trunk of your car. Get my drift? Number two: you can go wherever you please without accounting to anyone. Ain't that peachy? Just remember to submit vouchers for any charges your partner won't cover. Oh yeah, I almost forgot; I said a partner, that's a third item. Lucky you, an F.B.I. _special_ agent will be assigned to your operation... in assistance. Probably some grunt who's real function is to spy on you and pass whatever findings you may develop to the Bureau so they can act on it and take credit." At that point Weaver saw a young man wearing a new J.C. Penny business suit approaching them. "And speaking of the devil, I believe he's here now. Are you the agent assigned to assist my deputy, Jack Crenshaw?"

"Yes, I am. Thank you, sir," offering his hand and making a slight bow to Weaver. Jack raised an eyebrow. "I'm Bruce Whitaker. It's an honor to meet you and assist you anyway I can," and half bowed again.

"Oh, God," thought Jack. "The boss was right. They really did send an expendable, bottom of the barrel grunt. Has this baby-faced kid even graduated from high school? I hope he's not carrying a real gun. That aside, the only Bruce's I've ever known were momma's boys..."

His thoughts were interrupted by the young man turning to address him. "And you are the famous deputy, Jack Crenshaw." Jack took his outstretched hand which Bruce pumped to awkwardness. "I recognized you by your picture, sir. It is such a privilege to be working with a person such as yourself... a living legend."

"A legend?" Jack repeated and thought, "I'm not that old am I?"

"Yes, sir that may be pushing it a bit but I personally do not believe so," Bruce continued. "Over two hundred apprehensions; everyone in the Bureau knows of and respects you."

"Duh, okay," returned Jack as he checked out Bruce's clothing and youthful features.

"Ahh, I see," offered Whitaker reading his mind, "I _am_ old enough to be an agent. I'm twenty-four and a college grad. I also live with my mother in her Arlington townhouse. She's elderly, ill and requires some assistance... which I am happy to render until my special lady comes along and then we will make decisions and deal with the situation together." He beamed, "And, have children. I love children."

"Oh, of course," responded Jack. "I've was just thinking of how bright the new, young Bureau agents are," and wondered if we all were going to have a group hug next.

"I see how well you two are getting along," piped Weaver. "I'll leave you both to sort out the details. Good hunting" and left to mingle with the other agency top hats.

Jack said, "I think I've been assigned an office somewhere. Let me have your cell phone number and I'll let you know its location after I find out so we can get started."

The next morning Jack found Whitaker already in their new office modifying computer programs to enhance screening and search. "What's up," asked Crenshaw. "How'd you get here so fast? I just learned where this place was an hour ago."

"You know the Bureau and its resources," answered Bruce. "They have to know everyone's business."

Jack gave the layout the once-over; everything appeared to be running like a well-oiled machine. To his surprise there was a young lady seated at a video screen and sorting printouts.

"Her name is Kitty. I borrowed her from our Data Input Division to help us keep the flow under control. I hope it's alright with you, sir."

"Fine and dandy," Jack replied as he went over to introduce himself.

"It's an honor to be here, sir," she said and offered him a cup of fresh-made coffee.

Jack wondered, "There's that, Honor again. Do I have a freaking sign on my forehead saying, Bow and address me as Mister Honor? Perhaps I should ask for a raise if I'm so important."

"I took the liberty again and added a separate terminal and printer for each major agency and one shared unit for the other smaller reporting organizations so we wouldn't develop a gridlock in incoming data," explained Bruce. "As you can see the receivers are humming away with information from a hundred senders from all over the country. Most of the info is irrelevant. Kitty will download and catalog it into storage files. No data is dismissed or erased. Hard copies are only printed when necessary... she's a lifesaver."

"My, my," admired Jack. "I can see that already," as he sipped his coffee. "So much for that heralded, paper-less environment," which had been attempted numerous times and always reverted back to using an original hard copy system on applications requiring signed documents. "And, how did you accomplish all of this in only an hour?"

"Oh, we and Tech Support have been here since three a.m. sir. They're very fast and efficient... after all, you are a top priority."

"How about them potatoes?" remarked the deputy. "Most of the time it takes me a month just to get a new mechanical pencil. I _know_ I'm going to ask for a raise now."

"Do you have a plan, sir?" questioned the two years of service F.B.I. agent.

"I do, partner, that I do."

Bruce's face lit up. "First off, to the both of you, stop calling me sir. Jack, will do just fine." He found a chair and stretched out his six foot-two inch frame. "The plan I use is always the same. K.i.s.s. Keep it simple, stupid. Sort through all the crap, figure out the missing key which for some reason no one else sees then hunt em' down using your gut instincts." Both Bruce and Kitty grinned from ear to ear. "But I caution you, part A takes a while. You have to stay the course and pay your due diligence."

"No problem there, sir... er, Jack. Sometimes the Bureau takes a year to solve a case. Some, they never do."

"I don't believe we have the luxury of running in circles for a year. I believe a lotta folks are in a big hurry." Jack slapped his thigh, rose and declared, "Reckon we should get to it. Now show me what all these high tech gadgets can do for us."

Several weeks later.

"It seems to me our fellow constituents are having a contest to see who can generate the greatest amount of useless information. And as expected, it appears your cronies at the F.B.I. are winning the game so far." In contrast, their Office's contribution remained a consistent bland offering - thrice a day: Nothing to report.

"I'm not surprised by this bombardment of irreverent information from my employer," noted Whitaker. "Our field personnel spend more hours being trained in departmental documentation and format procedures than anything else, even firearms and law."

"Humph, I believe it. Appears to me your team needs _special_ , special agents to do the real work."

"I'll make that suggestion when I return," agreed Bruce.

Kitty brought Jack a new printout containing info from a C.I.A. informant in Mexico. "Well looky here boys and girls. Maybe we're not chasing ghosts after all. There's even a picture attached. That must have cost the U.S. of A. a pretty penny. Of course, it's most likely a fake... some hombre trying to rip Uncle Sam off for a few pesos. Flash it on the wall and let's check it out."

"I'm confident the lab at Quantico has verified its authenticity," asserted Bruce. Jack shrugged a conceded, Maybe.

"That guy sure resembles our fugitive, Louis Atwater," stated Crenshaw. "And, I'm pretty confident he has long departed that locale shortly after this pic was taken or else one of our diligent, fellow agencies would have captured him and be howling at the moon as they beat their chests." The photo displayed Atwater and an unidentified man exiting a cantina yesterday in some mud-hole called, Ciudad Acuna which is due west of San Antonio. "Note the get-up he's wearing."

"I'm not familiar with that apparel," admitted his young partner. "Is it a costume or a cowboy suit? Perhaps he's wearing clothing from a play or the circus?"

"No. Most people wouldn't be familiar with it either. I'm a bit of a history buff and recognize a couple of items here." The deputy pointed at his footwear, "See these heavy-duty boots and his pants tucked inside them. Ah, and yes, it appears those trousers are all-weather-terrain." Next, he tapped the man's jacket. "A long-sleeved, leather jacket in Mexico? What does this tell you?" Bruce gestured, 'I don't know.' "Our boy here is a biker or at least trying to look like a bike rider."

"A biker?" repeated Whitaker. "I've heard of them but never seen one."

"That's because you won't find them riding in the cities. It was out-lawed a hundred years ago. The Bandits, they call themselves, commute primarily on the back roads and hunker-down in the desert or woods when they're not drinking or stealing. That's why he can't be found. Your guys in the Bureau and everyone else are looking for someone riding public transportation."

"How would a modern scientist know how to change his appearance in that manner?" pondered Bruce.

"Don't forget this fellow is super smart and can without a doubt make himself into whoever he wants. He knows Big Brother is after him and I doubt if he's alone, especially now," as he tapped the second man in the picture who wore a suit. "See the docucase this guy's carrying... and the expression on his face? He looks as if someone killed and ate his pet dog. They clearly know each other, probably long-time friends or relatives. Let's learn who his buddy is and reassess our line of thought. We'll start with every relative Louis has then his colleagues and friends. After that everyone he went to college and high school with. Essentially, I want to know everyone _he's_ ever known and where they are now. Then if that doesn't work, we'll move on to people _outside_ the box. "

"Yes, sir!" blurted his delighted sidekick. Jack frowned.

Two days later

"And what have we come up with?"

"It was actually pretty easy, sir. The second man in the photo is his first cousin, Gary Gunderson who is a quantum physics professor at Harvard. He also holds a doctorate in bio molecular chemistry. In fact, he's the Head of both the Math and Science departments. Gunderson unexpectedly left five weeks ago and hasn't returned nor made contact."

"Same m.o. as our primary fugitive, Atwater," asserted Jack.

"And there's another important development," announced Whitaker. "View again the Mexican photo. The F.B.I. lab has determined there is a shadow on the wall behind them and due to the time of day and angle it means there was a third man present. The C.I.A. questioned the informant again and he confessed there _could_ have been a third man, but it would require a small additional payment, of which the Agency gladly paid."

"Bruce, I want you to relay our ID of Gunderson to our other agencies. Do not pass on my suspicion they both or perhaps all three may be traveling as bikers. You haven't done so already have you? I mean you're not a spy siphoning off our findings without my knowledge are you?"

"No, sir!" Bruce snapped straight up. "I am loyal to my team and would never disclose information without your authorization."

"Appreciate it, kid. I never had any real doubt but had to say it. Your response has been duly noted. Still friends?" Bruce nodded vigorously, 'yes'. "I have a feeling the next part of the puzzle is going to be a lot tougher and this is what I have been talking about our staying the course. I know you've been itching to get out and perform some hands-on field work. I understand completely." He held up a fist-full of documents, " _This_ is the investigation for now, no glory. When we go out that door it'll be to put the cuffs on or to gather intell which can only be obtained up close and personal. Trust me, it's coming." He paused then declared, "We must find out who Mister Shadow is... or rather, you do. I'm going to concentrate on where he or they are going and perhaps that'll give us an indication of the 'Why'. We all know he stole vital information from N.A.S.A. and their butt is in a snit. But why? What is it? First, you need to find out who the Timeshare users are of Starfinder. You may have to interview all the personnel at all three moon bases. Don't worry; you _shouldn't_ have to go there. The point I'm trying to make is we may have to reach beyond our own backyard."

Four days later

"Agent Bruce, come take a look at this release just off a local news wire in Denver. It states a biker was killed by the local police while responding to a 'man with a gun' call in some back-water town named Durango. That in itself is not so strange except for his name: Fredrik Johannsen. Why does that name ring a bell? Is he one of the possible coconspirators?"

The young man became excited, "Yes, he is. His name is on the ever expanding list of 'people of interest' connected to Atwater and his name was first mentioned at our initial N.S.A. briefing. As I can recall from my research, they graduated together at M.I.T." Bruce went to his desk. "Here it is. I was correct. They were roommates for two years. He is... er was an astrophysicist working in Sweden, his native country."

"Sonny, I think we've found Mister Shadow. Kitty, please book us a flight to Denver with connections to Durango. Bruce, it looks like you're finally going to get some field work. You need to be ready to go in thirty minutes."

"Thank you, sir. But please let me arrange the air travel. You won't be disappointed and my bag is always packed and ready."

"Okay, if it suits you," acknowledged Crenshaw. "Kitty, don't release any info yet. I'll call you from the scene." To Bruce, "Glad to see you're on your toes but making the travel arrangements? What's up with that?"

Later, Agent Whitaker in his new Lincoln Electra Glide, pulled up next to Crenshaw's thirteen year old Toyota. He popped the trunk, "Toss in your gear, sir. I hope you don't mind if I drive." The vehicle's safety restraints automatically secured the new passenger as Jack nestled into the plush seat. "I know the fastest way to the airfield."

"Oky-doky, kiddo. You people in the Bureau must make a hecka lot more money than I figured," referring to the car.

"Money? Oh, no. It was a twenty-first birthday gift from my grandfather." Jack crinkled his nose. Bruce smiled and wondered, "How does he remember all of these old-time expressions? Some sound like they're from two hundred years ago."

Whitaker drove up and parked next to an ex-military, grey and silver supersonic Machbuster jet. It resembled a big triangle. Surprised, Jack said, "What _is_ this thing? An Air Force interceptor?"

"Almost," answered Bruce. "It used operate as a recon bomber which now has been modified for the Bureau's top priority missions. It's a hover-craft when its wings are extended as they are now. It lifts off, retracts its wings and blasts off, accelerating to mach two. When it reaches its destination it drops down right on the target."

"Cool. I usually fly Commercial, Coach and sometimes Standby. Of course, you know once this puppy takes off the cat will be out of the bag and everyone will know where we're headed."

Bruce grinned again and returned, "Don't worry; we'll be on the scene before they can assess and respond." He then wondered, "Cool, puppy and cat-bag"?

"Are you the guys who made us maintain this crime scene for six hours?" blustered the irate Colorado state trooper. He pointed at the bullet ridden body of Fredrik Johannsen. "You're from the U.S. Marshall's Office?" He gave Jack the up and down. "Did you come all the way here just to take custody of a corpse? I'm supposed to see my son's ball game tonight; I don't have time to play nursemaid to some Washington butt kissers. Thanks a lot, Deputy," and spat on the ground.

"Sorry about that... I truly am," returned Jack. "We came as fast as we could," and gestured toward the supersonic jet. "You're not exactly on the beaten path you know."

"So what?" challenged the C.S.P. officer. "You couldn't have sent one of your local boys?"

"Not really," rebuffed Crenshaw. "Are you familiar with the a.p.b. on Louis Atwater? He may now be the most hunted man in U.S. history and we believe this man," pointing at the prone body, "was traveling with him."

"Well, I'll be dipped," spouted the trooper. "Boys, I think we're going to get some over-time pay out of this and our faces in tomorrow's newspaper." His comrades hooted their approval. "Take all the time you want, Mister Marshall. However we may be of assistance, please feel free to ask" and patted his wallet.

"Thank you gentlemen; it shouldn't take long," said Jack. "We'd like to examine his body, get the details of the shoot-out and ask a few questions to the patrons of the bar... roadhouse."

"No problem with the first two parts Deputy but number three..." advised the lead trooper. "Those Bandits have been in lock-down for quite a while and drinking heavy all along. They're either going to clam up or cut your throat. It's a coin toss in my book. And sorry, but we have no intentions of going in there with you... they're too f'ing dangerous."

"Thanks for the warning," acknowledged Jack. "We'll start with the body."

Fredrik Johannsen's body revealed a slender man in his late forties, Scandinavian blond hair and blue eyes. His biker outfit looked new and ill fitted. He had seven or eight bullet wounds. Rural law enforcement didn't utilize electronic, disabling weapons because the distance to the target was usually too great and the offenders were extremely violent, hostile criminals or just down right crazy. The first two responders thought he was the latter but learned later he had also been threatening, waving two handguns inside and making speeches. Upon arrival, they immediately encountered Fredrik's screaming and ranting burst from the bar. He did not appear intoxicated. He ran around in circles cursing and shouting, "There is no God!" then fired several shots at an imaginary figure in the sky.

The officers yelled back, "Drop your weapons! You won't be harmed!"

Johannsen ranted on, "It's the end of the world!" then laughed hysterically. "We can only hope so. And the sooner the better!" He then stopped and squinted at the local police as several real bikers watched through the windows. "Don't you understand you fools? We're just toys... toys in a mad and crazy universe." He stared at the gun in each hand then rushed the two lawmen while firing over their heads. They mowed him down then quickly ran to him and checked for vital signs. He whispered, "You'll see," then passed away. The two first responders had already called for back-up which arrived five minutes later. During the ensuing wait they observed two men on cycles speed away from the rear of the establishment. The two officers then split up and positioned themselves with one in front and one at the rear of the building for containment. Several more troopers arrived.

"I reckon we go in next," reasoned Jack. Bruce didn't appear eager but didn't object.

It was dark inside; many of the patrons were either passed out, asleep on the floor or lying across the tables. Jack counted five men still standing and drinking at the bar. They were large, smelled bad, ugly and glared back with hostile intentions. No wait; there was another, a sixth man alone at the far end of the bar who appeared to be trying to avoid the law's inquiring reconnaissance. "That's the guy we want to talk to," and they began making their way in his direction while steering wide of the others. The Bandit turned and faced them when he sensed their approach.

"Easy now, Big Guy. We're not here to cause trouble," softly offered Crenshaw. "I know your buddies are watching to see if you talk to the Law... We don't know who you are and don't intend to find out but I'd give odds you're wanted for something, somewhere. Our business is with the fellow lying outside with his face in the dirt. Okay?" Jack whispered, "All I want to know is how many others were with him." He felt sure the other bikers couldn't hear him, "Just gimme a number and we'll be on our way."

The Bandit's eyes darted back and forth between the duo in front of him and the men at the bar. He spoke in a loud voice, "I ain't telling you cock-suckers nothin'!" then turned away and placed his right hand on the bar-top with two fingers extended.

Recognizing the ploy, Jack barked, "We're not going to get anything outta this one! Let's get outta here," and quickly exited the front door without incident.

"They must have been the two who left in a hurry after the local police officers applied deadly force," assessed Bruce.

"I agree," as the deputy scanned the horizon. He saw a convoy of red and blue flashing lights barreling toward them about four miles away. "Time to move on, kid. This scene is going to get a whole lot messier and we could get tied up here for the rest of the day." Jack waved Goodbye and bade Thanks to the C.S.P. officers then hopped into their exclusive transport which had been waiting in the hovercraft mode. The craft shot up five hundred feet, locked in its thrusters and sped away at mach one in sixty seconds. Jack's last glimpse showed thirty-some vehicles beginning to surround the roadhouse. "I forgot to call Kitty didn't I? I am so remiss. Would you please inform her of our present whereabouts and to release the identity of Fredrik Johannsen?" He smirked, "We want to play by the rules, right?" He then leaned back for a quick power nap during the one hour ride home. "Let the games begin."

The next morning when Jack arrived at his office he found more changes had been made. There were additional computers and peripheral equipment, another female staff member and five gentlemen waiting to speak to him an adjacent room. He morning'd the newbe then quietly asked, "What's up?" to Bruce who shrugged his shoulders.

"May I introduce you, sir to Ms. Rachel Hightower our new Administrative Assistant? She will coordinate interagency relations and control access to our headquarters."

Crenshaw shook her hand and said, "Welcome aboard." She gave a condescending nod in return.

"Neat," remarked Jack. "I see people still like to rearrange our furniture at night." He checked out the five waiting gentlemen in the newly constructed conference room, one of whom was his boss, the Marshal, Frank Weaver. "Good thing they gave us plenty of floor space at the beginning."

With the second bit of verifiable intelligence having been forwarded from Crenshaw's office he now had become a valuable asset in the loop. People were calling and knocking on the door. Jack pulled Bruce aside again while waving at the waiting men, "What else you got for me?"

Bruce whispered, "Ms. Hightower is a spy from the Bureau. She's mid-level management from California." He nodded toward the five men, "They're from Homeland Security, the National Security Agency, F.B.I., N.A.S.A. and of course, your own Marshall. They've come to visit us for a friendly update, a.k.a. a debriefing. As you would say sir, to suck your freaking brains out. They want to know how you found Johannsen, what else we're hiding and especially what we're going to do next."

"Fine inquiring minds all, I'm sure," guffawed Jack. "I'll be happy to brainstorm and cooperate in the same manner as they would do for me if I went to them."

Weaver, who sat at the head of the table said, "As you can see my hand-picked deputy under my personal supervision has made tremendous strides..." Rachel opened the door. "Ah, Jack, come in my boy and join us. I've just been updating these gentlemen regarding _our_ search plan. You may take over now, son."

Thirty minutes later the visitors terminated the meeting after having deduced the deputy marshal's accomplishments had been obtained on pure luck and he didn't have any real investigative skills per se or a relevant plan. Weaver gave him a wink of approval as the panel of interrogators departed the premises. Jack acknowledged, "I think that went well, sir."

A week later

Crenshaw and Whitaker had resorted to coming to the office at six a.m. to discuss in private the sensitive material of the last several days. Jack would be reading the newspaper and Bruce pouring over interagency releases when the female Bureau spy arrived. If they had anything important to discuss they'd go to lunch with locked docucases and use the subway to elude possible followers.

"There's been a new development, sir... er, Jack. Another person on my list has gone missing," informed Bruce. Crenshaw nodded. "A mathematician, Robert Baldreed of Boise, Idaho."

"A schoolteacher from the potato state?" questioned Jack. "Why is he on the list? Is he related to one of the other three?"

"No, he's an authority on 'Proofs' which is the foundation of all advanced mathematics. He is reputed to be the best of the best and has toured the world lecturing and presenting analytical math applications."

"And Boise?"

"He was born there, is presently semi-retired and maintains contact with dozens of former students who are the backbone of many high-tech industries including aerospace."

"Well, there's no need for a field trip if there ain't no one home, dead or alive. But the location of his absence points out something important." Crenshaw whipped out a map of North America. "Look at this bee-line from Mexico toward the northwest corner of the U.S., Alaska." After Whitaker concurred Jack asked, "By the way, did you see the headlines in the Denver Chronicle? It seems the Durango County police with the assistance of the Colorado State troopers apprehended a dozen wanted felons at some dumpy biker bar. Amazing, there's no mention of the Bureau or any other of our associates. Magnanimous of them wasn't it?" Jack slapped his knee, "Those foolish people. The Bandits will spread the word and any lawman entering a roadhouse anywhere in the country without an army behind him will be gutted like a pig. Idiots!" Jack looked about without focusing on anything in particular. "By the way Bruce, do you think _I'm_ a glory seeker?"

The F.B.I. agent measured his response, "No sir, especially after Colorado. I feel you are keeping us free from being constrained by interagency politics. Your objective is to complete your assignment as expeditiously as possible without bureaucratic entanglements."

"Damn straight, Sunshine. Now let's determine our next move."

"So, we now have a different trio of brainy geeks, Atwater, Gunderson, and Baldreed. We lost the a fourth Techie in Colorado. The question is, is there any reason for them to continue moving northwest? And I believe the answer lies in your list of interesting people again. Atwater's brother, Marc, lives in Tacoma, Washington. But they could spin off in another direction to pick up a friend of the other two. Is your list up to date? Does it cover Baldreed's contacts?" Bruce indicated, 'no'. "We'll have to get on that right away. I'm sure our new Admin Assistant would love to do more than just answer phones and peek over our shoulders. We'll have her help us on this," and winked. "But between you and I, let's assume he's headed for his brother. That may be a good place for us to lay a trap."

"Us and the other hundred field agents hidden there already," countered Bruce. "They've had him buttoned-up since two weeks after Louis went missing. Even the C.I.A. has a team involved."

"I didn't see that on the wire... but of course it makes sense." Speaking in Rachel's direction, "I can't believe the Bureau would be hiding something from the rest of us." She dropped her eyes and fiddled with some paperwork. "Still, my money is on the brainiacs. If they really want to get to him they will. By the way, what does this guy do?"

"Marc Atwater is a Methodist minister who has a master's degree in biology in addition to his theological one."

"Odd combination," reflected the deputy.

"Not necessarily," advised Whitaker. "A large number of elite scientists and mathematicians though the centuries have maintained math and science actually verifies the existence of an all-powerful deity, what we call a god. They postulate the Universe is a perfect, balanced equation of elements and energy without contradictions. Without these 'proofs' there would be chaos and no life. Our fugitives understand these laws."

"An interesting concept but I don't think I'm smart enough to figure out how it's all put together," confessed Jack. "Getting back to _our_ little Universe, I guess we'll have to see how Tacoma plays out and keep a close eye on any news releases which could involve Gunderson or Baldreed."

Two F.B.I. special agents sat in pew row number five of the Trinity Methodist Church in Tacoma, Washington. "This detail of watching Marc Atwater is one of the easiest I've had." The second agent agreed. "Except, these wooden seats are awfully hard."

"Must be to keep the people awake." They both smiled.

The church's senior deacon took the podium. "And now I take great pleasure to introduce you to our sponsored missionary to Sudan, the Reverend Donald Worthington. He will deliver the sermon today titled, 'Where have you gone, Lord?' Our presiding resident pastor, Reverend Atwater will return for next week's service." The agents shot an alarmed look at each other. The deacon grinned and said to their honored guest, "It must have felt strange arriving here in a flower truck this morning instead of your usual mode of transportation."

The good natured visitor in turn added, "Indeed, it was a most _beautiful_ experience," as he gestured at the flowers about the alter, "and a whole lot more comfortable than my usual ox cart." Everyone in the congregation laughed except the two agents who popped up like a piece of toast and began running toward the Rectory. They were the only coverage assigned this morning because it seemed obvious where Atwater would be. They burst through the Rectory doors; the room was unoccupied. They raced back to the podium and interrupted the deacon's and missionary's bantering about the two rude men who just ran away from listening to the guest speaker's message.

"Where's Atwater!" shouted the first agent.

Startled by their hostile abruptness the deacon sputtered, "Why... why? He, he left with the flower delivery girl, his niece in her van. Is there a problem? Are they alright?"

"I'm sure they are," resounded the second agent. He grimaced, "But I don't think we are." They quick-stepped out the church and the circus began anew.

"Hello," answered Jack from home on the same Sunday at four p.m.

"You're not going to believe this," sputtered agent Whitaker calling from the office. "Marc Atwater has gone missing right under the noses of at least thirty agents."

"When?"

"Between ten-thirty a.m. and twelve noon Pacific time."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes and we'll review it," directed Jack. "No need to call in Rachel. She probably knows more than we do."

That upcoming Thursday Jack and Bruce read a hot release stating the good reverend Marc Atwater was found hanging in the library of the seminary from which he graduated. "Time to fire up Speedy the jet, Bruce. Rachel, would you please call ahead and ask all those nice policemen and special agents to preserve the scene for us and back off."

"I'm sure they know you are coming and will protect the evidence," she returned while now giving respect to her fellow case workers.

"Any witnesses?" as Jack viewed the hanging body.

"Not to the actual crime," answered the Tacoma Police lieutenant. "It must have occurred between two and four a.m. last night. That's what the M.E. estimated as the time of death. A night-owl student who had his windows open above the alleyway said he thought he heard the buzz of those old, antique electric motorcycles but he didn't give it any concern."

Crenshaw asked, "Have you given Atwater a preliminary once over?" The officer indicated 'yes'. "Did he defecate or urinate while dying?"

The lieutenant was surprised at the odd question. "No I don't believe so but you are most welcome to stick your nose in and make your own determination." Jack ignored his sarcasm. "We, at the Tacoma P.D, are treating this as a homicide. Look at those footprints. This man was not alone."

"Yes, we saw them. Please thank your officers for preserving the scene so well."

Bruce took pictures of three distinct, different sets of boot prints. They were muddy and clearly defined. "I don't see any evidence of a physical struggle," perceived Jack.

The lieutenant rebuked, "Three to one against a man of the cloth? You're joking, right? There's no question he was overpowered, bound and hung. Most likely by that band of anti-religious, upper-class, spoiled brat, drug users we've been having so much trouble with lately. They'll be the first ones we bring in for questioning!"

"Uh, huh," grunted Jack as he inspected the dead man's face and wrists and didn't detect any bruising or cuts. He shook the officer's hand, "Thanks a lot; I hope we haven't inconvenienced you too much." Jack and Bruce threaded their way through a hundred lawmen and C.S.I. techs waiting outside. "Let's get home. I don't want to talk here." Bruce smirked.

Three hours later in the Obama National Park situated between Maryland and D.C. "Did you have your car swept?" inquired Crenshaw.

"Yes, sir. The Bureau said they did it but afterwards I had a buddy from high school who works for a private detective agency check it also. He found a g.p.s. transmitter and an audio transceiver. I think the C.I.A. placed them and the Bureau knew of it."

"Those people make you feel like we're the enemy not the good guys. Let's walk," directed Jack. They found a nearby bench and Crenshaw activated a multi-level, short-range scrambler. He leaned forward, "Keep your voice low." His experienced eye scanned the area. "It's my opinion Marc Atwater wasn't murdered and the evidence even after they're finished doctoring it to suit their needs, will reflect the same." Bruce raised his eyebrows. "It was an assisted or permitted suicide. There were no bruising or resistance marks. His bowels and urinary tracts were vacated prior to the hanging which demonstrates a controlled voluntary act before his demise."

"Maybe he was terminally ill and they came to comfort him," suggested the young F.B.I. agent.

"Sorry, I don't believe that was the case. His brother for certain would not have killed him but would have assisted or at least not hindered it. I feel it was with respect and love they watched Atwater die. Marc probably requested their presence. People don't want to die alone. I'm confident the lab and his medical history will confirm my analysis."

The Why bothered Bruce. "Assuming everything you said is true, we still have to find the motive."

"I believe that Atwater's Code name: Pandora was the motive."

"Then they should have kept their stupid mouths shut!" steamed Bruce. "Imagine driving your only brother, a man of God, to suicide. First there was Johannsen's 'suicide by cop' in Colorado and now him. What is the matter with these people?"

"Yeah, I suspect they were seeking another scientific opinion and it back-fired on them," quantified Jack. "The note in his pocket gives another clue."

"I apologize to my flock. I was misinformed at the highest levels," recited Bruce. "He felt his brother had tricked him?"

"No, I believe the 'misled' correlated to the location of his passing... the library, the foundation of his religious learning," reasoned Jack. "I believe Pandora destroyed his faith and purpose for living. He was an unmarried man with no children and he chose not to continue."

Bruce let out a deep breath, "Anything else, boss?"

"Yes, a lot more. I suspect Louis Atwater selected his constituents for their expertise in their respective fields... in addition to being trusted friends." He counted off on his fingers, astronomy, mathematics, physics, chemistry, biology. "He needed experts to verify or challenge and disprove what he observed with the Starfinder. It's apparent to me his brother concurred with his conclusions and opted to check out. I don't believe our dismal band of three will be seeking further verification. They're going to run now and hide for the rest of their lives... however long or short that may be."

"I assume you don't want any of your suspicions released," assessed Bruce.

"Hell no. Officially, they're just theories at this point. Our initial assignment hasn't changed. We're to pursue and capture. If we apprehend all of these men together and they voluntarily explain Pandora it would be fine and dandy by me."

"Would it?" asked Whitaker. "Do you really want to know?"

"I doubt I'd understand even if they told me," speculated Jack. "Now for the good news. I think I know where they are going. I believe they'll continue northwest. When and where they cross into Canada will tell us if they're going to the Northwest Territories or Alaska."

"How will we know?" asked Bruce. "Should we blockade all the routes leaving Washington State?"

"No, that would be easy to evade. They'd have a lead bike which would signal back to the trailing other two and all of them would turn back before they hit the roadblock or go off-road and disappear into the countryside." Bruce's face reflected, 'Then how?' "All vehicles are Pic-recorded as they cross the border. This is done by both the U. S. and Canadian Border Patrols. Can you find us a reliable contact on the Canadian side who will pass us info quietly and discreetly of a three pack cycle crossing? It should occur within the next twenty-four hours."

"Can do, sir! I know just the man in C.B.P. Comm."

"And he'll keep it under his hat?" verified Jack.

"His hat?" repeated Bruce. "Oh, retain nondisclosure. Yes, you know the Canadians are not enthused about the U.S. manhunt... especially after we arrested their Prime Minister for drug trafficking last year."

"Yes, I remember that. He was carrying a small amount of cocaine for his own personal use and some fool on our side made in big deal out of it," reflected Crenshaw. "Of course the charges were dropped. But it still amazes me, you step on someone's toes then don't understand why they don't come running to help when _you_ have a problem. It seems we haven't learned that lesson in four hundred years... Let me know what your contact says a.s.a.p. I have a good hunch."

Ten hours later. "My friend at the C.B.P. reports a group of three just entered into Canada by crossing U.S. state road nine at Sumas," informed Bruce.

"This great news," asserted Jack. "Now we need just one more favor from your friend. Would he please tell us if they exit on Yukon One or Yukon Two into Alaska? This may take two to four days. If they cross where I expect, I'll be pretty sure of their destination."

Bruce, excited at this determination squeaked, "Where?"

"Prudhoe Bay. It's a port on the Beaufort Sea. As far as shipping goes it's only accessible May through September; the same applies for electracycles." Again, Jack saw Bruce's puzzled look and explained. "I served in the Merchant Marines four years and we put in there a few times to unload supplies for the upcoming winter. That's where the Alaskan pipeline begins. There are three groups of people who reside there: the oil company workers, the Inuit, or First Americans to you... and seasonal bikers."

"I thought the pipeline had gone dry and the Prudhoe Bay outpost was a ghost town since we evolved away from fossil-fuel energy eighty years ago," reasoned Bruce.

"It's pretty much a ghost town that's true," agreed Jack. "But oil is still pumped from there during the summer, a small fraction of what they did in the past. I believe it's used for some kind of research. As far as I know that single pipeline is the sole active source left in the U.S. Sounds like a good question for the television show: Did you Know? doesn't it?"

Fifty-three hours later.

"My Canadian friend reports the trio crossed over on Yukon One an hour ago," whispered Bruce.

"Your buddy is golden. Remind me to send him a case of scotch if this works out... and a liter even if it doesn't," requested Jack. Then he announced, "Bruce and I are going for coffee and a bagel at the corner deli. Does anyone want anything?" he asked of Kitty and Rachel. "Be back in twenty."

On the street, "Here's the plan, partner. Call and get your funny-looking plane ready to fly. Our first stop will be Anchorage. We're going shopping for clothes... old clothes. We need merchant marine duds. After that we need to be dropped off at Fairbanks, lease a utility van and have, 'Bay Marine mechanics' painted on both sides. The van will provide enough room in the rear to secure and transport the prisoners far enough away until we call in the Calvary to take over. We'll drive to Prudhoe Bay without relaying to the office our true intentions. It is _possible_ I may have by accident misled Rachel about the direction we'll be traveling," as he winked. "It happens a lot in complicated big Operations." Bruce understood the ploy and grinned. "We're not in a hurry. I want our brainiac bikers to get there at least one day before we do. They shouldn't be hard to find riding a Honda, Star or Kawasaki. I doubt the Bandits will let them park those low- life pieces of metal anywhere near their beloved Harleys. We'll devise our capture plan after we locate and scout them out. We have a warrant for Atwater, not the other two but we'll take them all if we get the opportunity. Baldreed and Gunderson as persons under suspicion in the Patriot Act." Jack rubbed the stubble on his chin, "Humm, we'll have to stop shaving." He looked at Bruce's peach fuzz, "Well, one of us will. You may have to rub soot or grease on that kisser. I don't want those bikers to think you're my love-slave. They may want me to share you. Let me know when you're ready to roll."

Again, "I'm always ready, boss. Do you think I would have a few minutes to question the prisoners during transport... assuming all goes well?"

"I don't see why not," reasoned Jack, "providing they'll talk. But I'll tell you one thing for certain; they're going to spill their proverbial guts in a most uncomfortable manner if the National Security Agency or the C.I.A. gets their hands on them."

"I understand," acceded Bruce. "I've thought about this for a while and I want to learn why Pandora drives people to suicide. I believe I can handle it."

"We'll find out soon enough; saddle up."

Two days later as they rode through Sagwon, Alaska "There's a lot of economically depressed families living here," observed Bruce.

"They're mostly Inuit. They don't appreciate being called Indians, Eskimos or First Americans," informed Jack. "I reckon they have earned the right to be called whatever they want since it's been proven they have occupied these lands for over nine thousand years. There are a lot of similarities between their culture and the hundreds of tribes scattered over North and South America. They may be the First Americans source. Did you know they have shamans and their religious beliefs incorporate thousands of gods which is similar to Hinduism? That's a bit of the local intel I gathered when my ships docked here." They both looked about - trees, pine trees and more trees. "These trees you're looking at exist mainly due to the Inuit's resolve; they carried a lot of weight in preserving Alaska's woodlands. They deserve a lot of credit... unfortunately you can't eat credit. Their high priced attorneys, paid for by the Department of Indian Affairs, a U. S. agency, embarrassed the Government itself by making it face its own misdeeds and the proof of destroying our natural resources to support preferred Big Business greed. So, even though the Inuit won the court decision their lawyers took the entire awarded cash settlement. However, in hindsight the natives prevailed but lost the proverbial battle - a reverse case scenario in U.S. and Indian confrontations. The bottom line is that Nature and the scum-bag lawyers got the goodies and the Inuit got nothing to improve their lives. Still, I believe they were satisfied. They were never in it for the money."

Bruce had been impressed again and reflected, "I've got to get out more or start watching the Travel and History channels."

"Seventy miles to the Bay; catch forty winks if you can," suggested Jack. "Who knows what's going to happen after we arrive. We'll try to lay low but it's a small town and everyone has eyes." The young F.B.I. special agent couldn't sleep.

The remnants of Prudhoe Bay the town.

"Not much here," noted Whitaker.

"I wouldn't say it never became a Boom Town but it held its own for fifty years," as they viewed the rows of dilapidated buildings lining either side of 'Oil town' the main street. "This is going to be better than I expected providing I'm correct and they're here. There's one hotel in town and one motel on the outskirts... the same goes for the honky-tonks or roadhouses as you know them. I damn sure the Bandits won't let them camp with them. All of this will be easy to check out. However, if our guys aren't here and don't show up in a coupla days I'll have to slink back to Washington with my tail tucked between my legs. But don't worry none, partner; I won't compromise you. Even so, you may expect _some_ heat for authorizing the expense of using of the go-fast jet. So, either way, you'll be screwed too. Welcome to the Marshall's Club! You do something right and someone else gets the credit. You mess up and it's all on you."

The town proved to be unfruitful, however five miles out at the End of the World Bar it appeared they had tracked down their quarry. There were three non-Harley bikes parked at the corner of the building, away from the real bikes.

"What are we going to do?" asked Bruce.

"I'm not sure. We could go in guns blazing and kill all the bad guys. Then drag our scientists out by their hair." Bruce gasped. Jack laughed. "Sorry, a little bit of Marshall humor." He counted the bikes to estimate the number of Bandits. "Seriously, this could be a tricky, fatal situation. Remember what I said about the bikers getting the word out about Colorado and they'd gut any lawman who infringes on their domain? I wasn't kidding and that's why we're dressed as mariners. We can back off and wait for a safer opportunity or we can play it close to the vest and go inside. No one knows us; we don't have to tip our hand."

The nervous young F.B.I. agent with a heart full of courage and his finger on his weapon said, "Let's go for it!" as a shiver ran up his spine.

As they approached the door Jack warned, "Don't look around. Keep your eyes on the bar or the floor. We can casually check out the premises after we have hopefully been accepted and... take your hand off your weapon! That sticks out like a sore thumb." At the bar, "You can look around if you appear as if you don't give a rat's ass of what's going on even if someone is getting beaten or killed. And, no eye contact! Better yet, how about if you mosey on off to the restroom and don't say a word to anyone. Oh, and if you find someone in there get the hell out fast!"

Rattled a bit, Bruce tendered, "May I just stay here and stare at my beer?" Jack nodded assent.

After twenty minutes and the delivery of his second beer, Jack was able to discern four men in a large booth at the far side of the bar. Ten fat, surly Bandits and five Inuit were between the law and their quarry. There also sat a lone seaman two booths away from their objective. "Here we go, partner." Bruce concentrated on his mug. Jack turned and yelled, "Hey, Lucky, is that you hiding over there?" Crenshaw grabbed his mug and sauntered across the tavern. "Ain't seen your worthless ass since Singapore!" The Bandits gave a casual glance at the two new Merchant Marines. They figured the second fellow, the smaller one served as the older guy's bitch. Whatever. The two lawmen arrived at the surprised patron's booth. "Oh, sorry Bro, you look similar to an old humping buddy of mine. We laid a lotta pipe together," as he winked, "in Malaysia. Sorry again," and shuffled toward the four conspicuously seated men two booths further back.

"Mind if we join you?" as Jack and Bruce took the end positions and pushed them closer to the wall. The occupants didn't object, they knew better than to challenge real bikers or drunken seamen. "You appear to be nice fellows. We're new in town; can we buy you a beer? What would like to have Mister Atwater, Gunderson and Baldreed?" They turned pale. "Sorry, I don't know this gentleman," referring to the Inuit seated with them. "Your name sir?" He refused to answer.

"He's Argun Siginig, a shaman of many generations. He's not concerned about you and doesn't deem it necessary to respond to your pettiness," explained Atwater.

"Sounds about right," returned Crenshaw. "Reminds me of my ex-wife. I assume you guys have figured out who we are." All three scientists looked glum. "You're all under arrest under the Home Land Security Act except the shaman. You, Louis Atwater, for stealing confidential material from N.A.S.A. although I don't believe they have determined exactly what it's connection is in regard to _Pandora_. And you two," referring to Baldreed and Gunderson, "for collaborating with a known fugitive. Isn't the H.L.S. Act wonderful, Bruce? It's like a 'Go to jail free' - a lawman's Monopoly card." To the trio, "We have a van waiting outside for your transportation pleasure. Hey, it's easier than riding your electracycles... which will be confiscated and placed into storage. But I suspect they will turn into chunks of rust before you ever have another opportunity to ride them again. Shall we mosey on out now? And try to appear happy; I don't want to spook the patrons."

The Inuit shaman glanced at his fellow tribe's men standing at the bar. Their hands immediately dropped and rested on their large hunting knife hilts.

"Oops, I didn't see that one coming," moaned Jack. The lawmen drew their weapons hidden within their overalls and placed them in their laps. "Try not to think about what I told you regarding the Bandits and the Colorado fiasco." Bruce swallowed hard. All the bar patrons were strapped with eighteen-inch, steel bladed knives which were legal. "For now, I would be most satisfied with just a Mexican standoff. I think the only thing keeping us alive is the fact we have the shaman pinned down." More and more patrons began training their attention on the booth in the rear. "Folks, the floor is open for suggestions."

Bruce popped up, "Sorry boss, I don't think we're in control of the situation and I have no idea of how this is going to turn out. This may sound like really bad timing and stupid but since we're not going anywhere I'd love to ask these gentlemen about Pandora. I'm dying... er rather, very intrigued." Jack almost laughed at the absurdity and waved 'go ahead' with his empty hand. Siqiniq signaled a subtle 'hold' command to his comrades.

"What about it gentlemen?" asked Jack as he surveyed their precarious predicament. "What's the scoop on Pandora? And please keep it in layman's terms; I almost flunked Physics."

The trio glanced at each other and shrugged, Why not? Atwater began, "Two years ago I felt confident I had been the first person to discover the anomaly I deemed the Pandora image. First, please realize astronomers world-wide are a tight-knit family even though we are separated by great distances. We don't discuss classified or security related sensitive material but we are all of the same mind-set. These two other gentlemen are in different fields but overlap in strengthening and proving postulates. My assignment in Houston was to test the acuity and range of the Starfinder telescope orbiting the moon. Its capabilities are phenomenal. It can see to the edge of the Universe... and beyond. Scientists all over the world have been using it to discover earth-type planets and trying to devise a realistic route to get to them by using the hydra-magnetic Starsearcher vehicle under development. During these last two years there have been quite a number of startling discoveries and we are now confident one particular finding has led to the disappearances or even the deaths of some analysts." He checked with Robert and Gary; they indicated for him to continue. "Let's see how I can convey this simply? During my tests I incorporated deep quad scanning in addition to point focusing which the Star search programs utilize. Quad and depth scanning goes beyond the more densely populated core within our realm, our universe. Galaxies thin out as they get further away and become closer to the Edge. The Edge is real; it's like an invisible wall. Space is not an infinite vacuum. Distance-wise it may as well be. Mankind could not get to the Edge even if we were capable of traveling at the speed of light for ten thousand years." He paused to let the magnitude settle in. Continuing, "You've heard of the Big Bang Theory which science has fully accepted for the last two hundred years? I and others have determined there had been a bang of a sort but not as we had previously assumed. With Starfinder we were able to determine all matter is flowing in the same direction. A massive Big Bang Theory explosion would send it flying outward in _every_ direction, similar to a holiday sky rocket, grenade or bomb. Starfinder was able to look 'back', through and opposite its directional flow. Beyond our core there is plus ten times more distance to the furthest Edge. With the telescope pointed 'forward' in the opposite direction, I ascertained there existed nine tenths less distance to the Edge than behind. The sides remained constant. Gary, would you please explain the bio molecular atomic separation aspect?"

"Certainly, thank you, Louis. Everyone has been educated to some degree concerning atom smashing and d.n.a... They've both been around a long time. We still separate atoms on occasion for a demonstration but have almost completely abandoned the research application. The reason why is: no matter how much we break down an atom, molecule, speck or a known particle there is always another 'entire world beneath'. It acts similar to two geometric lines converging on a curve, they come closer and closer yet they will never intersect. Now try to imagine this principle being applied in reverse order."

"Reverse?" muttered Bruce. "I can't even _begin_ to comprehend it."

"Gary, may I continue?" requested Atwater. "Returning to my deep quad scanning." He held up a beer mug, "Imagine this as the Earth revolving around the sun within our Milky Way Galaxy and keep in mind there are millions of galaxies surrounding ours." He lowered his hand slightly. Now we have directional movement for the entire Universe. We have established a pseudo up, down and sides. I have taken thousands of scans all around our sides." He held his other hand next to the mug and then backed it away at arms-length. "I've knitted hundreds of scans together on let's just say the 'left side' of our galaxy. There are no true ups and downs, the base is arbitrary." He removed a folder from his docucase, extracted nine large photos and formed them into a square on the table. "Each photo is a knit of sixteen other interconnecting photos." He lined up the edges together and sat back. Jack and Bruce craned over the display. There appeared to be a distorted image as if you were looking inside out of a fishbowl. It was the face of a smiling little girl on the other side!

"Impossible!" blurted Bruce. "Your pics have been corrupted by a reflection!"

"Note her eyes," directed Louis. "They appear half open or closed. Correct?" Jack and Bruce nodded 'yes'. "Here's where time lapse sequencing applies. Over the last two years those eyelids have moved. It's just a fraction which only a computer could detect but I have proved it repeatedly. And I believe other scientists around the world have done so also. The girl is in the motion of a blink. The significance is her lids are opening therefore moving in the opposite direction of the universal flow. Down to up. Quantum physics and analytical mathematics have proven flowing matter in space can not reverse itself. It would be the same as two positive poles attracting. It would result in atomic chaos, therefore the movement and hypothesis must be valid. In support of this hypothesis we also would have straight lines working in unison. Another Physics impossibility."

"Wait just a damn minute, are you trying to tell us some little girl in outer space is watching _our_ Universe as if she's playing with a toy?" wailed Jack.

"Yes, it's very similar to a child shaking up a snow globe and watching the flakes swirl and fall to the bottom," explained Atwater. Her flakes would appear as silvery white specks which are galaxies in our Universe.

"This is crazy... I think... I hope..." He stopped and thought a moment. "But, if this is true, do you have any idea how this will affect mankind!" The shaman remained stoic. "The first thing I can think of is that it will effectively destroy religion... the belief in God." Then he remembered Marc Atwater's note, 'I was misinformed'. "Oh, geez." Marc, who had a masters' degree in biology and religion obviously agreed with these men... so much so he couldn't live with the perceived truth.

"So let me recap this if I may," offered Bruce. "Pandora is the little girl watching us, we are the box and the Starfinder is the tool which opened the box. Therefore, in Pandora's realm our universe would be similar to another 'entire world beneath' to her."

"Bingo, partner." An upward crook formed at the corner of Siqiniq's mouth. Jack reflected on the horrifying premise which had been presented and _proven_ as far as these scientists were concerned. "So, gentlemen how much time do we have until _our_ snow globe universe gets shook up again and humanity is rearranged... annihilated?"

"Impossible to say," answered Atwater. "A thousand years... a hundred thousand or tomorrow. Pandora may have her hand on the bottom of the globe and beginning another shake as I speak."

Crenshaw had enough. He rose and placed his weapon on the table. He had made a flash, yet concrete decision, "Guys, this is not what I signed up for, nor what I want to be doing with my life should the End come. I'm going to report we did not find you and a reliable source informed us you three hopped a freighter in Seattle bound for unknown points west a month ago. Will you back me up on this, Bruce?"

"Absolutely, sir..." as he laid his weapon next to Jack's.

"I don't want to be the one who starts world chaos," continued Crenshaw. "A billion people will die... from heartbreak and suicide... just to begin with. Some will believe the data and some will hold onto their faith. But as time goes on with the onslaught of more and more proof even the atheists' spirits will be crushed and mankind will regress to a level of barbarism which it has never experienced because it has completely lost hope and purpose. No one, could exist knowing they are a mere child's cosmic toy."

He took a deep breath, "Now with your permission gentlemen," as he looked straight at the shaman, "I would really like to leave this place and not bother another soul for the rest of my life." The Bandits and Inuit tribesmen had formed a half circle surrounding their booth. Argun Siqiniq waved to let the duo pass through. Jack and Bruce raised their hands and slowly shuffled through the cordon. As he went he scrutinized the biker's eyes - they were angry: in contrast to the Inuit's tribe's men who expressed sadness... the pain and weight of carrying the knowledge for so many centuries.

Two days later Jack sent a case of scotch to Bruce's Canadian friend, resigned from the Marshall's Office, bought a schooner and was reputed to be sailing the High Seas.

The following week Bruce resigned from the F.B.I. He and his mother bought a condo in Orlando, Florida where he became a vendor in Disney World selling ice cream to children.

A month later the Starfinder telescope was blown-up by an unidentified rogue missile from Earth. Consequently, it was determined to be too costly to replace especially since they had no idea of how to protect it. The related Starseeker project was suspended indefinitely due to continuous religious pressure. Neither program was ever revived.

Pandora is watching YOU

# GARAWN

In the days of ancient Celtic lore, a Druid priest admonishes a gathering of his clan: "Young men, young women, beware ye of the Olden Stranger. Run ye fast; there is no greater danger. And to you mothers, keep your children near. Keep them from the demon to fear. It roams yon hills, in search of a body to till."

"Beware ye all. Beware of Garawn!"

The fragile old man stepped carefully down from the Metro route B-2 bus which ran through western, suburban Duluth. Even riding the short distance he had just undertaken felt more than just a little painful when hobbled with his inflamed sciatic nerve as he was today. David stood for a moment in the dirt and down-trodden weeds of the bus stop, gathering his bearings as the white and beige-trimmed bus disappeared down the two-lane road in a vile cloud of nauseating exhaust fumes. He steadied himself against the cement bench and tried to catch a breath of fresh air, but alas, even this simple act had become a taxing effort. Although his eyesight had diminished to near blindness, he could still make out the house he sought. It was the third one on the right side of the street; the one with the thirty-year old maple tree in front. It would be a short but painful walk in more ways than one to where he had lived for four years - up until the last nine months. His wife, Paula and he had bought the house after renting an apartment during their first two years of marriage. They had decided it was time to put down roots, make a real home and consider raising a family. It was just a starter house: small, older and filled with well-wishing relatives' hand-me-down furniture. But most important, it had an affordable mortgage - just right for a young couple.

At last, David stood curbside facing the familiar front and noted her car parked in the driveway but not his. The lawn appeared to be in good shape but the house still needed a coat of paint; he had never quite found enough time to get around to that particular chore. The old man limped up the walkway still stained by well-water and rapped his arthritic knuckles on the peeling, white wooden door. No answer. David had fretted about his ragged appearance, what he would say and became filled with apprehension. He feared he wouldn't have enough time to explain himself before being dismissed as a silly old coot or worse and be forcibly removed by the police. He knocked again, still no answer. Where could she be? David speculated her car had broken down again and took her husband's to go shopping. He decided he couldn't stay outside indefinitely in his awful, physical condition and there couldn't be any telling how long she'd be gone. He concluded it would be best if he went inside and waited. Knowing, he tilted back the third, red clay flower pot on the left, removed the house key from underneath and let himself in.

'Thunk,' the door closed. He locked it behind himself and turned to find Paula coming out of the rear bedroom with her hands filled with cleaning supplies. A radio played in the background.

"Oh!" she exclaimed and dropped a spray can of furniture polish as she drew her hand to her mouth. Wide-eyed, she stared at the stranger, an intruder.

"Sorry," David apologized and shuffled inside a little further. He held out his liver-spotted hands in a gesture to show her he didn't intend any harm. "I didn't mean to scare you. I thought you weren't home," he stammered. "I was going to wait for you... there," pointing at the couch in the living room.

"How did you get in?" challenged the tall, slender, bleached-blond woman.

He hesitated to answer. David's emotions were running rampant. His very soul felt as if it were being torn apart by her closeness, warmth and radiant inner-beauty. He knew he must be careful not to say anything rash and jeopardize his purpose.

David displayed the key, "It was still hidden under the pot. I wasn't going to steal anything. I'm not a burglar." He fumbled for words; his often rehearsed presentation had taken flight. "May I have a moment of your time? Please...?"

She saw before her a pathetic, frail old man pushing ninety who appeared harmless and confused. She reasoned, he must live nearby with relatives, wandered out, became disoriented and lost. Paula thought, "He must have seen me use my spare key and came to my house looking for help." Confident in her evaluation, she picked up her dropped bottle and deposited all of her cleaning materials on the dining room table, then walked over to him. No longer alarmed, she offered a handshake and said, "Hi, I'm Paula. What's your name, sir?"

Taking her hand with tenderness, he answered, "I'm David."

"Do you live in this neighborhood, David?" to which he nodded affirmation. "I thought so. Is there someone I can call for you?"

"May I sit down, please?" begged her visitor.

"Yes, of course." She led him to the faded, tan sofa which faced an old-fashioned brick fireplace. The old man shuffled his feet between the coffee table and sofa and gratefully took a seat. He gazed fondly at the three bookcases lining the wall to his right and then at the four- paneled, louvered window which looked out into the small back yard to his left.

Paula, after seeing he was comfortable, went to the telephone table next to the fireplace and opened the book to the white pages. "What is your last name, David? Who would you like me to call?"

"Johnson. David Johnson."

"Johnson?" she repeated. "What a coincidence. My name is Johnson too! And my husband's name is David." Paula spoke loud, in an exaggerated manner in order to be clear to a person with diminished capacities. She flipped through the white pages looking for the J's.

"I know the number," he offered.

"Excellent, that will make it a lot easier. What is the number, David?"

"555-7111... er, 954 area code."

She frowned, "No, David. That is my number. What is _your_ number?"

He repeated, "954-555-7111. You and I picked it out together at the telephone company business office before we moved here from our apartment on Park Road four and a half years ago. I'm David, your husband."

She lowered the receiver. "What ...?" she had been caught completely off-guard.

"I'm the real David," he stated. "The man you're living with is an imposter."

She reexamined the old man. "I think you'd better leave now or I'll have to call the police."

"Wait a minute, please." He half-rose, grabbed his back, grimaced and plopped his thin, bony frame back down into the worn cushions. "I can explain." She kept her distance and an eye on the poker hanging on the accessory rack next to the fireplace, just in case.

"Please, give me a moment," he pleaded. "I can prove it."

"Prove it? I don't think so, but go on," being polite. She folded her arms across her chest. "Let me warn you, sir, my husband will be here any minute now and he may not be as understanding as I am."

David read the clock over the mantle. "Yes, 3:45 pm. He should be here a little after four... assuming he hasn't lost my job at the post office."

Paula held her tongue, thinking she could always run and get help if he became too irrational.

The old man began his 'proof'. He rattled off as many details of their lives as possible in trying to show he had to be the real David by virtue of all the privileged information. She was amazed by his knowledge but unconvinced. Coincidental ranting? Could it be memorizations? Had her husband ever been an internet blogger or Facebook user? "We're going to have a serious talk about this internet stuff later," she reflected.

After a few minutes she suddenly interrupted, "Stop, stop. Now I remember you! You're the man at the hospital. The old man that had to be dragged away from David's room." She fumed, "I don't know how you learned all these things about us but I know one thing for sure. You're nuttier than a fruitcake. I want you to leave right now," and pointed at the front door.

"Yes! Yes! You're correct... we met at the hospital," he acknowledged. "That's where he, the imposter, stole my body. And, I'm _not_ leaving until you hear me out!"

"She checked the time; it would be only ten more minutes until her David arrived. Paula decided it would be best just to humor the old coot and let her husband handle him when he got home.

The old man continued to pour out incidents of her past: stories about her broken toe operation, their families, their own likes and dislikes, future plans and dozens of things no one could have possibly known, except the rightful David. With suspicion and caution, Paula began to question the reality of this bizarre encounter and the whole freaky situation. There were so many truths and personal secrets being divulged by this stranger. It stuck in her gut as unsettling, confusion and doubt began to creep in. "She realized the intrusion of doubt? Doubt of what?" she fretted.

She tried to clear her head, "Very interesting, sir, I'm impressed. And just how did you find out these things about _my_ Mister Johnson?"

"Because _we_ experienced them together, Paula. And after hearing all I've told you so far, I hope you're getting close to asking yourself the most disturbing question of all. Which is, how did the man you're living with steal my body? Unfortunately, I don't have an answer. I don't have a clue. The only thing I can think of is: Black Magic or mysterious powers. Both sound preposterous. All I know for certain is I was laid up in the hospital bed after my automobile accident and this old man, you see before you, came into my room. He leaned over me, held my hands and pressed his forehead to mine. Since I had been sedated, I couldn't resist. Besides, I thought he was a medical technician or an aide because he wore a white lab coat. Then, a 'Flash' occurred and I found myself looking at my own body still lying on the bed. At first, thought I died and my spirit had departed and was floating around the room as in the movies. Then to my horror, I came to realize I was still alive but my mind wasn't where it belonged. It had somehow transferred and become trapped inside this!" thumping his fist on his chest. "He switched bodies on me. More than that, he stole my youth... and my life with you! I flipped out and the next thing I knew I was being led away by the hospital's security guards, who in turn, called the local police. I spent the next six months in a state mental hospital. The psychoanalysts said I was delusional. Hell, I was far, far beyond delusional! Inside, I knew who I was but didn't have any idea of who or what this perpetrator was. Or even what he called himself! So there I lie, locked and bound securely on a padded observation cell floor, 'for my own protection', and classified as a 'John Doe'. Another nut case. Finally, after dozens of evaluations, I learned how to play along. I convinced the state doctors I wasn't going to become a threat to anyone and they relocated me to a nursing home because of my failing health. A secure, state-run nursing home, where I was left to die or go truly insane. Luckily, after three months I managed to escape by hiding in an outgoing laundry cart. Boy, was that a bitch. I remembered the trick from a movie we saw at your mother's house when we were dating. That was the night I proposed to you. Do you remember?"

She nodded, "Yes," completely dumfounded.

"While in my captivity, I had plenty of time to think. I figured since I was incarcerated and out of his way he had most likely assumed my life. And since I didn't know anything about him, he probably didn't know anything about me either. Therefore if I came home, I thought I had a chance of proving my real identity to you... in person. Do you understand? I felt I could accomplish this by demonstrating my knowledge of our past life... versus, his not knowing a damn thing about us and our precious times together. Paula, I'm sorry to put you through this. I know your brain must be spinning but I'm running out of time. Please help me convince you! Drill me, just like I used to do with you when I helped you prepare for your night school exams. Fire away! Ask me questions, any question about our past... the more personal and intimate the better."

She did..., even throwing in some trick questions, just to be certain... and her soul felt crushed by the damning truth facing her. With tears in her eyes she embraced the emancipated, frail, lost love of her life. "Oh, David, my poor, David. How could this have happened? What can we do?"

He peered deep into her eyes, "Paula, you know I've always been a man of action. I came here for _two_ reasons. First, and foremost, to convince you of what's happened. And secondly, to get my body back. This one is dying." Raising his arms toward the ceiling, "Look at this wretched thing! I almost bought the farm last winter with a bout of pneumonia." He remembered the suffering he endured and the warm kindness he received from the other 'residents' in his time of need and said in a hushed, respectful tone, "I never realized how hard the winter is on the elderly."

They heard a car pull into the driveway. It snapped him back to bitter reality.

"He's here! What do we do, David?"

"Ouch," he said as he painfully rose from the couch. "Wipe your tears away and try to act normal. Do you still have the gun on the top shelf of the bedroom closet?"

"I think so." She stayed his arm. "I don't want anyone to get hurt."

"Me either. I just want him to give me my life back. Our life."

"Maybe, I should call the police," she suggested.

"No! They'll lock me away. It would be a death sentence. He'd see to that. I'm sure he thought he'd never see me again or he would have killed me in the hospital. This is the only way," and shuffled toward the bedroom.

A minute later, 'David' came through the front door declaring, "Hey, I noticed the flower pot has been moved and the key is missing. Do you have it?" while giving her a perfunctory peck on the cheek.

She stuttered, "Er, yes... I locked myself out."

"Okay. Let's make sure we put it back. Now, what's for dinner?" He turned toward the bedroom to go change clothes and then halted in mid-step. There stood a pathetic-looking, hoary, old man in the hallway pointing a thirty-eight caliber revolver at him!

"Hello, _David_. Remember me?" crackled the intruder. "Walk back into the living room, whoever you are. Whatever you are. We have some talking to do... and one really big-time magic trick. You son of a bitch," he rasped.

"Take it easy, old timer," returned the 'young' David as he raised his hands and backed-up to the fireplace. He shot Paula an accusing look, "What's going on here?"

She stammered, "He told me how you stole... er, swapped bodies while you and he were in the hospital." She appeared pensive for a moment then charged, "You know it all makes sense now. The strange way you've been acting since the car accident. You didn't exhibit symptoms of amnesia at the hospital when you should have. Your memory seemed fine, up until you saw the old man that night. By the time I returned the next morning you had somehow convinced or tricked the doctor into thinking you had developed a latent, temporary amnesia. Not dangerous, so he released you into my care."

"Now, wait a minute here! That's just not true," countered the 'young' David. "I really had amnesia and my memory is still slowly coming back to me. This is crap. Listen to yourself! What you're saying is absolutely ridiculous. Insane. We swapped bodies? Is that what this wacko told you? Paula, come on! That's the raving of a senile, old man who should be locked up in an institution!"

"And, I was, thanks to you... and I almost died," croaked the 'old' David. "I have no intention of going back. No sir. We're going to correct this situation right here and now"

The young man sneered and challenged, "Or what?" He then made a major slip of the tongue, "Are you going to shoot your own body?" Realizing his error, he jerked his head toward Paula who gasped and drew back another step. "Paula, I..."

It was too late to explain his way out. "It's true!" she screamed. "You horrible creature! What did you do with my David?"

The 'young' David looked at the two of them with undisguised contempt. "What did I do?" and laughed. "Stupid cow! I needed a new body. Mine was used up and his became available so I took it."

Paula reflected shock, fear and revulsion. She whispered, "Now I know why you never showed me any true affection. You couldn't because you really didn't love me. You didn't even have the capacity to pretend."

"Love and affection?" he retorted. "A waste of time." He spat on the floor in disgust. "I knew I should have chosen a single man; it's always less complicated. My real mistake was I waited too long, became ill, and had to take what I could get. I won't put myself in that damned position again. Women today are too troublesome. Life was better in the 'olden days'. They were basically... slaves," and smiled to himself.

"Again? Olden days?" repeated Paula.

"Of course. You don't think you are the first do you? Fools! I've had a hundred bodies."

"Who in the Hell are you?" growled the 'old' David.

Proudly he proclaimed, "My name is Garawn. I was a Celtic, Druid priest over three thousand years ago. Morrigan, the war goddess of what you now call England, bestowed this 'gift' upon me as a boon." Smirking, "You might say we had an intense, 'very close' relationship."

"You are immortal?" marveled the real David.

"No, I can die," answered Garawn. "However to continue existence, I have to be very careful. Such as avoiding accidents or becoming involved in warfare. You know, anything which could unexpectedly terminate my host. And during the normal passage of time when my body becomes aged, diseased or injured, I would just take another." He snickered, "I don't travel around much or take any chances; it's too dangerous. Actually, I'm a pretty dull guy."

"So you simply just take another when you feel the time is right, huh?" barked the real David. "Well, I got news for you, Mister Garawn, ex-Druid priest. This is the end of the line. And, going back to your question, Yes, I will kill my own body rather than let you have it! Choose now, monster. Transfer me back or die where you stand!"

Garawn stood fast, calculating; his eyes darted back and forth at his captors. A serpent's black tongue flickered forth from the imposter's mouth, licking its lips. Finally, slowly, he hissed, "You win, David Johnson. I shall reverse the process."

The demon was displeased by this setback but didn't feel threatened. He intended to steal another body as soon as he left these two and return later to kill them both.

On the other hand, the real David had resolved to himself it was his duty to mankind to kill the monster immediately after the transfer and end this timeless horror.

"What do I do?" asked the old man.

"We must join hands and place our foreheads together," answered Garawn."

"Like in the hospital?" The body snatcher nodded affirmation.

"Paula, stand back by the window between us and take the gun," directed the real David. "Be careful; he's tricky. Don't let the monster near you after the transfer."

The Celtic priest hissed again. "Come on, old man. Let's get it over with," as Paula retreated to the wall with her thirty-eight trained on the imposter.

David and Garawn joined hands. "Close your eyes and lean toward me," instructed the Druid demon.

Their foreheads touched: their bodies went rigid as if being jolted by electricity. Mere seconds passed, which seemed like an eternity to Paula. The young man abruptly broke the forehead connection, tilted his head back and gave the old man a violent head-butt. The old 'David' went reeling backward, tripped over the coffee table and landed sprawled on the couch. The young man cried out in triumphant, "It worked! I'm back! I've returned to my own body!" He spun in his wife's direction and shouted, "Paula, give me the gun! Hurry, before he recovers. We can't let him hurt anyone else!" She hesitated, unsure of who was who. He took a few steps toward her and extended his hand in a pleading gesture. "Sweetheart, please, before he gets away."

She thought, "Sweetheart? David used to call me Sweetheart after we were married, the monster never did," and let him take the pistol.

The old man held his bleeding head and peeked at them between both hands.

'Blam! Blam! Blam'!

"Oh, David!" she cried out. "Did you have to?"

"Yes. He may have escaped. Sorry, Sweetheart."

He set the gun down on the phone table, picked up the receiver and dialed 9-1-1.

Paula went to the old man, who was not dead, but fading fast. Her instinctive maternal compassion caused her to get too close and lean over him.

His hand shot up and seized her blouse - neck high! She was stunned by the quickness of his move. He pulled her down to his face before she could twist away. He said, "I still love you, Stick." With the words still on his trembling lips, his eyes glazed over - lifeless. He had passed.

Paula was frozen in place; she felt as if a thunderbolt had struck her. She broke out in a cold sweat. Her mind screamed, "Stick!" That was the nickname David had given her in junior high school!

She heard David speaking behind her. The words burned her ears, "I had no choice. I had to shoot him. He came at me with a poker. He broke into my house and killed my wife!"

Paula turned mechanically to see 'David' replace the receiver. He intentionally didn't give the emergency operator an address; they would have to find the house by cross-referencing the caller ID number. And that, would take just a little more time.

'David' tucked the pistol in his waistband and picked up the fireplace stoker. He turned toward her. Their eyes met.

"You called me, Sweetheart," she said in desperation.

"Yes, _Sweetheart_ ," he scoffed. "I found that written on an anniversary card you have stashed in your bedroom dresser. Neat little 'trump' card wasn't it?"

His face transformed into a mask of grotesque cruelty. He grabbed the weapon tightly with both hands. Blood-red eyes blazed at her. His sardonic grin revealed a mouthful of rotten fangs.

Paula screamed.

Garawn drew back the heavy, iron poker.

Beware

# RED EYES

Have you ever wondered if you were able to live your life over again, how would it be different? Suppose, mere moments before the end of your miserable existence, a supernatural being gave you just that particular opportunity. Confronted with this bizarre choice, would you continue your passing in peace or seize this unique offer of a renewed life, far better than you had most assuredly, but for what kind of price?

Imagine starting over at any point in your past you choose while retaining your current memories, the knowledge of yesteryear and today. It would give you the 'extra unbeatable edge'. No mistakes, no bad breaks or raw deals on _this_ go-round. It would be as if having tomorrow's newspaper in advance. How would you use this information? Would you be more personable, benevolent, self-sacrificing or perhaps the just opposite - more into the pursuit of riches, power or fame? The sky's the limit! Envision the possibilities!

One such man, Maxwell Parker, a down and out Skid Row wino lay dying in a garbage-strewn, big-city alley eighty-seven years ago. He swore his whole life he had the heel of 'the man' on the back of his neck - that he never had a fair shot or a chance to rise up as endless bad luck cheated him out of what he justly deserved. Poor Max.

In the last moments of his pathetic mortal being he was offered 'the choice'. To no great surprise, he took the option. He chose to try again, this time with all the cards stacked in his favor. He _knew_ he was going to live well... very well. It was his turn to be the King of the Hill!

But now, here at the present, the last fifteen minutes of his 'second chance' is upon him. His allotted time has almost expired and the creature is coming... coming to collect his dues.

New York City

Running like a man possessed! Mister Maxwell Parker was running for his life! He tore down the sidewalks - bowling hapless people over, crossing busy streets, zig-zagging through the traffic as horns blare at his incursions. He runs with wild, abandonment; he is consumed with mortal fear.

The Rockefeller Center

Moments before, "Why doesn't anyone else see him!" his mind screamed. He called to the security guards, "There, right in front of you. The monster in the frock! Fools, are you blind? Arrest that man. He has a weapon!" The scythe's blade glistened under the ballroom's candelabra lights. Surprised, unseeing, unknowing faces stared back at Parker, heads in the crowd bowed to whisper. A condescending, business associate with a plastic smile, shuffled toward him. "Screw this!" he bolted for the door.

Max darted from the street and charged into the city's catacomb of dank alleyways; a maze of filth and a home to hundreds of discarded, broken people. He stopped, panting out of breath. "I know who you are," he rasped. "You'll not take me, you apparition from Hell. Not now, not ever!" he cursed.

Scouring his surroundings he noted, "This looks familiar... smells familiar. The graffiti... Oh, crap. _This_ is where I lived eighty years ago... when I made that damn 'agreement'. The beast knows this place. This is the first place he'll look!"

His body trembled, rivets of sweat oozed forth, "Where... where can I hide?" He warily searched the street. Eyes straining, "Is that a church? Yes it is. I remember now, it's the Cathedral of Saint Mary! Sanctuary." With a triumphant laugh, "Ha! He can't take me in the church. On second thought, I don't know that for certain but I do know I can't stay in this alleyway!"

He slid back his tuxedo's jacket sleeve. The gleaming, diamond encrusted Rolex showed, 11:49 pm. "Eleven minutes!" and took off running toward the church.

Bursting through the heavy, wooden, double doors, he saw an empty chapel. He was alone, no parishioners, not even a priest. He wondered, "Is this odd? Perhaps not. It's late." Parker's attention was immediately drawn to the basin of holy water just inside the entranceway. He rushed to it, dipped both hands in, then shook the 'protective' water onto his head. He paused, "What the heck." Max grabbed, lifted and poured the entire contents over himself. "Sorry for the mess, God. I'll send some grunts over here to clean it up later, after I'm safe"

Next, he scurried down the center aisle looking for the safest haven. "A pew? No." He considered, "The alter... under the cross? Yes!" Making his way forward, his head jerking from side to side, he noticed the confessional booth. "What's that?" He then remembered several movies he'd seen where people had been slaughtered on the alter. He changed his mind and opted for 'the booth' - the inner sanctum.

He entered, closed the door, took a seat and lit a cigarette to calm his nerves. Max contemplated, "It might not look here. I know this is the last place I'd look for a person like me." Parker squinted at his watch. It displayed 11:53 pm. He trembled, "Seven more minutes... no, eight! I've got to get past midnight. Yes, past midnight to be free." Puffing away furiously he waited in the silence and darkness for what seemed to be an eternity.

'Click'. Max's body went rigid; his breathing stopped. Someone or some thing had entered the other side of the booth!

The cigarette, now spent, burnt his finger. He dropped it to the floor with an "Ouch!"

"Bless you my son," came through the mesh covered communication panel.

"Wha... what?" stammered Parker. "Who's there?"

"I'm Father Paul," answered a soothing voice. "What can I do for you my son?"

Max thought, "Father Paul? Where did he come from? Of course! He must have been around the corner. A priest... now there's an ace in the hole. Great!" His watch read, 11:57 pm. He cracked the door, saw no one and slammed it shut again.

"Good evening... and you are?" continued the clergyman.

Parker quickly ground out the smoldering cigarette butt. "Max... Max Parker your Holiness. Er, rather, Father. Sorry, I'm not Catholic. I don't know your procedures. And, I'm really kinda up tight at the moment."

"It's quite all right, my son. In God's eyes we are all his children, regardless of denomination and we all go through periods of great stress. With prayer and his love we can endure these hardships and become a better, stronger person. Is there something you wish to talk about Max or if you choose, Mister Parker?" A hesitation, "You need not answer this but would you happen to be Max Parker the world-famous entrepreneur? I heard he was visiting our fair city."

"Yeah... yeah, okay. That's me, here in the flesh. Entrepreneur, politician, pro-athlete when I was younger. Yep, a Jack and Master of all trades." Unsaid, "Yes, especially stock trades, those beautiful transactions which make me money, lots of money, billions and with it, power. Enough money and power to be a member of the Coalition: the ultra-secret financial governing board of the entire free world.''

11:59 pm, he peeked out again. Almost, it's almost over.

"Again, my son, is there something you wish to confide in me? Even though you're not Catholic, our conversation is confidential. It is sacred and protected. It serves as the cornerstone of our faith. Consider me as a median; you will be talking directly to God."

"Directly to God? Sounds like a pretty good deal. Okay, since you asked for it, Father." Max forced the reluctant words, "I'm being chased by the Devil. He's here to take my soul. How's that for a confession? Ever heard that one before, Padre?"

Stunned silence, then, "Pardon?"

"You heard me right. The Devil's coming to take my soul. I assure you it's no joke.

I saw him earlier at an awards ceremony. I've been voted Man of the Decade," he said with pride. Then considered, "So what good does it do me now? Anyway, there he sat at a front row table and dressed up in some silly costume as the Grim Reaper. But I knew his true identity because I could see his red eyes under his hooded frock. The Grim Reaper, humph." Max rubbed his forehead, "You know the more I think about it, I believe that sadistic Sonnavabitch enjoyed tormenting me... just for grins. Bastard."

"I don't understand," gasped Father Paul. "You actually saw the Devil?"

"Yes, I did. Don't you believe me?"

He answered slowly, "Perhaps, but I don't know you personally." Wringing his hands, "Please don't think I'm calling you a liar, Mister Parker. I mean no offense. Tell me more, please"

"All right, Father. For one thing, he looked a whole lot different than he did eighty-seven years ago."

"Eighty-seven years? You look remarkably well for your age. I would have guessed you to be a strong fifty at the most. My compliments."

"Well, that's one of the perks of the package... or rather, the contract. Whatever! As I said, the last time I saw him, he resembled a doctor. He wore a white lab coat and had a medicine bag. He looked the whole nine yards. He even had a f'ing stethoscope around his neck! Tricky bastard. He caught me at a weak point. He promised to save me. He said I could live my life over again - longer and better this time. He'd give me a hundred years of good health and I could pay him back later." Max lit up again. This time, a joint. "I've been tricked! Yep, conned pure and simple by that no-good Sonnavabitch."

"You said, 'contract'," queried the priest.

"Yeah, I vaguely remember signing a document... in blood... my blood. It all seemed very fast. I was kinda down and out at the time. He caught me at a weak moment and took advantage of me! But then immediately after my signing everything became wonderful and I forgot about it. I was a teenager again and living the 'perfect' life. I chose to be thirteen rather than being born again and had a ball. I had the prettiest girlfriends and getting all the puss ... er, sex, I ever wanted. But I wanted, no... needed more, much more. So I dropped out of school and ran away from home, if that's what you'd call it, at fourteen. School was for children. It was a waste of my _new_ time. On the streets I made tons of money. I knew everything. I knew the future events of the entire world!" He halted his second life's story, "But I never considered my future consequences."

"Never?" Father Paul wondered aloud.

"Well, not for a very long time and then I pushed it out of my mind when it surfaced. It was an annoyance."

"So, how did you determine you were tricked?" asked the priest. "When did you come to that conclusion?"

"When exactly, I'm not sure," Max answered. "Maybe forty years ago. The realization came from the _red eyes_. They were the give-away."

"What do you mean?"

"Red eyes, Father. As I got older, I became aware of other people like myself who had glowing red eyes. We had eyes similar to what you see in a poorly developed photograph. In the beginning, I thought I was the only one who had them. And then later, I thought I was the only one who could see the other people's red eyes. But eventually I learned of my error. As it turned out, we were a world-wide, exclusive club with thousands of members. For us, it served as a mark of distinction and recognition... of those secretly branded by the Devil. To normal people our eyes appeared their natural color, blue, brown, whatever. Subsequently, using our advantages to the fullest and knowing who each other were, we never challenged one another in the affairs of life. Besides, what was the point, we all had the 'inside scoop'. We were in charge. We were the Pillars of the community, the heroes, statesmen... literally, the kings of the earth! However, as time went on I noticed some of the club members would disappear, unexplained and then later new people would take their place. That disturbed me." Parker popped the collar button of his tux and tossed his bow tie aside. "Your turn now, Father. Tell me have you personally ever seen people with red eyes in this church? Being religious and all, I wondered if you guys had the power to see us." Another drag on the weed, "Ahhh, yes, I confess. I should have seen the plot sooner, but I was too caught up in the 'fast lane'." A deep breath, "Water under the bridge... but that's not the problem at hand."

"In answer to your question, Max. No, I haven't seen any 'red eyes' in this church. But, getting back to your story. When you realized what was happening, why didn't you throw yourself at the foot of the cross and beg for God's mercy? Surely, through prayer and the love of Christ there is salvation, redemption... "

Cutting him off, "Please, give me a break. I don't think it's quite that simple, Padre. And to be frank, I don't think you can stop this monster with some mumbo-jumbo or rosary beads. I believe he has to be 'tricked' just as he did to the rest of us desperate, dumb-ass fools." He cracked the door and peered out - still no one about, especially 'him'.

Max Parker stared hard at his watch. The little hand rested on the twelve and the big one on three. 12:03 am. "I'll be damned, I was right! I beat the Devil at his own game by hiding in a church."

Interrupting his thoughts, "Max. You must understand it's never too late to seek forgiveness from the Father and the Son. I implore you. I believe... "

Parker clapped his hands. "Funny thing, that very same thought actually crossed my mind once upon a time but I ruled it out. Tell me, Father, just how long do you have to be down on your knees to be saved? Ten years? Twenty? When you first realized what a mess you were in? Your whole life? Do you think it would make any difference? I think not. Humph, all that groveling and saying endless prayers is pointless. Sorry, I've never heard of God issuing a Get out of Hell free card. Tell you, what I do believe in is manipulation and power bargaining."

His spirits rose, "Like I said, you've got to outsmart the bastard as I just did. I learned to play to win, Father. Winning is everything, begging just won't cut it."

"I don't agree. I think your only chance is..."

"Enough of this drivel," Max interrupted. He took another look at the Rolex. Parker had become cocky now. 12:05 am. "It's Miller time, amigo."

Mister Max Parker, entrepreneur-extraordinaire, full of vim and vigor, exited the booth - victorious. Looking back at the shadowy clergyman's silhouette he bid, "See ya, we'll hafta do it again sometime... but don't hold your breath. It'll be a cold day in you know where before I step into another one of these joints." Turning to leave, in a few short steps his laughter died on his lips. His ear to ear grin melted as soft wax to a flame.

Thirty feet away, sitting comfortably in a pew, was the Devil still dressed in his Grim Reaper's attire. "I believe we have an appointment, Mister Parker."

Max jumped, his back slammed into the booth. Eyes popping, he put his watch to his nose then thrust it forward. He pointed furiously at the dial which now reads, 12:07 am. "No way, Jack!" he shot back. "It's after midnight, way after. Face up, asshole. I beat you. I won. Hit the road!"

Father Paul came out and was immediately shocked speechless by the intruder. He cowered aside, lowered his head and made the sign of the Cross. The head covering of his monk's cloak of piety dipped and concealed half of his face.

"Really?" mocked the Devil. "Midnight? Did I miss some little detail?"

"Little detail, my arse," Parker fired back. A contract's a contract!"

"Yes, it is," acquiesced his adversary.

"Damn right," pressed Max. "Contract and small print. That's been my new life. And while we're setting things straight, a little detail I didn't appreciate was your party-crashing theatrics at the hall."

"It was a mere courtesy, Mister Parker. A last minute reminder for you to get your affairs in order... to say your 'good-byes'. That sort of stuff. Most people appreciate it. Sorry about the choice of costume if it offended you. Would this be better?" and changed his appearance to the doctor of long ago.

"Satan transforming himself into an angel of light," whispered Father Paul.

"Shut-up, Padre. I'm doing business here," directed Max. "But sit tight; you're my witness to this contract violation. He's trying to pull a fast one again."

Addressing the Devil, "God won't put up with your crap, you shape-shifting abomination."

"That's true," admitted the 'doctor'. "He and I have our agreements. Our set of rules."

Parker stepped forward, "See here, this is proof," flashing the watch toward him. "And I have a holy-type witness. So take off, buddy. It's twelve o-nine!"

"Oh dear, what time did you say?" queried the physician.

"I said twelve o-nine," snapping back. Max checked again, "Oh, er, correction. Twelve o-eight. No, wait, twelve o-seven..." The minute hand moved slowly backwards. "Hey! What the hell are you trying to pull?" 12:06 am. He turned to the priest "Look at what's he doing!" 12:05. Parker smacked his watch, "Screw this!" 12:04, 12:03, 12:02. "Okay! okay! You've got the power to make clock hands spin around. You're not playing fair."

"Fair, Mister Parker? Was playing fair a big part of your second life? Did you deal _fairly_ with other people? I think not."

In defiance, Max jut his jaw out and declared, "I had a job to do. I had an agenda."

"You had an agenda?" repeated the Devil. "Oooh... I have one too."

Max stared at the floor and shuffled from one foot to another without further comment.

"And you mentioned my having the power to move clock hands and actually turn back time? Is this a problem? You didn't have any qualms about it when I changed time back for you. Did you?" The 'doctor' stood up and stepped into the aisle. He waved to him, "It's time to stop playing games, Mister Parker. Come along. It's midnight. Time for you and I to take a little journey. Are you dressed warm?" He smiled, "You need not be."

Max screamed, "No, no." He threw himself against the priest and wrapped both arms around him in a death grip.

"Going to be difficult are you? Not a problem," commented the soul collector.

Father Paul was turning pink from being squeezed so hard.

Anguished, Parker cried out, "Save me, Father! Save me!"

Near choking, "I don't think' I can," he returned.

"Silence, Max Parker. Don't be a whinny butt. Man-up and come hither," beckoned the Devil. He raised his arm and extended an open hand as he changed into a hideous, red, pointed-eared, eight-foot tall demon. "I always liked this image the best. I save it for the uncooperative ones. I believe they get the point very quickly."

Max looked up under the priest's head covering. His eyes widened. Then he went limp and slid down into a sitting position at the priests' feet. He became mute and his arms hung as rags at his side. The Devil gestured with his hand, 'Come'. Max was slowly pulled across the floor by an invisible force. His shoes dragged on the worn carpet. It produced the pungent stench of fire and brimstone.

"Ah, the sweet incense," remarked the Devil. In a few short moments, he seized Max Parker's listless, but aware body by the scuff of the neck and began carrying him, his feet dangling off the ground, toward the rear of the church. With the glee of anticipation, "Now, Mister Parker, we will have some _real_ fun!"

The Devil stopped just before the exit to the street. "Please pardon my manners, 'Father'." Snickering, "Love your costume. See you later." and disappeared with his prey in tow.

Father Paul, helpless, watched the depressing spectacle. The priest prayed, "Dear God, please help Max Parker and all the rest of us poor, lost souls." He sobbed as tears trickled from his glowing, red eyes.

The end

# Bad Bones

1953 - The outskirts of Monroe, Louisiana

"Don't go in there, Cory. That rooster's done killed another hen," advised his twin, seven-year old brother, Luke. "He's the meanest critter I've ever seen. He's tore up four hens in the last six weeks. You know how much I love Ma's fried chicken but I thought _we_ were supposed to do the choosing of which ones to eat."

Cory stepped aside to let his brother go report to Ma of what had happened again. She was going to be mad for sure. Luke, Cory and Iya all knew Ma and Pa were going have a sit-down real soon to decide what to do about that damn bird. After Luke passed out of sight, Cory eyed the twenty-hen chicken coop, one of two similar others. "I'm gonna take a look-see," he decided. He laid the egg basket down on the ground which he and his brother were using to collect before they went to school and quickly snuck in the coop's back door. Inside he found the hens were not sitting in their nests as they should be; they were cowering in the corners. A few panicked upon his approach and flew about aimless until they found the open door and burst outside, cackling all the way. Mister Rooster was waiting, strutting and pecking seed as if nothing had happened at all. He didn't cause trouble in the daytime but after dark he became a terror.

Cory saw the carnage right off. The hen laid crumpled, feathers everywhere, her eyes pecked out and her neck near ripped in two. Not much blood - chickens don't have a whole lot of blood.

"Cory, boy, you get your hinny back here right now!" yelled his Ma, Beatrice Winnfield, age fifty-four, a late in life mother of twin boys. Was it a surprise blessing from God or a penalty from a different source? Unknown to the brothers, the Winnfield's had an evil spirit equalizer, Iyalorisha. She was a descendant of Nigerian slaves and a seventh generation removed African priestess. Her kinfolk had lived with and helped raise the Winnfield's prodigy since before the Civil War. Racial domination or discrimination didn't exist in their household - they all lived as family, abet with some extreme cultural differences.

As expected that evening after dinner Ma and Pa (Orwell Winnfield) decided that the rooster had caused too much trouble and a change was required. Roosters were valuable to country folk and their cache only had one to service their sixty-some hens. Money was tight as usual so they asked Iya to help solve the problem. "Yes'um, I be glads to help."

The next morning, Saturday just before daybreak, the boys awoke to find everyone outside in the backyard's open area instead of doing their usual chores with the livestock.

"Don't collect today, boys," instructed Pa. "The hens need some time to settle down."

Pa had dug a small, round pit which measured two-foot wide and deep, then placed a eight-foot high hoist about ten feet away from the hole. "Why use such a big hoist for a skinny chicken?" I wondered. We boys wandered over and peered inside the pit - it was nothing but fresh, loose dirt. I pushed my brother Luke into the hole and laughed. "Clumsy Oaf!" I always picked on and tormented him in any way I could. He was the 'good boy' and I was the 'problem child' who constantly needed correction or discipline. By the age of five I'd been whipped by the belt so often I couldn't feel it anymore. I'd grit my teeth and say, "I won't cry," as the strap formed welts and bruises. Another pointed reason why I hated everyone in my family including my brother.

"Oh, no!" wailed Pa. "Now I have to dig another hole! Iya says we need an undisturbed pit. Step off to the side outta the way, Cory. Your brother coulda broke his dang ankle falling in there. I'll deal with you later, boy." He turned to Luke, "Fetch me my shovel. Thank you, son." I smirked.

The sun crested the hilltop. Iya had a small pot in one hand and a carving knife in the other. Pa had already caught the rooster by using a Bayou throw net and had him tethered to a ground peg not far away. "Masser, would you give rest to the troubled beast and bring him to me?" Pa went to the rooster, grabbed him by the neck and ran his fish filet knife through its neck - down into the heart without blinking an eye. He brought her the bleeding carcass. She tied its feet to the rope dangling from the hoist and placed her pot underneath to collect the dripping blood. "It won't take long to drain him. Ya'll can catch breakfast if'n you're up to it," she offered.

An hour later the rest of the family rejoined Iya to find the rooster had been de-feathered, bled dry and all of its meat had been carved off - leaving just the blood stained bones hanging from the hoist. "Masser?" Pa dropped kindling wood into the pit then thrust a pre-lit torch in until it flamed. Iya cut the cord which suspended the chicken bones and tossed them into the awaiting fire. She next took the meat of the rooster which Ma had just ground fine and mixed it in a five gallon drum of fresh spring water.

Later, at sundown Iya went behind the wood shed and performed some kind of ritual using the pot, some candles and black rocks which resembled face carvings. I couldn't see clearly. She then added the chicken's blood to the drum and stirred it up. As she was doing this Pa returned, scooped out the bone ashes from the pit into a paper bag, filled the hole and packed down the dirt. The next morning Ma took the rooster's soul mix (Iya's term) in the drum and sprinkled it onto several vegetable and flower gardens but not on Luke's own private garden which only he had tendered since he was six years old.

I didn't have a garden so I'd sneak over to his and pop the flower heads off whenever I could get away with it. I quickly discovered it was pointless and quit because they would grow back the very next day even when I pulled the whole plant outta the ground! Ma would say: "It is a beautiful and a blessed creation," which made me resent him even more.

Exactly one week to the hour Luke and I found a new rooster strutting in front of the hen houses. He was spry, acted younger and as time passed, proved he never hurt even one of the hens. Egg production increased and the grown-ups were happy. Luke would smile every time he saw him and say something stupid like, "You sure are a lucky old chicken." I threw pebbles at him whenever Luke weren't lookin'. It was easy to hit him; unlike the other rooster this one had a bad wing and couldn't fly.

A few years passed, the routine never varied: morning preschool chores, school, after school chores, homework - which I didn't do, then to bed. In school I was always getting into trouble and being punished but never had to serve a detention, they couldn't restrain rural family's children from going home to do their chores. The Administrative Board knew the parents would pull the kids out completely and profess to 'home school' them which equated to no education at all. Only about half of the students completed high school in less than twenty years of age anyhow. They held me back in the third and fifth grades due to my lack of effort, amongst other things, but I got passed for the other grades cause the teachers wanted to get rid of me. Luke had earned all A's and was placed forward a grade which then separated us by three years. I had tried to steal his work when we first started out together but an ugly scar on his forehead which ran through his left eyebrow enabled the teachers to easily distinguish us apart. I felt it wasn't fair to hinder me like that and I made them pay by 'keying' the faculty and principal's cars with a sharp rock.

Then when we were thirteen another strange thing occurred which reminded me of the first rooster. We had a dog named 'Mutt' because he was a mix of just about every low-life, cast-off breed that ever lived and wasn't the least bit friendly even to the hand that fed him. He would run wild and return home if the mood struck him. One afternoon a neighbor who lived two miles down the road came knocking on the front door. "I'm sorry, Orwell," as he held out a partially filled potato sack. "I recognized your dog as he attacked my goat herd... he killed a young'n. I tried to call him off but he turned on me and my little boy standing by my side. I had to put your dog down. I think he may be responsible for other livestock killings on other farms 'round about also. I brought him back to you. Sorry again, Orwell. I had no choice."

"No problem," answered Pa. "Thank you for your consideration. Let me pay you for your losses and time. You're a good neighbor." The man declined and they shook hands in an understanding. And that second incident prompted my parents to have another after dinner discussion which I suspected and resulted in just about the same course of action. Although I personally didn't see what transpired - I was kept out of sight from the proceedings on this occasion, they allowed Luke to observe but he wouldn't talk about it. That didn't bother me none; I didn't care in the least in what silliness these old people did. I had always felt Mutt was a mean old cuss who scared the poopy outta me and I woulda tossed his worthless ass in a field for the possums and raccoons to eat if it were up to me.

Sure enough eight days later another young, friendly dog with a right leg limp and the same body markings appeared. He scampered as best he could about the homestead. I wondered, "Where was Pa finding these replacements and how could they afford it?" Then figured, "They were probably trading with poultry," which made sense to me. Ma and Pa were pleased, Iya acted indifferent and Luke seemed as happy as a pig in slop. I quickly developed enough courage to kick my ex-nemesis in his hind quarters whenever I could. He would slink away, turn and pant at me. It looked like a smile. I yelled at him, "You stupid dog, what'cha _you_ lookin' at?"

One day, just to mess with my brother's head while he was gardening, I said, "Luke, I haffta admit your flowers sure look pretty. Besides, you being a good gardener, you're smart and could go to college someday... if'n that is you got a scholarship so it wouldn't cost Ma and Pa no money. What'cha gonna do about your fancy flowers if that happens? _I_ sure ain't gonna tend them for ya."

Luke thought about that situation for a moment then answered, "You're right about the money. If I'm lucky enough to receive a scholarship I'll go to the community college in Monroe. I hear they have a four year program now and I'll commute somehow. Either way, go or not, I have to maintain my garden. And thanks for saying it looks nice."

"And what about after you're finished college?" I persisted. "You gonna leave these sticks and go work in the big city? You'd be crazy not to."

"That's all right, Cory. I have commitments here. I reckon I'll stay close-by." Luke grinned, "Just to give you someone to pick on if for nothing else."

My brother was always upbeat and willing to help. "Luke, you can leave anytime you want to as far as I'm concerned," I thought, "and the sooner the better." Then it occurred to me, "What if I left instead? Screw Luke and these other Rednecks... but... I ain't quite ready to take off yet." I kicked the trowel out of his hand and declared, "Your flowers look and smell like cow manure."

A few more years had passed and we were now sixteen. It was a Monday night; I sat flipping through the pages of a girly magazine and listening to a radio I had stolen from another kid while Luke did his homework in the room we shared. I was failing the Eighth grade while Luke was about to become an 'honors' senior in the fall. I announced, "I ain't taking this crap no more! I ain't got no future here. Feeding chickens, slopping pigs and having the school on my ass all the time. I'm giving you notice brother." He relayed my feelings to our parents who remorsefully shook their heads. Iya remained stoic as usual.

Three days later, I rose up at 3 a.m, snuck through the house and took all the money Ma and Pa had stashed away \- I knew all their hiding places. I didn't enter Iya's room; she kept unusual hours. You could see flickering candle lights coming from beneath her bedroom door at the strangest times. I packed my school backpack with a few food provisions, extra undies, strapped on my hunting knife and left on foot in the opposite direction they'd expect, away from Monroe. After walking four miles to the south I caught a ride on a Big Rig (an eighteen wheeler) headed toward Columbia on SR165. The driver smoked a stogy and used a lot of profanity. I had to drop my drawers and give him a peek. Nothing else happened, or else I woulda had to gig him proper with my pig sticker. I wasn't in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.

Many years passed. Cory had been arrested and spent time in more jails than he could count - all for misdemeanors or non-violent crimes except for once in Texas where a persuasive junkie convinced him to be a driver on a 7-11 stick-up. He said the attendant was in on the score and it was a done deal. Instead, the whole rouse was a trap set up by the local police. In court Cory had been sentenced to five years due to his multiple minor convictions. The judge, an ex-minister, felt the lad was headed in the wrong direction but still redeemable and offered him an alternate. He said Cory could enlist in the Army which needed to booster its ranks due to some low-key skirmish in some unheard of country called Vietnam. He accepted, went to Boot Camp in Fort Hood and washed out of Basic Training after three weeks. But during his short stint in the service of Uncle Sam he met and semi-befriended another boot recruit in the same company. His name was Hector, a black Cuban who hailed from Mariel and had joined the U.S. Army in order to receive citizenship. Their bunks were adjacent and his new buddy sure was happy to be in the military due to the current racial violence and political issues raging in America. Cory had never been part of that sordid, prejudicial scene due to his upbringing by 'Aunt' Iya. Hector and he would swap stories of their youth while they ironed clothes and polished their boots. His Cuban tales were always full of hope and Cory's were always dismal. Fortunately, in one of their many bitching sessions, Hector explained to him the mysteries which had nagged him about Iya.

"The name Iya is short for Iyalorisha," he stated. Cory vaguely remembered hearing her being called that once or twice. "It is an African term for a Santeria 'woman priest'. The Santeria religion has many rituals and bizarre beliefs. For the most part what you observed with the chicken was pretty basic. After they skin and carve away the meat of the animal it can be eaten or put to another beneficial use such as fertilizer for crops or in a garden as your Ma did. The flesh is the 'good part' of the being. The blood is the soul. You can pray with it to the gods, cast spells or mix it in potions for good or bad intentions. Blood has many uses. The bones contain the goodness or the badness of the life form. If the dead one has led a good life then all of him can be buried in a grave with respect. If he has lived a 'bad' life then his bones must be burned for purification and scattered back into the earth where no one dwells."

"What about reincarnation?" I asked. "I think maybe the chicken and a dog both came back from the dead."

"Ha. No, I don't believe so," he scoffed. "I have neither seen nor heard of it. I think your father got new animals which appeared similar to the old ones. All roosters and mongrel dogs look the same to me." He shrugged his shoulders, "But I do not know all."

That made me feel better. Iya was strange enough without me thinking she lived in secret as a voodoo witch using black magic.

But now I was out of the Army and had to make sure the judge when he received the notice wouldn't have me arrested again to serve my sentence. I got out of Texas as fast as I could. Hoo-rah. I had outsmarted those cock-suckers again.

I didn't have any skills and needed money. I bummed around the south doing construction work and when that went dry I became a 'picker' with all the illegal immigrants chasing the seasonal produce. More time passed, I was in my mid-thirties, one step above living on the street and decided to return to a life of crime. It had benefits and if I got busted again at least I'd get a dry room and three squares a day.

I reasoned, convenience store robberies were potentially dangerous and the risk versus the reward amounted to small potatoes - it was time for a safer vocation and to make some dependable money. I caught on as a transporter with an auto theft gang. It was another illegal gig, but I needed the job bad - I had a drug habit to support. Even though I had been popping and snorting for fifteen years without over-dosing and crashing... I wasn't worried, it was under control.

Some parts of the new job were good... the money, drugs and loose, gang gals. But most days I felt tired with pressure in my head. I'd take some uppers and be ready to ride again but the bad head feeling always came back.

I don't know what possessed me but I decided to go home and show Luke the new Dodge Charger I was moving across state lines into New Orleans. She was a beauty. When I got there I was going to say, 'It's mine'. It must have been the drugs messin' with my brain. I had a coupla of outstanding warrants on me but none for Louisiana. I just _knew_ Luke would still be hangin' around the old homestead somewhere. I had my phoney story ready about how honest, respectable and well-off I had become. By now I was sure the rest of the family had passed away since Ma and Pa weren't in that good of health when I left and Iya was in her late sixties. I'll show off and brag some then tell my brother I had some important business to do in New York City and I may not be able to return for a spell - never is what I had planned. I had always felt Luke was just another dumb, stay-at-home country bumpkin in spite of his school smarts.

I drove real careful-like on Interstate 40 passing through Texas from southern California. Me and the Rangers didn't want no part of each other. As I dropped down into Louisiana on US65 and crossed back on I20, I noted nothing had changed too much except the highway network. The countryside was still dotted with farms, most of them in decline or abandoned. It was nearly impossible for private families to live off the land anymore and a lot of people had given up and moved on. "I'll bet Luke hasn't deserted the old homestead. No siree," Cory reasoned. "Someday, somebody will find his worthless, rotting corpse face down in his precious garden. Serves his stupid ass right!" After about an hour I rumbled down our old, dirt road. "They'll never pave this thing," I surmised. "Nature will take it back first." I could see the house in the distance - no other dwellings were in sight.

I took a right turn, passed a dangling open mailbox and traveled down an even worse hundred yard long entrance driveway to the house. I coasted to a bumpy, dusty stop twenty yards from the four-foot high rusted chicken wire fence which bordered only the front side of the property. The 1870's structure appeared more rundown then when I left, which was to be expected. The flower gardens in the front yard between the road and the house were dead as well as the vegetable patch on the north side. Luke's south-side garden was as beautiful as ever, maybe more so. I figured, "He's gotta be living here and could be watching me right now. Either way, it's the weekend and he should be at home even if he has a job in town." The two-storied house appeared shoddy but habitable. There were no livestock visible.

The surroundings and the house's deteriorated condition brought back memories, mostly all bad. "Geez, my head hurts!" I had been chewing on aspirins and chugging water non-stop for the last six hours. I resolved I wasn't going to let a dumb-ass migraine deprive me of my victory gloat over Luke. I exited the Charger and left the motor and a/c running. I wanted to show him what a powerful engine sounded like and how automobile air conditioning felt. Cocky, I sauntered up to the front gate. "Imagine a gate on a fence that has no sides; what a bunch of idiots I used to live with." An ancient two foot tall, cement lion sat stationed at the base of each gate post. "Lions, can you believe?" marveled Cory in disgust. "There ain't no lions in North America, only Africa you ignorant fools!"

"Did I see a curtain flutter in an upstairs window? Did Luke see me drive up? Did he recognize me?" I wondered. "When I get to the front door I'll bang on it and say, "Open up dear brother, I'm home!" We'll have some good words and hugs then I'll slowly pour it on and make his lifestyle look like crap compared to mine. Ha! I'll get the last laugh on that redneck, hick bastard yet!"

The gravel in front of the gate felt slippery. "Had it rained?" I reached for the gate latch and lost my footing. Down I went and cracked my face on the left-sided lion. It hurt like hell. I laid prone on the ground and swore profusely. My head was spinning and my eyes were closed tight from the pain. I gasped for breath and touched my nose. It had begun to swell and I could move it freely about with my fingers. "Sonnabitch, it's busted good! It'll never heal straight!" I had blood on my hands; it felt like my head was exploding. Blood poured from my nose. I screamed as I jammed an end of a handkerchief up each nostril. I got into a kneeling position and clawed at the front gate. The front door opened. My vision had blurred from the tears. I saw four figures walk out onto the veranda. I winced through the burning nasal pain. There stood Ma, Pa, Iya and my twin brother all lookin' just the same as I had left them. "I'm hallucinating." The images were changing. Now the front flower gardens had burst into full bloom and the house paint appeared fresh. I stole a glance at my Dodge Charger - it faded away before my very eyes! I must be trippin'terrible bad!" I jerked my head around to see Luke shrinking and becoming younger until all of them appeared as they did in 1951. Realizing what was about to transpire I cried out, "No, I don't want to go back!"

Luke, who now looked six years old said, "We'll have so much fun. I'll help you start your garden."

Pa added, "We've been waiting for you, son."

All of a sudden, it felt like a bolt of lightning shot through my forehead. I had a massive aneurysm and collapsed dead on the gravel.

Ma directed: "Pa, dig a pit and git the hoist. Luke, start tilling Cory's plot. Iya, would you please fetch your pots and potions? I'll fetch my carving knives for us and we'll bring our 'good' boy Cory home."

The end

# The Green Flash

Ocala National Forrest, Florida

In the recent past...

"We're stopping at this one," informed Nick who had been driving the family s.u.v. There are a lot of trails leaving this rest stop and I'm familiar with the outlying area. I hunted this site a few years ago and had pretty good success.

The two men, Nick Fleming and Glenn Grover exited the vehicle and gathered their gear for the upcoming trek. Nick explained to his friend who hadn't been on this sort of venture before, "We may encounter a few campers or hunters when we travel deeper into the forest. Oh, and of course some small wildlife, including snakes... pythons in particular. They took over the Everglades a few years back and now they're moved north. That's why I'm packing a thirty-eight special." Glenn gave him a look of mild surprise. "Don't worry, the snakes should be holed-up in the daytime, they're nocturnal. A poisonous spider would pose more danger so keep an eye out for webs especially on our crossover to trail five, there are no defined paths."

"Uh, I don't recall you telling me any of these things two weeks ago when you conned me into joining thee. I thought hunting exotic tree orchids would be a sleeper." They both smiled. Then, Glenn looked about and noted at least five trails fanning away from their recreational site which was amply equipped with parking, restrooms, pavilions with b-b-q pits and a boat launch on the other side of state road 40. "Nicely done," he commented. "Something for everyone."

"Yeah, it's about time some of our hard-earned tax money was spent on real Florida residents instead of being thrown away on the one hundred and seventy-seven thousand illegal immigrants those moron politicians let in the state," spouted Nick. "Hey, which reminds me. You've heard all the old whale/lawyer jokes, right? I have a new one for you. Who's more corrupt than a politician?" Glenn shrugged his shoulders. "Don't know? Neither do I!" He let it rest a minute, "Okay folks, let's get back to the task at hand. We'll hit the head then start out on trail number four, it's well travelled but we still could find some acceptable plants. No one else should be searching for them but without a doubt our best gatherings should be on the crossover. Overall, as I told you before it's about an eight mile loop: three out, two across to trail five which is the most difficult part, then another three back. I'll be fair, no strings attached if you're having second thoughts and want to make it _another day,_ I'll understand. Glenn grinned and gave a thumbs up. "Thanks for coming, Buddy."

After three miles of hiking, just before their right turn to begin the second leg of their quest Nick bemoaned, "Dang, I'm sorry, Glenn. We don't seem to be having any luck. We've only seen one scuzzy plant which wasn't worth retrieving." He brightened, "But, in a few minutes we'll be off the beaten path when we make our turn. I'm _sure_ we'll find some 'keepers' on that stretch, partner.

"Hey, look Nick. Is that a campsite about forty yards up, off to the left at our turning point?" alerted Glenn.

His partner nodded agreement and said, "We'll walk as close by as we can and wave hello if we see anyone. The campers always appreciate it."

A short time later they were passing two Sports Authority outdoor family tents anchored a little off the beaten path. There were five people dining at two pushed together portable pop-up tables with a radio playing in the background. "Look at that, Buddy," observed Nick. It appeared to be a mother, father, two children and a grandfather. "That's the beauty of camping. Nobody's punching a clock here. They're not having breakfast or lunch, it's whatever you feel like whenever you feel like it... wonderful. Heck, it could be barbeque leftovers from last night or who knows what," as he waved to the happy family.

Then the camper father and wife stood up and made hailing motions for the two hikers (them) to come on over. Nick cocked his head and commented to Glenn, "Okay, but for only a few minutes, we've got to get it going."

The campers were very nice and said they had prepared more ribs and chicken than they could eat or store, another family who was to join them had called and canceled out last night after they had already started cooking. "Would you boys please take some with you?" Both men had brought only one bottle of purified water and two protein bars. The offered 'bagged' lunches were already packed and ready to go.

Nick and Glenn gladly accepted and were soon back on the trail. "How about that partner?" said Nick. "Say Glenn, didn't his wife kinda resemble your older sister?

"Some for sure and the grandfather compared to my wife's grand-daddy," he added.

"Oops, this is where we make our turn here for the crossover," stated Nick. "The ground's pretty clear and the foliage isn't too dense. Still, watch your step if you see wet leaves and cob webs especially those shoulder high. We'll find the best orchids attached to pine trees at ten to twenty feet high. And... that just happens to be the reaching limit of my home-made telescoping tree trimmer I'm carrying in this gunny sack," he displayed proudly. "It has five interlocking sections with an attached trimmer. "Pretty cool, huh?"

They had traversed at a slow pace - being through, for less than a hundred yards when Glenn while scanning upward at the passing pine tree trunks, noticed something strange. He stopped as did Nick - keying on his partner, who reasoned his buddy had spotted their first good specimen. "Hey, Nick. Check out the sky above us. Are my eyes playing tricks? I swear it looks light green instead of blue, even the clouds. Does that happen because of the humidity here in the forest?"

Nick peered through the openings in the tree canopy and answered, "Yep, it's sure enough green. Now that I think about it, I observed this once before about five years ago but it wasn't directly overhead like this one. I've read some scientific publications regarding this phenomenon. This display is usually seen in a relatively small, elongated swath of sky which covers approximately one/twentieth of your total visibility from one horizon to the other. The color distortion is not caused by humidity or foliage density. The occurrence appears all over the world even in arid terrain. The event lasts three to five minutes then disappears. Scientists think... rather guess, it's relative to a moon reflection being interfered or interspersed by another planet crossing a part of Earth's orbit. Horse-hocky I say. The _scientists_ have always blamed the moon for everything they don't understand for three thousand years. The state of Florida and due south seem to have more incidents than most places, maybe one every two or three years... even so with all their so-called technology they go undetected." Before Glenn could get into the discussion the color faded away. "See that, Bud? You gotta look fast. You were lucky; you may never observe another spectacle as such for the rest of your life. Oh, by the way that freak of nature we just witnessed is called, The Green Flash."

They travelled just a little further and were confronted by an even more bizarre sight. There, a mere fifteen yards dead ahead was a patch of light-green, slow swirling mist. It was positioned between two pine trees, floated six inches above the ground and formed a square eight foot high and wide. The mist was too dense to see through and appeared to be about one foot thick in depth. "Nick, do you see that green smog? It seems to be the same color as your Green Flash."

"Yeah, weird," agreed his partner. "It'll probably fade away pretty soon." It didn't and they drew closer. Nick stood in what he perceived to be the enigma's front and Glenn was positioned to the right side where he could see the rear when a darting dragonfly accidently flew into the green gas. It didn't exit the backside! "Whoa," remarked Nick. What are we dealing with here? This thing could be dangerous."

"Do you think the bug got nuked?" asked Glenn.

"I have no idea. It could be poisonous gas but I think one of us would have seen the dragonfly drop to the ground so I'll agree to your nuke theory for the moment. Don't get any closer until I run some field tests." He was a Environmental Restoration engineer and knew a few simple tricks. "Let's find something alive such as a frog or a lizard, put it in there for a minute and see what happens."

"Er, okay," answered Glenn. "Where are we going to find a test subject?"

"Not a problem," advised Nick. "This is the forest, they're everywhere." He spied a small, fallen log. "Let's roll this puppy over; I'll bet someone's sleeping under it." Sure enough, they captured a small, harmless toad. Nick quickly fastened it with twine to the end of two connected four foot sections of his orchid trimmer. "See, he's not hurt at all. You watch the backside as I slowly insert this fellow. We'll find out what's going on." He poked the specimen in and Glenn didn't see the pole or frog exit the rear. Nick withdrew his tool, examined the bewildered creature then let him go. "Let's watch him for a moment." He was fine. "What the hell do we have here?" mumbled Nick. He paced silently about then announced, "The mist appears harmless. I've got see for myself."

"What!" sputtered Glenn. "Sounds risky to me. Suppose this frog hops away and dies tomorrow? We won't know if it's truly dangerous unless _you_ keel over."

Nick frowned, "Yes, that could happen. But what if it's safe, the possibilities are profound. I'm going to do it. Will you help me?" Glenn grunted a reluctant, _yes_. "I have plan. I'll show you what I want done." First, Nick stuck his hand in and out then proclaimed, "I didn't feel any discomfort," as he examined himself closely.

For his next test, The Big One, he had his wrist tethered to a twelve-foot section and stood in front of the swirling mist. "I'm going to hold my breath and wear these safety goggles" which he had extracted from his gunny sack and donned. "I'm ready, Glenn. Count off one minute on your wristwatch, give me two tugs and I swear I'll hurry back. Drag me if you have to."

Nick stepped into the mist; Glenn started his countdown and wondered how they went from collecting orchids to being nuked? "Fifty-nine, sixty!" and yanked hard twice on the pole. Nick returned from the abyss and Glenn wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.

With his eyes as big as saucers, Nick gushed, "You're not going to believe this!"

Nick's exuberance was overwhelming. Glenn had to take a step back to give the man room for his near-spastic jumping and waving of his arms. "Glenn, Glenn, you've got to see this!"

"See what, Nick? You were only gone a minute into that green haze. What do you mean?"

Nick ripped his goggles off, grabbed his friend's shoulders in an iron vise and stared deep into his buddy's eyes. Glenn, there's another world on the other side. This is a portal to another world!"

"Uh-hun,' responded Glenn - confident the green gas was hallucinatory and told him so.

"No, no!" bellowed Nick. "It's real. I'll show you. I can lead you safely," he declared with imploring eyes set in a face of desperation. "I'll lay out my trimmer to its full length so we'll be able to find our way back just in case," then quickly connected the sections and pushed the tool through to where there was only two feet of pipe left on their side. "Take my hand and we'll pass through together."

"What about poisonous gas? I'm overweight and can't hold my breath for more than thirty seconds."

"No problem, the other side's entrance is the same as ours, one foot thick. And... I confess. I cheated a little bit." Glenn raised his eyebrows, 'How'? "After seeing a natural habitat, I took a breath. It was an oxygen/nitrogen composition almost exactly as ours. Of course only a lab test can confirm this but I feel we'll be fine as long as we don't stay more than a coupla' hours. Trust me. I know about these things," and Glenn conceded he did because of Nick's vocation.

Okay, let's go!" and they both stepped into the gateway as Glenn closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.

The Other Side

The two men surveyed their surroundings in a different degrees of wonder: Nick with an engineer's scientific evaluation and Glenn with more of a "What the hell _is_ this?"

"Let's explore," declared Nick. "We won't wander out of sight of the portal, I promise."

"Er, okay" agreed Glenn, "but I'm going to leave a trail of bread crumbs," he joked.

Their 'new' Earth surrounding's appeared as if they were on the outside edge of a struggling, thinning patch of forest. The sky appeared a very pale pink and a badlands loomed before them. "Ow. I looked up at the sun and it stung my eyes," informed Glenn.

"We'd better put on sunglasses and hats," advised Nick. "We don't know the true density or composition of this stratosphere. My eyes tingle slightly and it feels a little too warm for this level of sunshine. Yep, I'm pretty sure this atmosphere is thinner than ours."

They advanced a couple hundred yards away from their entry point - keeping it within sight at all times and soon discovered a road crossing their path as they entered the badlands.

"Look at this," directed Nick. "It appears to be a single-lane highway." He knelt down, "The composition is strange. It looks and feels as if it's made of a plastic/rubber base. No petroleum or concrete. I've never seen anything like it." The road seemed to stretch forever to their left - they had no reference of true geometric direction and when they looked in the opposite direction... they thought they saw a dot on the horizon and it was moving toward them!

The two men watched intently the approaching spot. Nick said, "Let's back up into the tree line behind us and hunker down. I don't want to be caught in the open and attacked by a strain of intelligent, yet flesh-eating bugs or whatever type of bizarre animal which could be operating that vehicle. We may be able to check them out as they pass or it may be something simple as an empty, automated transport." They retreated into concealment and observed.

The vehicle came into view. Its design was that of a bus, ran quiet as if it were powered by electricity and travelled at approximately thirty m.p.h. The vehicle slowed as it neared their position. "Uh-oh," mumbled Glenn. "Do they know we are here?"

"Don't know," answered Nick. "Let's sit tight a little bit longer." He eyed the green portal, "If anything looks suspicious turn and run back through the gateway." Glenn nodded vigorously, "Damn straight."

The bus stopped on line of the portal with the two friends positioned directly in between. Six beings exited the bus, the driver did not. They appeared to be human and all wore black jump suits, matching helmets, terrain boots and wrap-around tinted goggles. They looked identical to a SWAT team. Three carried a device which resembled a weird looking Taser rifle. Nick then noticed a small radar dish mounted atop the bus pointing in their direction. Actually, it was aimed beyond and behind at the green gateway and now the 'men' had spread out in a line and were advancing toward them.

"Oops," uttered Glenn. "I think it's time to introduced ourselves before we end up on the receiving end of those funny looking devices which I'd bet are some kind of weapon."

They stood up and waved to the advancing troops. "Hello, we're visitors. Can you understand us?" while showing open hands.

The men halted and conferred with each other in an unfamiliar language. Then one called back, "Yes, we understand. Did you come through the portal?"

"Yes," answered Nick and soon all were standing face to face.

"We've never been here before," explained Nick.

"And _we've_ never encountered people from your side who have come through before our scout team's arrival," added the troop leader. " I am Jakop seven. Welcome to our world. This is a most fortuitous event for both of us."

"Then you've met people from our side before?" asked Glenn.

"Yes, we have experienced this many times and as a result have learned your language. It is required in order to be a member of this team."

"Amazing," commented Nick. "I can't recall any mentions or records of these encounters. I don't understand why not... unless our military were involved. They hide everything from the _common_ people."

"We are not familiar with the politics of your world but have found your prior visitors were filled with awe and questions... and we will gladly answer all. First, we will show you where and how we live. Don't worry about the portal, it will not close for three days. We have tracked and dealt with this phenomenon many times."

"Have these crossovers been going on for a while?" asked Glenn.

"Yes, many years," answered the commentator.

Nick shook his head in wonder. "You can rest assured, this will no longer be a secret when _we_ return."

"Fine and if you wish, we can give you the grand tour and have you speak to some of our most prominent councilmen. Now, if you chose to continue then please board our transport."

Glenn noted they all had NA#21 embroidered just below their left shoulder. The speaker saw him and said, this identifies we are of NA#21, our home city."

The two friends looked at each other in agreement, even Glenn was excited at this opportunity. Nick said, " Please and thank you" as the pair boarded the bus and sat up front in the first available passenger seats. Two of the six black-clad men climbed on broad and sat behind them, the others remained behind and waved as they left.

"Wow," gushed Nick. Who woulda, coulda thought of this? This is beyond fantastic!"

As the group travelled on the plastic/rubberized highway, three separate large, half-bubbles came into view. They appeared to be situated five miles apart from each other and formed a geographic triangle. "Those two cities to the right and left are NA#22 and 23 in our tri-pod complex," explained the driver." As you can see, we are interconnected and each is responsible for various contributions which are shared by all. Two of _our_ many duties are Redevelopment and Labor management. I'm sorry to get ahead of myself; the City Admin Council will fill you in on all the important details. Please enjoy the ride my most welcome visitors," and they certainly did.

Just before entering the dome, another bus sped pass them in the direction from whence they came.

As they entered the city the two men behind them provided new commentary. "The pod's structure is pseudo-plastic, a one, half circle starting at ground level and ending in a central peak which houses our communication and atmospheric tracking devices. As you can see, it's similar to an ancient wooden wagon-wheel spoke pattern but also has interwoven uniform, crisscrossed, latticed sections from top to bottom. This provides optimum strength and ease for making repairs due to atmospheric disturbances such as tornados, hurricanes, etcetera. The light- grey ultraviolet shading gives vision and epidermal protection to our ten thousand residents. Here, on ground level you'll also find the roads fan outward from the center hub which has our Government Administration buildings and Citizen's Help facilities. Next, extending further out are the essential industries and finally ending with the populace living quarters lining the perimeter."

Nick and Glenn were very impressed by their efficient design and cleanliness based on the public park-like facilities and transit network. They observed many commuters wearing various colored jump suits riding bi and tricycles who after reaching their destination parked their rides in underground garages which also removed clutter and preserved the aesthetic beauty of their pod. There were also many orange clad laborers of whom our escorts explained were the lowest level of civil maintenance, every society had such a work force.

We agreed stating, "At least they aren't serving time in jail or on a chain gang."

The driver explained, "We don't have jails or a penal system. Everyone works and is happy to contribute."

"Interesting. Is this a Utopia?" thought Nick. Then asked, "Even senior citizens?"

"As long as they are healthy and desire to continue working. When they choose to retire or develop an incapacitating medical ailment they move into our Senior Center and are well cared for," was our guide's answer.

Ten minutes later Nick and Glenn were being ushered into the Department of Evaluation located on the twenty-first floor of the fifty story Government Headquarters building, the tallest structure in the pod and a mere one hundred feet below the dome's epicenter.

"Greeting gentlemen, I am Director Tal five," as he offered them a seat. "I trust you were given some indoctrination during your journey?" Both visitors smiled and nodded, 'yes'. "Excellent. I'm sure you still have many questions which we will deal with shortly. But first, may we ask _you_ for a little information? It may sound a bit odd but you now have a basic understanding of our society and we know nothing of yourself as individuals." The two men shrugged their shoulders in an 'of course' gesture.

"Thank you, sirs. I will now turn this procedure over to our Evaluator of the Day," a blue-clad man seated behind a desk in front of the visitors.

"Name, age and occupation please," as he pointed at Glenn.

"Glenn Grover, age thirty-four, assistant grocery manager."

"Fine, thank you," as the Evaluator checked a few items on one of his charts. "General health? Any communicable diseases at this time?" Glenn indicated, 'no'. "Good, we are finished for the moment," then turned to Nick and repeated the same questions.

"Nickolas Fleming... er, Nick, age thirty-six, Environmental Restoration Civil Engineer and no known diseases at this time. Everything's in good working order," he joked as he knocked on the desk top.

The Evaluator dropped his marker and gave a hard inquiring look at Director Tal who responded, "I see... an engineer... environmental restoration no less. Most interesting," as he returned his comrade's visual inquisition. His associate civil servant then rose from his desk, leaned over and whispered behind the Director's ear, "This is a gift from the gods," as he stared at his leader.

Tal made a decision, "I'm sorry, we need to ask you both a few more routine questions and then we'll give you the Grand Tour. But to complete this annoying required, bureaucratic process we need to speed this up a bit. Mister Grover would you please step through that adjoining door, we have another Evaluator waiting and in no time at all you both will be on your way to explore our fine city." Glenn exited, "Thank you so much, sir."

Now, we can complete this much quicker." Then the Evaluator commenced to ask numerous seemingly mundane questions for a full twenty minutes. Their equivalent of a phone rang and the Director answered. "Yes. What! But how?" He waited for the far end's reply, "I understand but can't believe it." He turned to Nick, "This has never happened before. The Portal has closed!"

"What?" stammered Nick.

"The portal... the gateway to your side has evaporated... three days before it should have," returned the Director. "That's never happened before. We've always been able to time it to the exact hour." Another alarming thought invaded his mind, "Oh, no," and turned to the Evaluator. "Quick, contact the two _search_ teams and get a personnel status." He addressed Nick, "I want to make sure no one was trapped on the..." he corrected himself. "Er, no one was hurt by the sudden collapse or possible explosion... although neither of those has occurred before either." He acted very distressed as the phone rang again. The Evaluator handed it to him, "Tal here. Yes, yes. Oh, thank goodness. All members of both teams are accounted for..." he then spoke in a soft voice, "and they were able to extract five subjects?" He listened. "No, I don't know how to proceed for the next time. The Weather Bureau will have to analyze and direct us. Good job, return to gate three for processing. See you and your _subjects_ below later," and hung up.

"Good news as I'm sure you have determined," said Tal to Nick. "Neither you nor Mister Grover should be alarmed, these portals open frequently. Unfortunately, it may be a few months before another opens near enough to our tri-pod or one of the two other tri-cities on this continent. However, on the plus side: our Weather Bureau is very efficient in detecting portal opening and we will get you to an exit as soon as possible. Trust me."

Nick was stunned speechless and offered nothing. "It appears we are in an awkward position at the moment but it _is_ workable. You and Glenn are still going to get the Tour but now it will be oriented more towards your living amongst us... for a short time. A different perspective indeed! You'll enjoy it here I'm sure. Are you game?" Nick weakly nodded, 'yes'.

The two friends were rejoined and shown the workings of the pod, not so much as esteemed visitors but more as potential working citizens. After two days of 'indoctrination' they were separated for further evaluation and placed in the Elite Facilitators separate dorm-like facilities within the Government Complex.

Days passed

"I haven't seen Glenn in four days," reflected Nick. "or has it been longer? Is their day clock the same as ours? It should be; we're still on the planet Earth... I think." Nick then went to the apartment which had been assigned to Glenn. There was a different name listed on the right side of the door. Of course, it could be an old listing, after all they had both recently arrived. He knocked and a pleasant man, a power company supervisor responded. No, he didn't know Glenn and had just been assigned to this unit yesterday.

Nick, next went to the thirtieth floor - Human Resources and Housing who informed his friend had been loaned to NA#23. They needed assistance with a food processing problem and required his expertise and H.R & H wasn't aware of him trying to contact Nick before departure. Glenn's assignment should last between two and three weeks and no, you may not call him. inter-pod communications were reserved to upper level management and travel between was restricted to personnel transporting essential products. "Their sister cities might as well be ten thousand miles apart," thought Nick.

"Don't worry, he's fine," which always sounded a bit suspicious.

The following 'Monday' Nick was assigned to a restoration project at the farthest northeast perimeter of NA#23's outlying badlands; it had been the last pod constructed and needed the most environment corrective-purifications to protect them from induced toxic poisoning. It was also the same pod Glenn had been assigned. The workers were all a good crew and he provided the technical expertise. He also wore a green jump suit denoting the Environmental Department and served as second in command - a low level Government official was actually the project manager, on paper. Beyond that oddity, under Nick's direction they were correcting the damaged countryside three times faster than any team had done previously. As he worked he learned some of the terrible history of this world. There had been previous great technological-enhanced countries and civilizations which had all been completely destroyed by a global nuclear war. Today, there existed thirty-one tri-pods worldwide which were struggling to regenerate their surrounding natural resources and expand underground capacities where is where they grew their food resources since the atmosphere was lethal to long term human vegetarian consumption. They could communicate with each other but didn't have intercontinental transport abilities. All offensive weapons, petroleum generated devices and derivative products were banned. Civilization's present communities survived on electricity and in some locales, candles within the residences.

Back to what Nick felt was an unusual occurrence in the work force: The best technician on the crew was an older gentleman, someone who he reasoned was close to retirement and spoke to him concerning such at the beginning of the project. The man became alarmed and fretted, "You're not going to force me to retire are you? Are you going to tell the Government people I'm not good enough? I'll work harder... I'll do whatever you want." He grabbed Nick's sleeve and pleaded, "Please don't do this to me. They'll send me to the Retirement Center... for the good of all."

"No, no," returned Nick. "You're my best worker and you can stay on _my_ crew as long as you want." The man reacted as if he had been reprieved from a death sentence. A week later Nick noticed the old man's job assignment had been replaced by a younger person. He inquired of his official project manager, "Why?" and was told that particular worker had reached the mandatory retirement age and now resided at the Senior Center. "Oh, well," reflected Nick. "I'm sure he'll be much happier after a little adjustment. I'll look in on him in a coupla weeks and say, Hi," then asked the manager, "Where _is_ the Center located?"

"The Senior and Medical Centers are directly above the Food Development Facilities - the layout is identical for all tri-pods. The program's geographical alignment is the most efficient for the good of all.

"For the good of all," he had heard this expression a number of times. "Did it mean more than just ground space optimum utilization?"

The project manager noticed the furrow in Nick's brow and went on to explain: "Beneath the city is a vast network of tunnels and caverns where our organic and hydroponic gardens are grown using artificial light and irrigated from subterranean fresh water streams, that's why the pods were constructed on these particular locations. As you have found, the atmosphere outside is too toxic to sustain nutritious vegetation growth. The expansion of our underground resources is coupled with the above ground purification which you have so expertly helped. The overall operation falls within the Food Development department."

"Yes, it appears the outside plant life is anemic and struggling," agreed Nick. "What about raising livestock inside?"

"We haven't raised any for over two hundred years; we tried but they all died. The populace is solely sustained by a manufactured product called Nutri Bar which is healthy and flavorful. Necessitation and adaptation has fulfilled our needs and desires. "

Nick thought, "Like hell and all the reason more to have a big delicious steak when I return home," then took another bite of his mundane lunch, the product his manager had just referred to. 'Crunch' "Humm, what do we have here? A nut perhaps?" He dug it out and examined the semi-hard article... once, twice and three times. "I'll be damned, it's a piece of a fingernail!" and presented it to his supervisor. "Should we refer this to Food Quality Control? It appears someone is not wearing plastic gloves when processing."

"No," he returned. "Things like this happen on occasion. Food Processing is still a struggling, developing operation and will improve." Followed by what Nick considered a most bizarre statement. "Eat it. It's all protein and _good_ for you."

A week later, during an evening after fighting Mother Nature on NA#23's perimeter

Nick was in his _new_ _home_ , his assigned apartment, reclining in a lounger and listening to soothing classical music which was pumped into every home, work and public place. The broadcasts included required mandatory community involvement project information struck him as being similar to propaganda mind control. He pondered anew why he hadn't been able to locate Glenn... or the old man who had been replaced on his work crew. When he visited the Senior Center he was informed the worker had unexpectedly passed away. "Strange," he thought. "He appeared to be excellent health, and odd also there were less than ten retirees in residence." Nick calculated a city of ten thousand should have at least fifty to hundred souls dwelling there. Then there was still the on-going problem of Glenn. "Where in the heck was he?" The answers to his inquires had changed from he's working at ___ to, "We don't know his present assignment or, What is his name again?"

A knock at the door. He opened it to reveal an attractive lady he took to be a tad older than himself. She was of average height, had ice cold, blue eyes, brunette hair and a pleasant smile. "Mister Fleming? Nick?" He nodded, 'yes'. "Hello, I'm Nilsa. I've been sent by the Stability Committee to be your comfort mate."

He noticed she was carrying a suitcase. "Who, what... are you talking about?"

"Oh," she appeared slightly embarrassed. "Again, it seems a recipient hasn't been advised beforehand. I declare, the communications between some departments just doesn't ever improve does it? May I enter?" and he stepped aside. "Nice apartment... and I should know; I've lived in a whole lot worse. You must be an important man to live in this complex. This will be most pleasant."

"Pardon?" he stuttered.

Being direct to the point, "I've been assigned to dwell with you and provide stability," explained Nilsa. "It is our custom no one lives alone. Loneliness creates disharmony and job inefficiency." She surveyed the layout closer, "Yes indeed, you must be a very valued worker for the pod indeed, especially since you weren't adjusted."

Nick was in no way prepared for this particular turn of events but still responded, "Do you mean to live here... with me... as a companion? Sorry, there has been a mistake. You see, I'm married and merely a visitor. I'm to return home shortly... as soon as a new portal opens." He could see she understood his response... but there was more to it than just his point of view.

She smiled and dropped her luggage on the floor. "Oh, is that what they told you? You've been here for a while, yes? I thought a smart man such as yourself would have figured out no one leaves _our,_ or any tri-pod . Many _visitors_ have come from your side and most have ended in our basic work force."

"Most? Basic?"

"Hmm, yes, but not everyone," answered Nilsa. "Nearly every new entrant has resulted in contributing to the good of all," which he didn't understand or wished to pursue at this moment. "I'm disappointed by our Authority's lack of indoctrination regarding our culture, Nick. Not a problem, I will help you understand. It appears now's the time I inform you I'm here to stay. It is non-negotiable. Please don't fret. No one has been disappointed with me yet. However, if you absolutely feel we can not be amicable the Stability Committee will send a replacement, Dear. Now, where is the bedroom, Nick? I need to put my things away and freshen up. Would you carry it for me?" pointing at the suitcase.

"Certainly. The bedroom is straight ahead... and I'll be sleeping on the couch."

More weeks passed and Nilsa turned out to a good companion and somewhat of a friend. She was pleasant, knowledgeable and easy to pass time with. They were not intimate. Both worked ten hour days as did everyone, she on a construction materials assembly line. Nick's work schedule required an extra two hours for travel to and from the pod perimeters so his evenings consisted of a shower, dinner - a chemically flavored Nuitro bar, relaxing to classical music which sounded too familiar and conversing with his house mate. He learned she had last resided with a Weatherman, a most prestigious position within the Government. Unfortunate, he died of a sudden heart attack and she was placed on the Available listing.

Locating portals were _the_ top priority; she didn't explain why. There were many more occurrences than Nick had thought and every tri-pod worldwide responded as quickly as possible to an opening if it were within a three day's travel. Nick inquired why it was so important and she answered with that annoying, "For the good of all." Apparently he hadn't been there long enough to understand the intricacies of this foundation phrase. "Oh well, at this point I really don't care. I'll be leaving soon," he reasoned to himself.

Working on the edge of the badlands and another lunch break, he bit down - carefully now and again encountered another foreign object. He dug it out and inspected it; this was becoming a most disturbing pattern. This time it appeared to be two connected bones, very small such as found in a child's foot. Nick didn't overreact and casually mentioned it to the Project Manager who had been changed, "I don't recall seeing any children in the city. As you know, I'm a newcomer and thankful to be living here. I wholeheartedly support all the wonderful Government programs. Educate me, please." Nick was learning to play the game. "Where are the children?"

"Why in the Child Development Center, of course," he was informed. Nick gave a 'Please explain more' expression. "They receive the best care, education and job training so they can enter the regular work force smoothly at age fourteen unless they have been deemed worthy to receive advance education as I was." He seemed pleased with his up-bringing and himself - an obvious product of the system.

"Yes, a most efficient program," concurred Nick as he tossed away a child's toe bone. He lost his appetite.

On his return trip home from the Outlands his situation got worse - a lot worse.

Nick's four vehicle caravan entered the north gate and was traversing through one of the industrial complexes. Upon nearing the Research and Development Center which had numerous glass windows, he noticed an orange clad worker gathering up his cleaning materials. "He must be finished for the day," he assumed. Nick observed, "But wait, that man looks familiar. Could it be?"

"Stop the bus!" yelled Nick. The driver screeched to a halt, thinking he was about to have an accident. Nick hurried to the door and jumped out. He cautiously approached the worker who had his back toward him. "Glenn... Glenn is that you?" The man turned slowly as if he were in a trance. "Yes!" It was his missing friend Glenn! He ran to him and affectionately hugged his shoulders. "Buddy, where have you been? I've been searching months for you!" Glenn appeared thinner; he had lost twenty-five pounds. His face was shallow and his eyes were sunken. "What the hell? How _are_ you? You look _bad_." Nick didn't notice the worker transport bus which had stopped next to them. "Glenn, answer me. What happened to you?"

His friend's mouth moved slowly - a struggle, a hallow voice said, "I am good... this life is better." Suddenly two black-clad security men carrying Tasers pushed their way in between. One touched his weapon and gave Nick a warning look as the other began leading Glenn toward the labor bus where a dozen riders stared in a blank daze. "Wait, I need to talk to him."

The first 'guard' blocked his way and ordered "Stand back" as the other guided Glenn inside the waiting transport.

Nick felt his project manager grab his arm and state, "You're interfering with an official city work operation. You may inquire of this person later through the proper channels," as the labor bus departed.

Nick rode back in silence as his supervisor watched him closely. "Okay," he reasoned. "Now I know where and what Glenn's doing. I'll find him later, if he isn't relocated." Nick strategized, "I don't want his work location changed," and decided to mislead Big Brother. "I'm sorry, Boss. I was in error. I don't know the man. He looked vaguely familiar."

The project manager surprised, responded, "You don't know him? Are you _sure_?"

"Yes," answered Nick. "A complete error," then apologized to the other riders on his transport. "Sorry to delay you guys. I made a dumb mistake." His supervisor seemed satisfied and didn't report the incident.

Later in the evening Nick revealed to Nilsa his two experiences. She conceded to herself he would never be the truly compatible partner she desired and decided Nick should return to his own world or at least make an effort. She revealed there had been a few previous Newcomers as he with desired, specialized skills at other pods but they hadn't lasted long. The cultural differences were too much for them to bear. They either committed suicide or violently confronted the authorities which resulted in their being given a chemical semi-lobotomy and placed in the menial labor force... and of course, eventually led to their being added to the Food Bank.

Recycled _people_ were the protein in Nutri Bars. That's why the portals were so important; normal population reproduction wasn't sufficient to fill their survival needs. Armed Raiders crossed over and abducted victims - For the good of all. Humans, animals, everything they could lay their hands on - even the classical music was stolen from the other side. Nick was beyond shock but listened quietly because it was all beginning to fall into place. She made it very clear: "No Newcomer has ever escaped... as far as I know."

Nilsa assured Nick she sympathized with his plight and said she would contact a good friend, her ex-companion's brother who still worked at the Weather Bureau, to learn of any portal occurring within their own tri-pod range. Nilsa also stated if a Retrieval team were dispatched she would be notified a.s.a.p... and again reminded him of his dreadful chance of success. Nick said, "Thank you" and meant it. In spite of this spark of hope, Nick's heart remained heavy for not being home with his beloved wife.

A freak of nature

Another Green Flash appeared at 3:00 am, a mere eighty miles north, an incredible rarity. Even more so, there also existed a road adjacent to the site. This could be a bonanza to the NA#'d inhabitants. They may be able to capture twenty or more subjects - four Taser-armed Raider transports were to be dispatched at daybreak.

Nilsa received an early morning call from her friend at the Weather Bureau and immediately passed the info to Nick. The Retrieval team had just left a few minutes ago. Nick reasoned he could trail and beat them into the portal with a little luck. He grabbed the canvas sack brought with him through the Green Flash gateway, there were a few specific items contained which could be helpful. His pistol came foremost to mind. This world didn't have lethal weapons, even so he had to stay out of their Taser's range. Nilsa relayed there would be twenty Raiders on this operation: four drivers and sixteen retrievers. Their convoy would require approximately two hours to establish their cordons and restraints. Nick felt he would have time to park out of sight, scoot around their perimeter and enter the portal first. They would probably see him when he makes a run at the gateway and that's where his gun will come into play. A warning shot should dissuade them from making an immediate pursuit. It sounded like a viable plan, but then they all do beforehand. Glenn was his first major hurdle - he had to be at the same work location. Nick would not abandon his friend.

He and Nilsa said their goodbyes with kisses and hugs, both were sincere. She went to work as if nothing were happening and dropped her soon-to-be ex-housemate at the City Transport Pool to check out a land cruiser - Nick had the necessary clearance being a Restoration engineer.

He then drove to the Research and Development complex which was large, covering at least two city blocks. No Glenn. "Oh crap. Where _is_ he?" Nick began circling the facility of four separate buildings interconnected with overhead catwalks. "I sure didn't expect this!" he growled. Around, around... a delivery road between the structures... a figure sweeping a platform in the distance. Could it be? Nick turned and pulled closer. It was! He sped to the foot of the loading dock, hopped out and rushed to him. "Glenn, Glenn, we've got to go. Drop your broom and come with me." His friend gave a dazed look and said nothing. A supply supervisor was reporting to work and gave a questioning stare at the pair. Nick flipped his plastic ID. Card at him and stated, "Priority reassignment. We need laborers in the badlands immediately." The man seemed satisfied and nodded assent. Nick hustled Glenn into the cruiser and drove away at a lawful speed. His friend just stared ahead; he was living in a slow motion, non-thinking world. "The doctors back home can fix him," Nick assured himself.

Nick, with Glenn as a front seat passenger, caught up and trailed the Retrieval caravan at a safe distance - far behind and barely visible. He had first tried to engage his friend in light conversation but Glenn was unresponsive. So Nick decided to dumb it down to the simplest yes/no questions; alas, to no avail either. The best he received was a repeated, 'I am good... this life is better.' Every time he heard it he cringed and fumed. Nick assured his buddy, "Don't worry, Glenn. We're gonna fix you up just fine when we get home." He was incensed even further when he finally grasped that Director Tal had lied: the portal had not closed prematurely early - he had tricked them into thinking they couldn't leave and were trapped temporarily. Even worse, those five _subjects_ he discussed on the phone were the family in the forest who gave them a lunch to take with them... captured and facing eventual death. "Bastards, bastards all!"

Nick had driven two and a half hours when he glanced ahead after another frustrating attempt with Glenn and discovered he couldn't see the convoy ahead anymore. "Oh, no. Did they see me and speed up to get away?" He checked his watch and remembered Nilsa saying, 'about eighty miles.' He reasoned, "Therefore, they must have seen the portal or be searching for it off-road. Of course, silly me the gateway wouldn't be sitting in the middle of the highway!" He then realized the countryside wasn't lined with trees as he had expected, in fact there was hardly any foliage at all. "Geez, I guess this eliminates my sneaking around them. I need a plan B or C now."

He slowed to just above walk speed and made a calculated, guess to where they may have turned off. No vehicles in sight. But wait! There appeared to be multiple tire tracks in the soft dirt exiting on the left side. He scanned their direction - nothing. He pondered, "Still, those must be theirs and there are undulating foothills ahead. They could be in a dip or out of sight perhaps as much as two miles ahead; either way I can find them by tracing their tire marks."

After following their trail and hoping what he was tracking wasn't the remnants of an earlier excursion while _his_ real quarry had driven/escaped thirty miles away, the convoy vehicles came into view. "Thank goodness," Nick exhaled. And then as in a revelation, the distant portal came into view: a light-green glowing doorway to Home... guarded by twenty armed men!

Nick could not approach undetected and guiding Glenn through the contingent of Raiders would be akin to passing a meat cart through a den of lions. He devised another 'new plan'... this one was for all the marbles. If it didn't work he and his buddy would end up ingredients in the Food Bank pronto.

The convoy came into full view; their vehicles had formed a half circle on the portal's west side. Nick estimated their troops were setting up approximately thirty yards from this world's gateway entrance. He had learned from Nilsa the portal always faced east/west and the dimensions were constant. Nick couldn't perceive any way to get between the Raiders and his way home or into position to fire a warning shot to keep them back. If he actually killed one of them they would all rush him and surely get to his slow-moving friend. Any type of fear displayed or running beforehand would tip his hand. He pondered and came up with: Deception. He would pretend to be a last minute attachment to their team.

He drove up, parked at the top of the caravan's perimeter and slipped his thirty-eight pistol into his waistband. Nick exited his vehicle then directed Glenn to carry his gunny sack and fall in behind. No hurry, yelling or quick motions; he must present himself as a person of authority. All members of the Retrieval team halted their preparations: placing rope cordons, erecting tables filled with restraints and blinding hoods. They didn't become alarmed or defensive - more akin to curious.

Their team leader came forward to question the pair's intrusion. Nick casually addressed the man, displayed his credentials and stated, "Nick Fleming, Restoration engineer."

"Yes, I recognized your department's color. Sir, are you aware this is a Retrieval mission? Why are you here... with a common laborer?" queried the leader.

"Of course, I know the nature of your mission," he shot back. "I have been sent to evaluate the feasibility of establishing a construction supply relay depot in this quadrant. I was instructed to make you aware I will be canvassing the area and return with your convoy. We'll quarter with you during the night. Does that meet your approval?" The leader nodded consent. Pointing at Glenn, "Don't worry he won't hinder your operation, he's my grunt." Nick squinted at the glowing green gateway. "I'll admit I'm concerned about that pocket of swirling gas over there. Is it dangerous? The Department can't establish a facility in a hazardous environment. You may utilize him (Glenn) if you need a test subject."

That won't be necessary sir," answered the trooper. He pointed at the Green Flash portal, "It's safe. That's our passage to the other world. We've hoping to retrieve forty to fifty subjects over the next two and a half days. Then it will dissipate. The Weather Bureau believes we may be located close to one of their towns. A capture of that magnitude would be a great boost for the good of all. We won't be ready to enter for another thirty minutes. Would you like a closer look?"

"Indeed!" gushed Nick.

"Follow me please," directed the leader. He led his two visitors within ten feet of its entrance as his men resumed their preparations. "This is as close as I may allow you... regulations. We can't chance an accidental penetration which may startle subjects on the other side and cause them to retreat. Our operating procedure is to send two men through to recon, they report back then we enter en force after nightfall."

"Sounds like a plan," retorted Nick. "And speaking of plans, I have one also." He grabbed the pistol from his waistband, held his arm at his side and aimed it at the man's stomach in a manner so as not to be visually evident to the others. "Do you know what I have in my hand? Whisper your answer."

"Yes," returned the surprised trooper. "But why are you pointing it at _me_?"

"Because we're going through first and if you make a noise or move I'll shoot you." The Raider leader still seemed confused until Nick added, "We're from the other side and we're going home."

The man's eyes grew wide as he moaned, "Oh, no."

"Glenn, stand next to me," instructed Nick and then they both began backing toward the gateway. Nick warned anew, "If anyone sticks his nose through, I'll blow his brains out." He hoped the threat would slow the enemy. He knew they _had_ to pursue in order to stop him from alerting his world. Nick pushed his buddy into the portal and coached, "Keep walking Glenn, you'll be fine." He then began backing himself and said, "Remember my gun," as he disappeared into the swirling, green mist.

Home

A Duval county park within the Jacksonville, Florida city limits

Nick and Glenn emerged to find themselves surrounded by a National Guard armored brigade under the command of the World Security Council. The U. S. soldiers were hunkered down with a vast assortment of weaponry aimed at the jump-suited invaders. Their troops were positioned a hundred yards distant and clearly saw the advancing green-clad man carrying a pistol, drop into a crouch as if to fire.

The major in charge confirmed his orders on the radio and commanded, "Lieutenant, rifle squad one, commence firing!" Twenty shots rang out in unison, most hitting and killing the invading duo instantly. A few missed and passed into the portal, silently striking the flustered Raider leader. Several of his troopers saw him drop and rushed to investigate.

"Lieutenant, send squad two to the portal and throw those bastards back through as far as you can." Eight, strong U.S. Army soldiers seized the arms and legs of Nick and Glenn and with a mighty heave hurled their bodies twenty feet on the other side, nearly on top of the fallen Raider leader. All the NA#d troopers rushed to the growing pile of dead.

"Lieutenant, fire a bazooka into that green hole then cut loose with our mounted heavy machine guns."

"Yes, sir. Fire number one B-round now!" 'Whump' A white vapor trail disappeared into the gateway, no sound returned. The streaking missile passed safely through the gathering Raiders, struck one of their collection vehicles and blew it to smithereens. A hail of machine gun bullets followed, dispatching every enemy trooper close to the portal. The shocked remaining Raiders outside the line of receiving fire sprinted to the still operational transports and beat a hasty retreat.

"Cease fire, Lieutenant. Set up the flood lights and establish a twelve hour watch schedule. The portal will take three days to close. Those bastards have been crossing over and kidnaping thousands of people all over the world for years. We now have the technology to locate these gateways created by the Green Flash and stop these monsters. Every time, just as this time, we'll be waiting for them. However, I believe we sent a clear message today of what will happen if they make another attempt."

The Raider survivors reported the encounter and subsequently all tri-pods worldwide discontinued further intrusions. Their administrators had realized the _other side_ could now detect portal openings also and were in fear of their superior weapons... especially a retaliatory attack which could destroy their protective bubbles. "We have to live within our own means," they resolved.

Nick and Glenn, two fallen patriots, laid dead under the burning sun along with the abandoned Raiders for three more days... until the Retrievers returned to collect their last bounty for the Food Bank.

The end

# 'Til Death Do Us Part

Daisy Hawkins was born in their small homestead's family cabin four miles southwest of Maysville, North Carolina in 1895. Daisy had never been a happy person. All she could remember of her childhood was hard work, especially after Papa got worst-drunk than usual and took off when she just turned eight years old. They never saw the cowardly bastard again and Momma figured he went back to Arkansas to shack-up with his old girlfriend, a floozy roadhouse waitress. Besides, her mother couldn't press the fool to stay, they weren't a legal-like, preacher married couple - no one in the sticks was which made it all _too_ convenient for the menfolk when they wanted to seek better plowing elsewhere and a pile of crap for those left behind. To her runaway common-law husband, his staying and helping provide was a commitment he didn't feel he owed. Momma swore: If'n he ever showed his sorry ass back here again, she'd shoot him dead and told her daughter so.

Their two person family barely made ends meet by working the meager crops and raising pigs and chickens to sell at the weekend Farmer's Market. Daisy wouldn't travel with her; she was ashamed of her appearance and just down-right hated people looking at her. Then, in the winter of 1911 the worse came a knocking at their door: her mother got struck down by the flu bug and died within three weeks. Daisy was now completely alone; there weren't no kinfolk she knew of or neighbors she could turn to for help. Putting that aside, even at sixteen she had the skills and toughness to survive but became bitter to the bone through the years of ceaseless struggle.

Then one Spring day in 1926, her neighbor, Ernest from a coupla miles down the road came to visit and they got to talking. He recognized her from the Market (which she had to do herself since her mother's passing ) and confided he was pretty much a loner also. "Ain't got no use for people sticking their noses in my business," he declared.

She agreed and respected his view then reasoned, "Maybe _this_ man's different... he acts like so and ain't said nothing 'bout how ugly I am."

Seems, his wife had passed away six months ago, "Not really sure from what," he explained. Neither he nor his wife believed in doctors: thought they all were pill-pushing, money-grabbing thieves. "When it's your time, it's your time," he stated. "All the potions you need for proper healing are right in your own back yard." Turns out Ernest had been unemployed for the last eight years, which he didn't disclose, was 46 years of age and had no children - who lived beyond childbirth.

Daisy, herself was a weathered 31, 5'1'' tall and weighed in at hefty 170 pounds, - she weren't no fashion model that's for sure. She tolerated his company in the evening after her chores were done because she didn't have no one to listen to since Momma had passed and put up with his occasional nip of shine', after all he had a sizeable ride home on his horse. After a few months and with the winter coming, he made a proposition to move in with her. She had a better homestead than his and by working together it would be easier on the both of them. They'd be trying a friendly trial partnership.

"No funny business, I swear," he assured. "I'll sleep outside your bedroom in the living room. You'll as safe as a dollar in a bank and if it works out as I know it will, I'll sell my property and get us some money for repairs and restock. I'll also tell the Authorities we is man and wife (common law) so as to get food stamps and whatever else they'll give. We'll be sitting pretty. Deal?"

She accepted the trial and it all went well for a coupla' months: he'd help out with the crops and livestock then go check on his property and mail box every few days. Per their living arrangement, he didn't bother her by talking too much or trying to get personal but even so she noticed his mood had been changing a little bit day by day. He drank every night - every country man did, but it had increased to where he became mouthy and a little ugly before he near passed out on the couch where he slept.

Then one evening after dinner, approaching Christmas it happened. The Man Thing, which she had never experienced before, came full bore after he became licker'd up but not so much as to be incapacitated. Ernest had been jabbering as much as usual but looking at her a whole lot more and different too. "Why are you staring at me?" she asked. "Did I do somethin' wrong?"

"You, you're what's wrong," he snapped back. She cocked her head in a "Why?" gesture. "All the things I done for you and you treat me worse than a barnyard critter." Daisy gave a blank look. "See thar!" He spouted, "You ain't got no idea. I work this place and keep my own 'stead presentable in order to get a buyer... for us. I moved my livestock here so we could raise and sell em' at a better price. I hafta' do all the Marketing cause you hate people lookin' at you... lucky for us I'm a good seller. It was me who told the County and State we was married and you were with child so we could get more stamps and stuff in case _you_ have to go to the hospital for somethin' bad. I've done everything and ain't getting nothin' in return!"

"Ernest, this was our agreement. I don't understand what's causing your concern. We _are_ working together."

"Listen here woman, I was a _real_ married man before my wife's passing. I was used to having my way with her... and she liked it. It's the natural thing to do when two people are living together as we are!" She was caught off guard. "And, I ain't putting up with your stand-offishness no more!" He knocked her out of the kitchen chair, ripped her clothes off and took his pleasure on the floor. Daisy resisted and received a busted lip and a black eye for her efforts \- he was too strong. When he had finished he spat, "Expect more you homely wench, every day if I want it and be glad of it. He then took a long, deep drink of moonshine, staggered to _her_ bed and fell down.

Daisy felt numb. It wasn't so much from the pain as the shock. She had been hurt before - farmers are always getting nicked up. The worse of it was the domination and stripping of her dignity, respect and self-worth coupled with the threat of it happening again and again at his whim or desire. The immediate stinging pain from the tearing trauma and soon to be bruises from the assault were quickly pushed aside in her mind by the thought, "What would my Mamma do if she got beat and raped at her husband's will?" She steamed, "My _husband_ , Hell! We ain't married but everyone thinks we is. I'm stuck. It wouldn't do no good to go find the Sheriff and tell him Ernest violated my privates. The men got all the rights."

It didn't take long to figure out what her mother's answer would be.

Daisy rose, checked to make sure he had fallen asleep, cleaned-up herself, donned fresh clothing and laid down on the couch where _he_ was supposed to be... but she didn't sleep.

The following morning

She rose at 5:00 a.m. as always and left the cabin to do her daily chores - this time she carried a little something extra to help ease the forthcoming confrontation and stashed it in the far end corner of the barn. After a several hours of feeding the chickens, slopping the pigs and pulling the never-ending, growing weeds in between the produce, she was busy shoveling horse manure inside the small, dilapidated barn when Ernest made a 9:a.m. visit and demanded breakfast.

"Hey, woman. You got any idea what time it is? You shoulda been in the kitchen an hour ago. There ain't even no coffee made!"

Daisy slowly looked up then went to hang the shovel on its hook in the corner. Not hurrying, she placed it properly, turned about and faced him with her arms at her sides.

Ernest was about to return to the cabin, sit on the front porch and await the call his breakfast was ready. He caught himself in mid-step when he noticed her just standing there and not coming out. He wondered, "Does she want some funning in the barn?" then quickly dismissed the notion but resolved he'd poke her again after dinner just to show the woman who's in charge. "What's you waiting for? Get on out here." She stood fast. He started toward her and when he had travelled halfway inside Daisy reached behind a pole, retrieved her Momma's double-barreled shotgun and brought it to bear. He halted and his mouth dropped open. "What the?" He studied her hard for a moment; she appeared calm. "All right," he said to himself then declared, "We're gonna get this settled right now! Woman, you only _thought_ you got a whupping last night." He squinted and gritted his teeth.

BLAM! Ernest's eyes flew wide open as he was blasted off his feet and landed spread eagle on his back. His _wife_ held in check the second shell then casually walked to him and stood at the foot of his bloodied body. The man was gut-shot and sure to die soon. Disbelieving, he glared back at her. Daisy said loud and clear, "And this one is for that _other thing_ you done to me," as she squeezed off the second round twelve inches below his belt line. BLAM!

That afternoon she dug a new Honeywell, tossed the dead bastard in the old one and shoveled in all the barnyard crap she could find then added the dirt from the second outhouse hole on top and packed it down. "'Til death do us part, _husband_."

Two months later a deputy sheriff came knocking at her door inquiring the whereabouts of Ernest. Had she seen him recently? The man hadn't picked up his mail and the postman was afraid he had died inside his cabin - it had occurred before to single residents on his route. The lawman checked his property inside and out for an explanation to no avail so he came to Daisy on account the postman said he had seen him or his horse at her homestead many times. She informed the officer Ernest had left his livestock with her to tend while he visited his ailing mother back home in Alabama and hadn't heard from him since which made John Law happy because the man had left the state and wasn't the County's concern anymore. The deputy told Daisy he'd put a hold on his mail and check back with her at a later date but he never did.

Many indistinguishable years passed

Thirty-six to be exact and in 1962 she turned sixty-seven. Daisy endured many aches and pains as we all do with advancing age but was still strong as an ox. Even so, some very important things had improved: She hadn't traveled to the Market in decades since she worked out an agreement with the owner and his son to send someone to her farm and collect, transport and sell her goods on a weekly basis for reasonable fee. If Daisy had tried bartering herself she would have failed miserably - no one would buy from a person with her demeanor. She also established a standing order of staples with the local grocer for deliveries and everything became so much easier when the County provided her a free, multiparty, rural phone line slated for the economically depressed residents (another government program). The many new conveniences had bettered her day to day life but she had been feeling poorly for several months and slowing down occasionally hadn't changed her condition.

Then one fine summer afternoon Daisy was trekking toward her roadside mail box mounted fifty yards from her cabin - the postman normally delivered at one p.m. therefore she went at three so as to avoid him seeing her or his trying strike up a conversation. When she was less than ten feet from it her body seized up, her knees buckled and fell face down in the weeds and soft dirt.

It was a rare occasion for the postman to be running late but this day was one of them. He saw her right off and rushed to help. "Oh, no," he exclaimed. She had no pulse... or was there? What was that strange vibration in her wrist? Mobile phones hadn't been invented yet and he didn't have a shortwave radio nor was anyone out and about to help him. Maybe she was still alive, he couldn't be sure. They were only a mile from the local Community Hospital so he dragged her into his truck and sped to the Emergency Room.

The receiving physician soon determined she had experienced a stroke and her circulatory system was in fibrillation. The paddle boards shocked her back into a steady but weak rhythm. The medical team had saved her life but due to other aneurism complications Daisy slipped into a coma. The hospital staff feared using more extraordinary means for revival would result in death. After stabilization they began checking out of area consultants regarding how to proceed and also initiated a search for family members which eventually eroded down to: Did _anyone_ know her at all? Consequently, she was placed in a coma life support holding program for several months which resulted in the constant status: no better, no worse.

Six months after Daisy hit the ground the National Cerebral Research Center in Maryland requested her transfer to their facility. They presented their own in depth search results for relatives or legal representation - there were none, then offered their own well-documented, unparalleled credentials in health care. Would the County please release her to them and relinquish their financial expense? To which they responded, "Oh yeah, gladly," thus saving the local taxpayers globs of money and Daisy was transferred to Maryland in a good condition, comatose state. There, the researchers and physicians agreed after total, comprehensive testing she was too delicate for their current procedures and elected to place her into their one hundred year-long suspended animation program which basically passed the buck to future generations.

2065 a.d.

Daisy was still alive. She had been revived from suspended animation in 2062 and placed into another coma so the researches could restore vital body functions. Like an old car: some parts worked and some didn't but they were repaired sufficiently so as not to have the clunker die on the road. Three years later, they drew her into a conscious state to evaluate if further surgical corrections were needed. To their joy, the very senior citizen pulled through in much better shape than expected. Her left side motor functions were consistent with a typical surviving stroke victim: partial facial, arm and leg paralysis. She was propped up in a wheelchair, spoke in a series of slurred grunts and had only 50% vision in her left eye. The doctors were ecstatic \- 170 years old and could still think and communicate! Especially since all the previous subjects who had been stored in the 1950's and 60's experiments had died soon after being awakened from their deep sleep.

Another year of fine-tuning ensued and during the process hundreds of medical personnel from far and near came to observe and offer their input, after all _this_ would go to the top of their résumé. Daisy improved a little more... but suffered greatly because her nervous system had been damaged more than they assessed and what they deemed _minor_ complaints from her were dismissed because any report of _real_ _progress_ resulted in more funding for the Center. They placed her into an electric, motorized scooter so she could move about for therapy, supervised of course. This brought thousands more amazed spectators to the research facility and the money poured in: the ultra-rich had visions of living forever.

Then one day a new escort arrived at her lab where she lived 24/7 so the researchers would have easy access for their experiments. The lady appeared to be in her late-sixties, still over a hundred years Daisy's junior, was genuinely friendly and enjoyed guiding her charge about the hallways for the Monday thru Friday daily sessions of exercise. After a few weeks of this routine the woman stopped in front of the elevator and said, "How about a treat today? If you won't tell, I won't either," and directed her into the open doors. The escort said, "Penthouse" as a joke and off they went.

It turned out to be even better. Daisy glided out into a beautiful garden terrace where many of the building's workers came to peacefully reflect or eat their home-brought lunches beneath well-spaced gazebos. Everyone could view the entire city, a spectacular sight from forty stories up... and even stand right up to the buildings' outside edge which was surrounded by a six foot high plexi-glass wall. This immediately became her favorite place. After two weeks of this routine she had met everyone there - several times; her escort enjoyed showing off the star product of medical research. On the down-side, the gawkers constantly made stupid remarks such as: "Hi Daisy, can you HEAR me? You look good today, barely over a hundred and fifty," and laugh at their own witless quips. "Bye _old_ girl. Catch you again when you're two hundred." Her escort, a mere Mover couldn't challenge their insensitivity; the ridiculers were all superior in position and pay grade. Daisy hated them all. Why did they have to ruin this beautiful place and didn't let her just enjoy it?

Another tormented day on display came and another seemingly endless line of fish-eyed, official guests. She sat in her vehicle and stared at the floor, not responding to any hailing, questions or comments... then at the end of the line came four teenagers voicing their mind-less, insensitive comments. The first said: "She's supposed to be a great aunt of mine from a dozen generations ago. So what?" The second responded, "This woman looks like a frickin' shriveled-up, dying of old age animal in a zoo." The third agreed, "Yeah, Dude, somebody should do her a large and put the bitch down." Finishing their evaluation, "This scene is _so_ boring," assessed the last of them - a snooty fourteen year old girl. They moved on not realizing or caring Daisy could hear and understand their every word. These children had now risen to the top of her Most Hated List.

Two days later, Friday afternoon after more examinations and being poked by needles for blood tests, she sat in her scooter outside a private consultation office. Two men entered the room via a connecting hallway door and didn't notice Daisy in the lab. A Center official and a doctor were having a lively discussion... "and with today's modern medical techniques we can keep her alive, awake and sitting on display for another thirty to forty years! My associates on the Governing Board are making arrangements for a year-long U.S. tour as we speak. After a few more minor surgeries during next three months we'll be on the road. When the tour's complete we'll begin experimental body part replacements starting with her bad eye and work our way down. Then she'll be ready for an extensive World tour."

The doctor responded, "Won't all those procedures be overly uncomfortable for her? What about quality of life?"

To which the Center official stated, "You researchers and doctors have to stay focused on the big picture. The subject will shine as a monumental achievement for the advancement of medicine. It will generate immeasurable revenue. This person alone will fund us for the next hundred years. They then entered into Daisy's lab where she pretended to be asleep with her chin resting on her chest.

That night, there occurred a fierce lightning storm but _it_ didn't keep her awake. She didn't believe she could ever sleep again after what she had heard unless they knocked her out with drugs... or even better - if lucky, would never wake up.

Eventually Monday came and after more scans and blood-letting her usual escort arrived, who was unaware of Friday night's storm. "Up we go. Let's see what's happening at the top of the world." They exited onto the rooftop as before but this time it seemed different. The patrons were gathered in the southern half of the terrace, perhaps there was a cleaning crew or some other maintenance ongoing in the north-side. The guide made her rounds of social mingling but didn't ask questions: these upper level employees disliked any questioning of their actions, even by something as simple as, "Why are you here and not there today?" In passing, a food and drink service attendant informed her not to go into the south-side due to the damage caused by the lightning storm. Daisy's escort's interest became peaked and mumbled, "Not again," and then both of them under her direction ventured into the quarantined area.

Addressing her charge, "Damn, I can't believe this," remarked the guide. "Another lightning strike directly on the outside wall. I've been working here fifteen years and these so-called brainiacs can't install a proper lightning rod. This happens every year, sometimes twice. See that blown-out section in the plexi-glass wall? The reason it happens is because the panels are separated by steel beams which are anchored into more steel rods embedded in the flooring concrete. Which means this rooftop garden is surrounded by a man-made, _dumb-ass_ lightning-seeking metallic grid! You'd think after all these years these big shots could figure out to install a single, grounded pole on the top of the building. But then again, I've heard more than once that most of them can't even remember where the dang restroom is. Yes, it's true! I have a friend who actually takes people to the cafeteria then has to lead them to the toilet. I guess Genius and Dementia are kissing cousins. " She laughed, "It's like the old 1950's Bell Labs all over again."

Daisy eyed the five-foot blown out section of the restraining wall and flimsy plastic warning ribbon. The debris had been removed; the floor was smooth and clear which meant a repair crew would be arriving soon. Daisy's escort's back was turned to her. The scooter's running motor was quiet. She pressed the Go sensor and held her finger on it. The vehicle was slow at first but steadily gained speed. The prisoner of time experimentation had travelled halfway to the missing wall section before her guide realized it. The startled woman called out, "Daisy, slow down or you'll flip over..." then saw the crevice she was headed toward. The lady's mouth dropped and her eyes bulged. "Oh, no," and started to run after her.

Daisy: closing the gap to the missing wall section - closing, closing... the escort screaming. The beginning of a smile formed on the right side of her face. Everyone was now watching, yet none moved. Her scooter didn't travel fast but neither does a pursuing old woman.

Going as fast as she could, a hard bump to the wheels due to a three inch jagged ridge at the wall's edge caused Daisy and her scooter to become separated. She was thrown forward - ten feet away from her heavy transport which toppled over the building's side and dropped like a rock. Daisy felt as if she were flying. "The air feels so good," she thought as it whipped through her white wisps of hair. Her face crinkled in delight. "'Til death do us part, you bastards!"

One year later

Daisy sat at her kitchen table with her three best friends, neighbors from adjacent farms. She had a pleasant smile and held a tea cup aloft as if she were making a toast to another glorious morning. The Ripley's Believe It or Not! tour guide touted," And here we have Daisy Hawkins, the oldest person to live on the face of Earth... heh, heh, excluding Bible versions, of course," which generated a few wry smirks. "She was born in rural North Carolina on July 5, 1895 and lived to the ripe old age of one hundred and seventy-two and never had an ache or pain during her entire life. It appears the adage about hard work being good for you could be true... I guess I'm going to die young because I stay away from it as much as I can!" Light laughter. Directing his pointer, "This 1930 farm house typifies the wonderful life she enjoyed. It's rumored she was married once... or was it her being a spinster?" More laughter. "Neither version has been confirmed because back in the good old days, them county folk weren't big on records. Either way though, one thing _was_ certain: Our girl Daisy was loved by all for her community devotion and friendly, caring manner. She relished being in the company of people, was a true friend and valued public servant! Don't you wish we could experience some of Daisy's long happiness? Now folks, moving on to our next exhibit."

A mother and her seven-year old daughter who was carrying a tiny puppy in a blanket stopped to view the display. The young dog whimpered and buried its head. The little girl frowned, "Mommy, the lady looks angry to me."

"Don't be silly child. See the smile (wired) in the corner of her mouth?" she returned.

"It's her eyes, Mommy. They look mean."

"Nonsense, dear. They're not real; they're made of glass," which was true. The only original part of Daisy was her rebuilt skull. The body they were viewing was similar to a taxidermist's reconstructed trophy fish. The child turned her face away, hugged the puppy and tucked in behind the other departing sightseers.

Was Daisy's tormented spirit still alive and trapped inside her mummified head? Children and animals can sense these things.

The end

# Reset

Somewhere in the not too distant future...

John was driving home from Walgreen's where he had just purchased an 8-pack of decorative, battery powered lawn solar lights to spruce-up his and Joyce's (his wife) small, two bedroom, one bath home located within a pleasant community mix of working families and a few scattered retirees, they being the latter. As he approached on their peaceful residential street he could clearly see a dusty, white panel truck with no side marking backed into their single car driveway... and the garage door was open!

"What the?" he muttered. Joyce was at her usual Wednesday morning Women's Club meeting and no one else had access to their house. He reduced his speed and passed by as his eyes scanned every angle around their dwelling - there was no outside activity. John then drove a half block further, made a U-turn, came back and parked in front of Bob's, a neighbor, located three houses to his right on the same side of the street. He exited his car ever so slowly with his vision focused squarely on his own residence. There had been four burglaries in their hundred-plus unit complex during the last two months and it didn't take a whole lot of smarts to figure out what was going down right now! The local police had informed the Home Owners Association Crime Watch members of which he was one, these thieves were thorough and very fast. John would have called 911 at first sight but had left his cell phone charging in the kitchen this morning. "Damn... just when you need it the most!" He knew Bob was home since he worked the evening shift on the receiving dock at Publix and had a regular telephone land line. Softly, he 'knocked' and rang the doorbell. Again... and again. No response. "Crap, I forgot the guy sleeps like a rock. He won't be up until noon and I can't take a chance of beating on his bedroom window and spooking the robbers. Besides, this is a great opportunity for the police to catch these crooks red-handed."

John mulled over his options. "Everyone else is at work except Jimmy, that senile old man across the street. He's been retired three times longer than Joyce and I put together." Then for no apparent reason the Grand Plan popped in his brain. "Why, I think I can do it. Yes, I _know_ I can do it. I'm a military vet and in pretty good shape for a seventy-year old. Everyone knows that The element of Surprise is everything! Aha. I'll sneak in the garage while they're inside looting our valuables and grab my trusty pistol I keep covered on top of my treadmill control panel. I'll get the drop on them easy when they come out to load up the van." He smiled, "Yes, sir. I'll be the Hero of the neighborhood."

The soon-to-be hero began making his way between the houses using great stealth until he came to the outside wall of his own garage and couched down behind a tall corner shrub. He listened - nothing, then peeked between the branches. A deep breath of relief; John knew he wouldn't be much of a threat to them until he retrieved his gun. He used one eye to look around the garage door frame. "Drat, our connecting kitchen door is open. This could be dangerous, but alas valor often includes peril. I'll hafta be quick." John took the eight steps as fast as he could to the treadmill, reached under the dish towel, sweat-rag he had the covering pistol. He felt nothing. He tossed the cloth aside. The shelf was bare - no fricking gun! "Auugh," he gulped. "They must have found it... so now what?" He smoldered at his bad luck. "Sonnavabitch, I _do_ know what. I've got to get the hell out of here before they come back to their truck and blast me with my own weapon! What a crock this turned out to be. How'd I ever come up with this lame plan?" Luckily, John was able to quick-step it outside to his previous concealment as he sweated rivets and proverbially shook in his boots.

Finally, the now lesser of a hero after a jerky retreat, was squatted out of sight behind his car and tried to form a Plan B or was it up to C or D now? "Whatever." Jimmy's house was behind him. "Guess I have no other choice. I sure hope he's got his head on straight today. I _need_ his damn telephone."

He rose and sauntered across the street as casual as he could to his other neighbor's front door. 'Ring, ring.' "If he doesn't answer, I'm totally screwed. The thieves will get away because stupid me also forgot to get the license plate number while I was in the garage."

Miracle of miracles. Jimmy answered the door. "Hello, J, J...ohn," he stuttered. "L, L...ong time."

"Yes, it has been partner. Sorry 'bout that. I need to come in. I'm in a big hurry." The very senior citizen nodded 'yes' and stood aside. "Jimbo, I need to use your telephone a.s.a.p. Our house is being robbed as I speak." John led him to a front window where they could watch without being seen. "See the white van in my driveway? They're the burglars who have been terrorizing the neighborhood for the last two months." As they peeked between the verticals, John saw two men load something heavy into the rear of the panel truck. "OMG, they're stealing everything we own. That was probably the television!" Jimmy didn't appear alarmed. "The phone, Jimmy. Where's your phone?" His neighbor appeared confused by the request. "Oh, no. Don't go goofy on me now," John chided. " _This_ is an emergency." The old man held his arms up in a manner for John to look for it as if there were one. "What? Do you mean you don't have a telephone? Okay, how about a _cell_ phone?" Jimmy shook his head, "no."

"Nothing, you have nothing? What if _you_ have a serious problem and need help?" Jimmy grinned and showed him an old, worthless medical Panic button he wore around his neck. John was touched by the man's dementia and became consoling, "Don't you understand without phone service your panic button won't work, my friend?"

"No money," Jimmy explained. "I'm all right."

John shook off his neighbor's misfortunate lifestyle as he watched the robbers go back inside for another load. "Oh, no! They're going to clean us out completely and get away Scot free. I'm helpless."

"N...no. Not help...helpless," Jimmy responded. "MacDonald's... Mac...Donald's" and grinned like a Cheshire cat.

"Wha... what?" This was John's time to stutter. Jimmy made a walking motion with two fingers and pointed down the street.

"McDonald's?" repeated John. "The hamburger joint? Oh, yeah. They're about three blocks away aren't they?"

Jimmy flashed another crooked-tooth grin then grabbed his lower abdomen. "Bath, bathroom... gotta go," and shuffled toward the hallway.

"Too much excitement for the old boy," reasoned John. He called to him, "Thanks a lot, buddy. I'm off to McDonald's now." As he scurried as fast as he could on a trek which turned out to be _four_ blocks eastward he cursed, "Maybe I'll get a break and the bandits will still be there when the cops arrive. I _deserve_ a fricking break!"

John burst through the front door and rushed to the counter, "Manager! I need the manager right now!" who heard him and hustled over immediately.

"I'm the manager. Is there a problem with the food, sir?"

"No!" screamed John. "My house is being robbed . I need you to dial 911... I don't have a phone on me. Call the _police_ right now!" The young man gave him a blank stare. "Why are you just standing there? This is an _emergency_!"

"Emergency?" the manager repeated. "You need emergency service?"

"Yes, yes, and get a move on it. The thieves are taking everything we own including our life savings. (John & Joyce didn't believe in banks since so many had failed.)

Yes, sir, I'll call right away," and went to his desk in the kitchen area. He quickly dialed the Control center and reported the incident.

John heard him say the words: police, robbed, thieves and emergency. "Finally," he rasped. "Now we're getting somewhere."

The young man returned, "They will be here shortly to assist you, sir." He gave his official, professional plastic smile and said, "Would you please step away from the counter and take a seat so our other patrons may be served? And, you being a valued McDonald's patron... may I offer you a complimentary order of fries and a diet Coke while you wait?"

John thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head at this absurdity but numbly retreated and took a seat as requested. He heard, "Next customer please." As he sat steaming, he reflected, "He didn't ask for my address. So, the police must be coming here. More wasted time! Idiots." John turned to look out the windows just in time to see a blue hovercraft with flashing red lights land in the parking lot. "About time," he spat.

Out hopped two creatures which resembled four-foot tall, brown crickets. One carried a black medical bag, the other toted a personal computer case and both had universal translator devices hanging below their heads. After hopping into McDonald's, all the while 'clicking' (talking) to each other, the manager pointed to John and they went to him. No one was alarmed or even surprised by these bizarre insect being's presence.

"Hello, John," one 'clicked' which was translated into English.

The other opened his p.c. case and said, "How do you feel? Are you hurt?"

He answered, "I feel frustrated and angry. My house is being robbed. Are you the police?"

"No, but we _are_ here to help you. Have you been injured or struck your head in any way today?"

John thought and answered, "Why, yes. The car's trunk lid came down and hit me behind the head while I was loading groceries earlier this morning at Publix.

The p.c. was actually a portable, medical diagnostic computer and the slightly smaller (younger) of the cricket technicians began touching a probe on several areas of John's head. Shortly, he 'clicked' to his partner, "See these test results?" The larger (senior) then pressed a spot behind the human's left ear and he became a calm, normal person. "You're fine now, John. Go home. The walk will do you good. And, don't be afraid; the maintenance crew has finished replacing your broken hot water heater."

The two medical technician crickets returned to their aircraft, ascended a thousand feet and hovered over the Human Community exhibition below. The senior explained: "These types of non-visual injuries occur occasionally with the live human replicas. There's no real damage to their motor functions or circuitry. The reason for John's odd behavior is due to a jarring of the artificial intelligence module where the d.n.a. and memory cells retrieved from rubble in their extinct world are implanted. Sometimes when these frail entities suffer head trauma they get knocked out of sync and revert to their past lives which were filled with crime, police and the wars which of course eventually destroyed their planet's regenerative capabilities. This subject's actions will be chronicled and added to many other human incidents to be evaluated later."

Changing direction he continued, "As you can see below, this being the newest community, joins the seven other sites here in the Extinct Worlds Expo constructed for our young and future generations to study and learn from the aliens' fatal mistakes." As they observed hundreds of cricket families wandering through the theme parks below and being pleased with their handling of the situation, he instructed, "If you have no other questions, check us back in service."

The junior 'clicked' at the aircraft's communication unit, "Control Center, Emergency Response Unit three is now available for a new assignment. The human replica, SENHL200 has been successfully Reset."

The end

# Game Over

In the near future...

Eleven p.m., sailing on Regal Cruise Line's five thousand passenger flagship: The Colossus of the Ocean which had recently departed Rio de Janeiro, Brazil for its inaugural world cruise. Victor Armada rode the Special Guest's private elevator upward toward his executive suite located on the sixteenth floor. He noticed in passing a button designating deck thirteen. The forty-year old bachelor cocked his head and pondered, "I don't recall seeing that before... here or on any other ship, even hotels." He arrived at his penthouse, "Odd, perhaps I'll check into it tomorrow."

Ten a.m. the next morning as his steward placed Brunch service on the casual dining table located within the suite's one hundred foot long veranda connecting starboard and port on the aft of the massive floating five star hotel Victor asked, "Say, Palo (from Manila) what's up with the thirteenth floor? Is there a renovation in progress?"

"Pardon, sir?"

"I saw a button in the elevator marked thirteen last night," as he lifted his eyebrows.

"Sorry sir. I know nothing of it," the crewman answered all the while thinking, "The very rich man obviously had too much to drink."

"Never mind," countered Victor. "I'll ask Captain Versace at his table tonight. Surely, _he'll_ know," and chuckled at his own wit.

Early that evening during the formal dinner's service of appetizers at the captain's table, a young navigator who had recently joined the ship's core of top-ranked officers asked an out of line delicate question. "So, Mister Armada, how did you become one of our valued benefactors? A Whale, as they say in Vegas. I'm sure all of us are curious to learn how a member of the Rich and Famous became so successful and ended up here." The Master of the ship, Versace cringed at the probe into a guest's privacy and vowed to replace this immature privileged, 'child' forthwith at the port of Los Angeles and starting tomorrow morning restrict this fool to bridge duties and his quarters.

Victor gave a short version of his life after college - omitting numerous unpalatable yet extremely profitable parts. His grandparents were Mariel, Cuba refugees from generations of fine cigar markers who started-up a small shop in south Miami during the sixties. Sales were good. Their product wasn't genuine _Cuban_ but as close as the American version was permitted. Later, when the U.S. finally dropped its illegal, seventy-year old embargo their family business, now managed by his parents, exploded to a thousand employee corporation, the bulk being Cuban-Americans working in a massive Miami processing plant with a hundred other people remaining and serving from their homeland. The Research and Development department had been growing tobacco fields in Virginia and the Carolinas using pure Cuban stock and the company expected to go international, starting with Europe within two years. Life was good and unbelievably prosperous... and in addition to all this, Victor had been chosen to be both the C.F.O. & C.O.O. due to his American law degree and the family's backing.

After the awkward interrogation, Victor ventured _his_ question. "Senoré Armada there is no thirteenth floor," returned the fleet's ranking captain. "Ah, how would a German say? Ach verboten... forbidden... to have such a floor on any ship, my friend," then quickly changed the subject by raising a toast to (rich stockholder) friendship.

"Humm," mulled Victor to himself. "A well placed change of direction by the Captain, however I have to admit I didn't see the number thirteen displayed on the way down tonight. So, was it a crew's prank yesterday or an illusion on my part? No, to a possible illusion," he deduced. "I'm never wrong... I remember every detail. It's the gift which places me far above these _working class_ peons. I'm tempted to bring the Captain and especially his idiot Navigator back to the damn elevator and mash their faces into that thirteen button," but instead remained calm and played the part of a favored, grateful sponsor during the ensuing cocktail party.

Victor finally escaped the endless toasts offered by a blur of plastic, smiling faces and sauntered toward his suite at one a.m. "I think I'll spend some time in my sauna after breakfast then work on my tan in the afternoon. Perhaps I'll buzz the Spa and have them send a young, pretty, willing masseuse to give me an extra stimulating session. If she's satisfactory, I'll treat her to an evening in the casino before we retire for more happy endings. However pleasing she may be, I won't allow her to accompany me when I go ashore in Buenos Aires, after all the woman's no more than low-class, servant entertainment and I must safeguard my public image."

He turned and bade a cordial, "Good night" to the security crewman who had followed him to the private elevator. Inside, Armada swiped his key card which programmed the lift to carry him directly to the sixteenth floor and locked out others attempting access from other floors. Five, six, seven he rose then noticed number thirteen displayed once again. Victor pressed the elevator's stop button while giving the panel a second and third look. "What the? I _knew_ I should have dragged that insolent, pomp-ass captain with me. I do not make mistakes." He released the 'Stop' and mashed thirteen hard. "We'll see now," he fumed. "I have a good mind to retrieve some kind of physical proof and go beat on his cabin door when I'm sure he's asleep!"

The elevator stopped at the desired floor but its doors did not open. He waited. "What's the matter with this damn thing?" He glared and stood firm for seemingly another extra-long minute then resorted to smacking the stainless steel barrier with his open palms. "Hey, in there. Open up. I'm Victor Armada and I demand you open these doors!" and hit them again. The mechanical device parted smoothly in silence. "About time," he hissed but did not step out of the compartment.

What he encountered challenged logic. Spread before him was a vast, deep-red room which seemed to stretch forever in all directions. He could understand not finding reference points in regard to the thousand-foot ship's length but none for the width also? "Yes indeed, there are optical illusions at play here," he reasoned. "Is this to be some kind of new entertainment center... a 'fun house' mirrored arcade? If so, they've made a good start." Soon, his eyes focused and after the initial surprise he discerned two women seated in nice, plush chairs about a hundred feet away. They waved to him and called his name.

"Mister Armada, please come join us!" bade a dark-haired young woman as she pointed to an empty lounger facing them.

The other, a champagne blond, called, "Please, we've been waiting for you," which prompted 'God's gift to women' to leave the lift and slowly swagger toward the tender, _young_ maidens wearing matching, short, white summer dresses.

"Two," he mused. "I've done two, many times before," and gave his best, charismatic smile. The closer he got the better it became. He estimated these perky, little girls to be fifteen or sixteen. "This _will_ be so entertaining... and with no fear of repercussions. If they're cruise personnel and refuse to give it up I'll have their sorry asses fired and deported to whatever rat-hole village they spawned from."

Victor took his time during his approach - sizing up the beckoning youngsters. The words Sweet and Innocent came foremost to mind. "Good evening, Mister Armada. It is so nice to finally meet you," they chimed. At six foot-two he towered powerfully above the cute little morsels. "Please take a seat and let's get to know one another," as they gestured toward the empty chair.

"Thank you my dears."

"Thank _you_ sir," they echoed. "My name is Faith," said the blond and my good friend here is Joy."

"Yes, she will be," he quipped as his fantasies rose.

Ah yes, I think we understand... and since we going to became _close_ friends may we call you by your first name sir?" He graciously nodded assent to their simple request. The girls looked at each other and smiled in delight. "As we said before... Victor, we are so happy to get with you now. It's the perfect time... it always is."

Their guest agreed, "Uh huh," not yet sure if the girls and he were on the same page. But then, it really didn't matter.

"Let's start by saying we know _everything_ about you Victor."

He made a sly smirk, confident these children didn't know horse crap because if they did they would not have placed their delicate, little bodies directly in his sights. Armada enjoyed being punishingly dominant and one or both of these fragile little girls may become a little tender tonight.

First, let us welcome you to the thirteenth floor," gushed Joy. "We call it the Fun deck so, let's start having fun!"

Victor gave a wink and agreed, "I'm ready when you are kiddies." His eyes dropped to their shapely legs and tried to steal a peek higher.

"See," squealed Faith. "I told you he'd try to hit on us sexually right away."

"Yes, you did," concurred Joy. "The first point goes to you." She then turned to Victor and said in a little girl sing-song voice, "Mister Armada, we're not wearing underwear." He gave a come on smile but neither revealed any more skin which resulted in a fake pout from their guest voyeur. "Which now brings us to the beginning of a game _you're_ going to play," she announced. "We call it Truth and Consequences. Did you catch that little word change from 'or' to 'and'?" He gave a blank look. "No? It's from an old television show, probably before your time. That's all right because Time is the key factor and you'll catch on quick because you're _so_ smart and remember _every_ detail."

"You appear to be distracted sir. I suggest you stop trying to peek under our dresses or envisioning doing naughty acts with us... because we are sex-less... similar to department store mannequins and therefore have no need for underwear," added Faith. "Besides, that part of your life is over now. You know: molesting children and having sex with minors. In fact, you'll never be able to get your little weenie up again. Surprise!"

He frowned and gave them a hard look while thinking, "We'll see about that later you stupid, little bitches." Victor quickly scanned the red room for other people (witnesses). They appeared to be alone. "Starting now," he decided and tried to shift in his seat in order to rise but couldn't. "What's this?" His hands and feet remained in place - unrestrained, as non-feeling dead weight.

"Not just yet, pretty boy. We have to explain the game before we allow you to return to your sordid existence."

"I don't know how you're doing this to me but I guarantee when I get up from here I'm gonna pound your little butts," threatened their captive.

"Oh my, such a violent, _little_ man," bemoaned Joy.

"And while you're sitting there entertaining ugly thoughts," continued Faith, "we'll explain the 'why' of the game. Is that okay with you, Sweetheart?"

Victor steamed, having no choice but to remain and listen to their lies or distortions of his personal life and business affairs. "I've been captured by two maniacs who have somehow paralyzed my motor functions... by drugs no doubt!" he fumed and pondered. "Yes, I've used date rape concoctions on a number of unsuspecting women but I didn't insult them by talking their ears off during play time." He sized the pair up and down, "Do these fools know who they're dealing with? They're going to learn the hard way, very shortly."

They began their assessment, "When your father died you put your mother in a shoddy Assisted Living Facility and sold the cigar business on the sly, out from under the rest of your family didn't you?" charged now squinty-eyed Joy.

"You are in error on both items," retorted Armada. "First, my mother was placed in the best facility available and well cared for."

"At a cost of less than a measly grand a month for a grungy room with no windows, occupied by two other handicapped residents and eighteen hundred miles away from her family and friends in south Florida and Cuba?"

"The air was better there."

"She was never allowed out of the building," which he denied with indifference.

"And number two of your false allegations," he continued in his rebuttal. "As the Chairman of the Board (no other directors) I always did what was best for the employees and stockholders - his father, mother and he held seventy percent ownership under Victor's exclusive control.

"You changed all the workers to part-time, therefore by law you were no longer required to provide health care or pensions. Fifty percent of your work force dropped to the minimum wage! Next, you directed all their savings into a management financial advisement fund of which you were the sole advisor."

"It made good sense, after all I'm the best," he explained. "The money had to go somewhere since they were no longer full-time employees."

"Then you stole it and the accumulated medical operating fund by transferring both to your own hidden, off shore bank accounts when you sold the corporation to the Russian Mob."

"I object to and resent your false accusations," countered Armada. "Even so, that would be called Free Enterprise. Also, my dears as you know there is no such thing as the Russian Mob. That's an old, Cold War fairy tale. Those fine, upstanding businessmen who purchased the business were a well-respected consortium... still are. As I said: All perfectly legal." He grinned from ear to ear, "You little children should have boned-up on corporate law before spouting off insidious fabrications. My law firm is going to tear you a new one. You'll be slaves in a Somalian baked-mud hut when they're finished." He laughed, "You'll wish you had offered your alleged mannequin twats and shut the hell up. Sex-less, mannequin bodies, what a load of crap." He snorted, "Besides, all of this is old hat... meaningless. I sold that enterprise _years_ ago."

"Yes, we are aware and do you know what has happened to your former family and associates during the four years since?" queried Faith.

"No, I moved on from such minor issues," answered Victor. "Their lot is no longer my concern." Silently, inside his gut Victor seethed that these little twerps knew so much.

"Really? Then you are in dire need of an update to truly understand and appreciate the game's structure," explained Joy.

"You were in charge of a fairly large corporation... over a thousand employees of all ages and pretty close in equal numbers of men and women," stated Faith.

"I was an equal opportunity employer," Victor answered smugly.

"I see," she continued. "However, you had less than one hundred blacks and all were of Spanish descent who labored at the lowest level."

"If the shoe fits," he quoted. "They were brought over from the old country by my parents. I did these slackers a favor by keeping them as long as I did... again, for my beloved parents. I retained _most_ of them. But, you know how it goes with those types."

"Do you have any idea how many are left of _those_ types?" He shrugged. "None, not a single person. The Russian Mob had the U.S. I.N.S. deport each and every one back to Cuba."

"That's their business, so what?" commented Armada.

"You are most correct, sir. That was just a little tidbit we erroneously thought you'd appreciate in knowing." He appeared quite relaxed. "Are you comfy in your chair Mister Armada?" He wiggled the tip of his tongue at her to remind them of his later intentions which prompted a well-earned sarcastic response. "Oh my, look at his cute little tongue. I am so turned on," she lied. "And, for your information sir your gesture is immature and offensive to a proper lady. A _real_ man would never use such an adolescent ploy." She let her comment sink in for a moment then continued, "Going forward to the crux of the matter this evening, the purpose of our game revolves around the fates of many of your former employees which were caused by your unbridled greed."

"Pardon?" he challenged. "Greed? I already explained I only made honest, sound business decisions for the good of all. If they can't handle their lives due to a minor pay cut well then..." as his voice trailed off.

"You stripped their livelihoods and stole over a hundred million dollars. You disgraced your former family and crushed the spirit of the work force. Many lost their homes, self-respect then turned to alcohol abuse and crime. _All_ lost their medical coverage and savings. Many have died due to the lack of health care or simply not knowing where to turn to for help, especially true for your multitude of illegals toiling in the tobacco fields. Loss of wages and despair drove the majority of employees into poverty level living conditions and in some cases even suicide," hammered Joy. "Those, the latter, who needlessly perished with broken hearts, are the ones we're going to focus on."

He made no comment and burped. "Garlic, the spice that keeps on giving."

Faith took over, "We're going to give you the opportunity to share the feelings and thoughts of those who died. You shall experience the pain, both physical and mental during their final moments... six tortured souls."

"I think not," he spat.

"Oh, I'm sorry the word 'opportunity' was misleading. You will experience one of their fates every night when you fall asleep. One per night, over and over... and the list of victims will grow as time passes. It always does... until the end of the game," she said with glee.

Victor smirked, "When I grow old and die?"

"Not necessarily. You'll know when it's finished, trust me," stated Faith.

"Yes," added Joy. "We've played this game many times."

"Joy gets to pick the first date then it's my turn. So far, I'm ahead by over a hundred!" squealed a happy Faith.

"You're both complete wackos and I've had enough of your dribble," returned Victor. "And unfortunately, too drained and weak to kick your worthless hinnies when this drug wears down. But you can rest assured, come tomorrow I'm gonna have you fired and tossed off this ship in the worst port they can find, even if they have to take you there in a rowboat."

"Awe, sorry you're feeling so peaked, Mister Armada. Perhaps old age is catching up with you."

"Old age my ass," he fired back. "If you hadn't slipped those roofies on me I could party until you both dropped."

"Pity we'll never know... which brings us to the demonstration part of our session. Ready, Honey? We want you to close your eyes for a minute and get an IMAX, 3D preview of the entertainment which awaits you."

"No way. Why should I do anything for _you_?"

The girls conferred regarding his rejection. "We really don't want to force you... at this point," stated Joy. "What if we make a trade? You close your eyes for just a few moments and when you open them we'll _both_ give you a flash of what you've been trying to see," as they glanced at their knees and grabbed their dress hems.

Victor was pleased with the proposal. "Okey-dokey, young ladies you have a deal," and closed his eyes.

He found himself standing in a room... a bathroom. It appeared old and dingy, similar to what one may find in a big city dilapidated, apartment building. He heard traffic noises coming through a small, broken window and a baby crying from another unit down a hallway. A siren wailed in the distance. He was not alone. A middle-aged woman sat inside a vintage, early nineteen hundred's, filled bath tub which touched one sidewall of the narrow 4x8'room. A toilet and washbasin were located at its front end and a single forty watt light hung from a near-frayed wire in the room's center. She had her back to him and could not see her tears but heard the sniffles. The water had to be very hot due to the amount of steam rising. An empty wine glass lay on the cracked linoleum flooring and a box cutter rested on the tub's top left edge. It didn't take much to determine what was about to transpire. Was he there to interrupt and save her life? Would she be grateful or scream and attack him with the cutter? Sweat dripped down her neck; the air hung dank and heavy. He knew the hot water would speed blood flow - with two good wrist cuts it wouldn't take long to bleed out. "What to do?"

Victor's eyes fluttered open and he found himself staring at his young captors. "Welcome back, Mister Armada. Did you enjoy your meeting with Olga?" His face reflected surprise and concern. "Unsettling? Were you in a quandary about 'what' to do? You do _nothing_... you can't do anything. You are invisible to her, a spirit observer. However, the next time you visit her which will be when you fall asleep, you'll also be able to hear her thoughts and feel whatever she does. Comprendé Cheecho? Keep in mind _you_ are the reason she is in that situation and you _will_ experience firsthand her obviously, self-inflicted death. Each and every night you'll share someone's demise. She will be your first. There are a total of six victims as of last count and when you've gone through all of them, you'll start over... and keep repeating the sequence until the game's conclusion. You've been a bad boy and it's time to start paying the piper. We're going to release you now. Go back to your penthouse and get a good night's rest." They snickered at their callus joke.

"Oh, wait! We almost forgot. Are we becoming senile?" Faith asked her partner.

"Maybe," answered Joy. "I hear you get a little fuzzy after two thousand years."

"So, Mister Victor Big Shot Armada, as agreed here's your part of our bartered trade." They raised their knees and skirts to reveal a lower anatomy - the same as a naked, rubber toy doll. There was nothing defined except the creases in their joints. "Who's the dummy now, lover boy?" they chided.

Victor's jaw sagged and his voice became mute. He shook his head, blinked and found that the girls had disappeared. He regained his strength. The elevator stood open.

Armada did not sleep that night. When he returned to his suite his head buzzed from the get-together with Joy and Faith. There were too many details and secrets revealed for it to have been a hallucination and he stood fast as a man of hard, cold facts - no loose ends. Even though his mind told him he had experienced it, logic challenged the rational. The unexpected and bizarre happenstance reminded him of his dropping acid in younger years except that in this particular encounter too many hidden truths had been revealed by the girls - things he would never admit, even in a court of law. Victor felt confused, an emotion he was unfamiliar with, thereby disturbed. Weird thoughts swam threw his mind, "That bizarre scene of Olga, where could it have come from even if I were tripping? The elevator, when I exited on my floor a few minutes ago I popped my head back inside and the number thirteen had disappeared. I've never experienced anything like this before." He had 'too many' drinks and sat on the veranda watching the stars, moon and mild ocean swells until dawn broke then dragged his tired body inside, took a shower and called a steward for coffee. Sleep continued to elude him but he didn't care. The day passed in slow motion. He elected not to make any social appearances, instead lounged about and used room service. Victor no longer had a desire to request a masseuse or have female company. In fact, sex was not even a distant consideration. Finally, late the second night he succumbed to fatigue and laid in his bed.

Olga hadn't moved in her tub. It was as if he had just returned to a previously paused recorded movie yet the situation felt different. _His_ senses were accentuated. The room: still dank, moldy, lifeless, - a dead roach lay upside-down behind a toilet missing its seat. The distinctive scent of terminal illness: ovarian cancer, unwashed hair and sweat drifted up from cloudy, yellowish water. Victor had no control of direction and seemed to float closer and closer until his mind entered her head and melded with hers. He heard her thoughts - listening only, she couldn't hear his. The pain \- the never ending pain! Olga had run out of meds four days ago, had no money and been refused again at the community clinic. There was no one to help, save her daughter who was just as poor and often sickly herself. She didn't want to burden her only child further... "It's better this way," she reasoned. Out of wine. Out of hope months ago. The water began to cool. "I want it to end!" She took the box cutter and dug in as deep as the burning pain would permit. It didn't squirt forth as she expected, it flowed more as a steady stream. The water tinted pink. "I have to do the other one faster. I need to get this over," gritted her teeth and slashed the right one viciously - it was not a pretty sight. Placing her hands at her sides, the water quickly turned crimson. Victor felt her anguish and physical pain as if it were his own. She sobbed in shame for her part in her life's tragic end. "My daughter, my baby; what have I done? I'm so sorry for leaving you this way." She began to feel cooler. "Is the Grim Reaper on his way?" Shortness of breath seized her and regret began to overwhelm the waning mother. "I don't want my baby to find me this way," she rasped. Her body began to go into shock. "No. no," as she shook her head from side to side, then tried to crawl out of the tub. She failed and her body hung limp, halfway over the top ledge as she passed out. Olga faded into life's eventual end.

Victor was not completely without compassion \- observing and feeling her plight felt as if his heart had been ripped from his chest. Her despair and torment racked his brain. Cold, alone, she died. In his first shared death - _her_ mind and body had joined with his and he suffered greatly.

He awoke to the butler shaking his shoulder. "Mister Armada, are you all right? I've been trying to wake you for several minutes. I thought I was going to have to call the ship's doctor," while grinning as if an enormous load had been lifted from his shoulders.

"I'm all right, can't you see that?" as he brushed away the man's hand. "Get me some coffee fast... Cuban coffee." Victor concentrated, cleared the cobwebs and reflected, "I felt as if I couldn't wake up until the dream finished." He began to remember the scene and shuddered. "What's going on? Dreams are supposed to fade away not get clearer. I don't want to remember nightmares like that," but he did. Another day dragged on. The next one worse than the day before and he became more reclusive all the while thinking, "What will happen when I fall asleep again?" He piddled about killing time, drank in the daytime and tried to reason away his nagging fear. Finally, at four a.m. he slipped off to sleep... and dream.

Victor stood in front of a man seated at a small table inside a run-down motel efficiency. Roberto, age forty-six, unemployed - fired again a week ago, hunched over an empty, cheap rum bottle. He couldn't keep a job, his wife and two children left to live with her parents in Cuba after their small house in Hialeah had been seized by foreclosure five months ago. "It's my birthday and no one cares whether I live or die." He didn't cry; the tears had run dry long ago. The manager was going to evict him tomorrow and he didn't have a dime to his name or another place to go. He still had a little pride left and adamantly refused to live on the street. "The County Shelter said they wouldn't accept me because they were full... or was it actually because of the blood I'm spitting up and they think I've got somethin' real bad... contagious... maybe I do." He fingered the loaded, thirty-eight caliber revolver on the table. "No one will miss me. I don't want to die in a beggar's hospital with tubes stuck up my nose and pisser."

Victor had already joined him and cringed when the totally defeated man picked up the weapon and placed it to his chest. Roberto was determined and wouldn't change his mind as Olga had. He summoned from within his last bit of courage and squeezed the trigger. 'Click' "What?" It didn't fire. "Did that damn, street punk sell me a defective gun? I spent my _last_ few dollars for a bottle and a cheap piece that doesn't work?" He pulled the trigger again - another, 'Click'. Now, he became angry and inadvertently changed the barrel's direction slightly. As they say: The third time's the charm. BLAM! Victor mentally jumped out of his skin. The bullet tore through Roberto's left, upper shoulder. He screamed and Armada screamed with him. Hardly any blood came out but it hurt like hell. "Oh, no. I'm such a failure I can't even shoot myself!" He took the gun and touched the end of the barrel to the roof of his mouth. "Shoulda' done this first." 'Blam', success and _lots_ of blood. Armada was speechless and horrified by the carnage.

Victor awoke lying on the floor next to his bed. He had wet himself. The butler hadn't tried to rouse him this time. The man knew his job would be in jeopardy if a V.I.P. became embarrassed after learning other elite passengers had found out about his personal mishap. Victor took a shower and illegally threw his soiled clothing overboard. "This has got to stop. Surely, it's temporary," and decided not to sleep for as long as possible. "Whatever drugs those two vixens used on me will be out of my system within four days at the most. I've had alcohol and drug binges before where it's taken three days to dry out." He went to a pharmacy in Buenos Aires and purchased several South American, No Doze equivalents. Armada returned to the ship with no fanfare - under the radar, holed himself up in his suite and remained awake another two days. His appearance worsened due to weariness and the hyperactive state caused by enhanced medications. The Captain of Food Services stewards reported it to the ship's doctor who quickly paid Victor a visit to determine whether the passenger had contracted the dreaded, super-contagious Norwalk virus. Armada checked out fine and the physician's fears were put to rest. Victor assured the good doctor he would be back in the expected social loop very soon. During the evening of the third night he shut his eyes again for just a moment...

This time Armada found himself riding in a car's passenger seat. A young man, Carlos was driving... not very well, he was extremely upset. The auto's clock displayed two a.m. and traffic was light on the interstate. He had been drinking and arguing with his live-in girlfriend for hours at her place - she had a job, he didn't. The nation's economy was in shambles and Miami was overloaded with uneducated or non-skilled Spanish immigrants. He left the apartment before she called the police again and 'borrowed' her car. "Bitch, let her call the Policia. I don't care anymore. It's not my fault I got laid off." He swerved a few times on the ten lane highway due to built-up, nervous energy. "I had a good job delivering those cigars around town," he spat. "Yeah, I liked that... and man I had a bunch of amigos when they found out I was shipping the good smokes." His anger rose as did the speed of the vehicle. 'Slow', 'Construction next half mile', read the signs which he missed or ignored in his mounting rage. "That stupid Puta!"

Victor felt _his_ foot pressing the accelerator. "Carlos, slow down," he warned. Of course, unheard.

More weaving... too close to the retaining wall. He saw a reflected, temporary lane divider speeding toward him and made a hard right turn which smashed the right fender into the side concrete barrier. The rear of the car swung up to where the vehicle straddled sideways across the breakdown lane, then it flipped over multiple times. The battered sedan finally came to a rest upside-down. They both hung inside Carlos's body, still secured by the seatbelt - a miracle. 'Boom!' The recently filled gas tank exploded causing the fuel line and engine to burst into flames. The seatbelt would not release.

It takes longer than you think to burn to death and no greater pain. Armada, after the experience, could not imagine a more horrible way to die.

Another morning after...

Victor awoke shaking, ran to the bathroom and repeatedly dry heaved. He was now certain of being secretly poisoned since ample time had passed for most hallucinogens to dissipate. "I must get to a diagnostic center, have a complete blood work-up then have my own private doctor fax prescriptions to a reputable pharmacy in order to nullify these mind-altering effects. Yes! That is clearly the solution," he then arranged and took a private MediVac helicopter to the best testing facility available back in Buenos Aires which the ship had departed yesterday and was only a hundred miles away at the present. After his condition had been determined and medication administered he would hop a charter across Argentina to Santiago, Chile the ship's next port of call.

The lab results didn't reveal anything extraordinary - showing only markers of anemia, dehydration and excessive sodium, all due to improper diet and exhaustion. Armada hadn't slept in three days when he finally laid his head on his stateroom pillow. He had swallowed globs of prescription vitamin supplements since departing the pharmacía and returned to his familiar, comfortable cruise ship cabin surroundings. Armada felt confident of success.

It was a warm night. Raul, age fifty-seven, smoked a cheap stogy - not one of the fine cigars made by the business he used to work for. He reflected on his past: a self-taught mechanic of thirty years street learning and experience in Havana. He could repair any auto or truck and made a fair living with 'the company' after coming to America. Four years ago things changed for the worse: Pay cuts came but he dealt with it - he still had a job. Then some new bosses from Europe took over and he was let go, the polite term for "Get your worthless, Spanish butt off my property." The Miami area was filled with unemployed mechanics amongst its one million plus Cuban population and he had no other skills to fight for another type of job. For years he begged on corners, sold flowers and stolen neighborhood fruit, barely staying alive. "It's over. I can no longer live this way," and kissed the cross he wore around his neck. At least the stinky cigar kept the mosquitos at bay. He sat cross-legged on a railroad track tie (a wooden cross beam). Raul glanced up hoping to enjoy the firmament of his childhood - there were no stars here - never are in big, polluted cities. He sighed, "Soon, God I'll see the glory of your heavens again. Forgive me."

They (Raul and Victor) felt vibrations in the steel rails caused by a Florida East Coast freight train hidden behind the industrial park warehouses as it ambled along at a mere twenty miles per hour. The time was late and no warning horns blared. There wasn't a non-controlled, traffic crossing for at least another mile. A faint, distant, Clang, Clang, of a warning bell became detectable. Raul stared ahead - an ever so slight smile cracked his weathered face. Fate accepted, welcomed?

The iron behemoth began its quarter mile turn and came into view. A swinging light from its upper front swept the tracks ahead. No freight cars trailed the beast; it was en route to pick-up a string further down the line. The engineer had green Go signals and couldn't see Raul due to the long curve. The ground vibrations intensified due to the weight of unstoppable power. Armada screamed inside his host's head, "Run, you fool. You can't play chicken with a frig'n freight train!" Then he realized Raul was _not_ playing. This was the death he had chosen, and Victor's to share. "Why do people do these things! This isn't my fault," but it was.

On it came, in slow motion... laboring... yet relentless. Finally at about a hundred yards Raul's figure came into view but because of his odd sitting position the engineer thought it was a cardboard box and didn't try to stop - not that he could in time. Soon, the shocked rail employee realized his error and hit his warning horn at thirty yards, Brammp!!! hoping against all odds that a sleeping man could still dive to last second safety. Clang! Clang! _RUMBLE_ , Screech-h-h... Raul's head was bowed in prayer, "Hail Mary full of grace..." as the engine and track beneath wedged his body into the underside carriage stripping his bones clean. Chunks of meat littered the track for two hundred yards.

Victor awoke and stared at the ceiling as if in a trance. The butler said nothing and left in silence. Once out of the cabin he called room service to have a pot of coffee delivered in thirty minutes - no more, no less. The fearful cruise employee felt as if he were a mere phone call away from termination and being tossed off the ship at the next port. One complaint from this High Roller, a clearly disturbed man, could cost him his job and future employment on any cruise line. He'd be back in the fields cutting cane. To him the ship's motto, "to exceed your expectations," had radically changed to "to stay the hell outta his way unless summoned."

Armada lay in deep thought... not about the terror and horror he had just experienced, but more about what to do next to escape the nightmares which were draining his mental and physical strength. "It must be psychosomatic," he whispered. "I need professional help. In a vessel this large filled with the upper crust there must be several qualified Shrinks on board. I'll ask the captain for their names and room numbers... no, better yet, I'll demand the info or threaten to withdraw my sponsorship of Regal Cruise Lines. His butt will be in the wind and he knows it." Victor received what he wanted and negotiated a one hour session for a thousand dollars a day with a reputable psychiatrist on going-forward basis.

The head doctor listened to his patient's morbid dream renditions but nothing concerning the two girls on deck thirteen had been disclosed. He assured Armada relief from his nighttime episodes by giving him a free two week sample supply of a strong narcotic which would last until they docked in Los Angeles and could fill a ninety day prescription. "Have no fear, sir. You won't dream tonight and will awake fully refreshed and vibrant." Again, a relieved Victor lay in his super-sized bed expecting to receive a restful night's slumber.

It was night, perhaps two or three in the morning. He stood alone out of the traffic lanes on the Rickenbacker Causeway which connects Miami to Miami Beach. Slightly cool with a mild breeze, "It must be January or February," he reasoned. "What's going on? It's beautiful out here." Twinkling lights from each city reflected on the rippled, black intercoastal waterway creating a picture perfect scene. "I'm alone... great. Those pills the Doc gave me didn't deter my dreaming but it sure changed this one into something pleasant. Wish I had a cigarette to celebrate." He surveyed the surroundings in appreciation. "Alone, peace... I gotta give the man a big tip next time I see him," and smiled. "Oh, wait. Who's that coming?" Victor detected an old woman pushing a stolen grocery cart containing all her worldly goods toward him in the overhead street-lit distance. "What's she doing here at this time? Avoiding the heat of the day I'll bet," he surmised. "Makes sense; the homeless don't have to punch a clock. I'd flip her a fiver if I had one."

Onward she hobbled until stopping right in front of him. Margo, age sixty-four, a roaming vagrant at the present but previously a cleaning lady at the company Armada sold-out from under his employees. Cast aside by the new Russian mob owners, she became another unimportant, collateral damage casualty. All of a sudden their minds became one. "Not again," he moaned.

It happened so quick Victor had been completely caught off guard. She glanced over the bridge's railing at the water flowing a mere fifteen feet below, hopped-up to sitting position for a couple of seconds then jumped. The spirit-broken woman never looked about nor said or thought a word. She was gone, just like that.

They were falling feet first with her arms held above. Very quick, Splash! Margo couldn't swim and after a few moments the human instinct for survival kicked in and she began to flail with her arms and legs but never called for help. It just so happened this particular week was the beginning of the seasonal, nightly southern-bound mullet runs through the waterway... and the fishes' natural predators knew it. A school of Bull sharks had hidden among the bridge pilings of its entire length across the waterway - there was no escaping them. To the shark, erratic splashing movement meant the mullet had arrived. Dinner was served a la frenzy. Margo (and Victor) couldn't drown fast enough and didn't.

After Armada's head cleared this time he swore never to eat fish or hold a rod again and massaged his wrist where in his dream his hand had been bitten off during the shark attack. When his tremors finally subsided he stormed down to the psychiatrist's cabin and beat on his door to no avail - the man and his wife were in a dining room for breakfast. Incensed, he returned to his own suite and barked at everyone he came in contact with, including members the ship's staff in spite of the fact he had just demanded several of their services. Victor smashed half his luncheon dishes on the veranda decking and threw the rest overboard. He ranted, "I'm trapped in a Final Destination movie and playing _all_ the characters!" Then he remembered part of something the girls said, "You will experience their fate every night... over and over," and broke into a cold sweat. "That damn shrink had better stop this or I'm going to wring his scrawny neck and throw his worthless ass overboard!"

Armada knew he couldn't search the entire vessel to find him - it was too large. He also knew tonight was formal dining and it would take extra time for his wife to don her best attire so he stationed himself in close vicinity of the man's cabin to catch him and demand a new course of action. It worked. Victor observed the pair returning from some unknown activity and enter their suite around five p.m. Bang, Bang, he struck the door - the fellow hadn't even had time to take a leak.

The meeting was short and semisweet. "It takes a full day to get the medicine effectively into your system. Take two tablets tonight, not three... three would be dangerous. Come see me here tomorrow at two o'clock, after lunch for a full session," and led his irritated yet cooperative patient to the door. "Good night, Mister Armada and sweet dreams."

Victor grunted and departed in silence. He had four drinks before retiring. "So what? The man never said: Don't take with alcohol."

"It's night again. Why does everything seem to happen at night?" He was running, panting - caused by an adrenal rush and shock, out a liquor store in rural Sweetwater, Florida located twenty miles south of Miami, within a group of three young men who had just robbed and shot the owner/clerk. They pocketed roughly two hundred dollars and took a middle-aged Pakistani man's life without remorse. The trio expected a (stolen) getaway car driven by another gang member to pull up at the store front and whisk them back to Little Havana (the Cuban - Spanish section of Miami).

Hector, age twenty-one to whom Victor had attached didn't have a weapon - the other two toted black, nine millimeter hand guns. The young man had been instructed to carry the leader's valuable, silver iPod so it wouldn't get dropped and damaged during the job. Hector had rejoined his old gang a couple of years ago after being laid off from his job as a car/truck washer at the cigar factory. It had been a decent gig and took him away from his previous life of street crime. Due to bad economics (lack of green) he returned to the posse.

The fleeing boys were unaware the clerk had hit a silent alarm to the police station when he saw them assemble outside his door. He noted they weren't wearing masks, which was a very _bad_ sign. He tried to sneak to the storeroom and bolt himself in but the young men were too fast and cut him off. The leader shot him in chest and face as his number two jimmied the cash register. Hector served as lookout. Out they ran.

"No car! Where the hell is he?" ranted the leader then spied a police cruiser parked across the street in the shadows - the officers had just stopped to take a routine (fast food) dinner break. Apparently the getaway car driver had spotted the police and backed off, leaving his three amigos to fend for themselves. The two officers received a: 'Robbery in progress' alert for this store's location over the radio, immediately followed by a: 'Shots fired report'. They jumped out of their cruiser and popped the trunk lid to retrieve shotguns in less than thirty seconds. These Everglades raised, country boys weren't too great with their city issued pistols but they grew up hunting with shotguns which was a whole different story.

"Freeze, ass holes!" ordered the policemen. "Drop your weapons!" from behind their vehicle.

The leader looked up the street and saw his driver idling two blocks off. He decided to blow away these stupid rednecks then high-tail it to their escape car. "No way you frig'n pigs!" he returned then raised his weapon to take aim.

A deafening, Blam! Blam! from the already zero'd-in, ex-Army vets, split the damp air and quieted the ever present crickets. Both the armed robbers were hit: one spun in a circle, the other was lifted off his feet and both then crashed to the sidewalk. Hector, unarmed and scared speechless held his two arms out defensively in front of his body with the nice, shiny, silver iPod in his left palm. "Gun!" both officers shouted and blasted Hector into oblivion - almost cutting him in half.

The next morning...

"I don't know how much more I can take," moaned Victor. "Six different horrible deaths I've been through. I'm pretty sure the girls said there would be more. And... they would repeat until the game is over? What does that mean? I've suffered enough. I took the pills Doctor _Quack_ prescribed, apparently for nothing! I'm going to be in his face every day until these nightmares end." 'Don't take three pills, it's too dangerous,' he warned me. "Well, up yours, Doc. _Sleeping_ is too dangerous. I feel rotten." He pondered various options, "Wait, wait. I know the answer! I'll meet with the girls again and barter a new deal, a compromise in my favor. It'll work... after all, I'm a master negotiator. Now that I know the game plan I'm going take control and get this bogey off my back." He paused and frowned, "If only I didn't have to sleep until the deal's done."

Victor didn't realize each repeated reenactment would become clearer, fuller and more intense: the horror and suffering increasing profound. "My two new purposes in life," he declared: "Number one is to meet with those stupid, little girls and number two, to harass that butt-hole doctor until he gets off this ship!"

He began his plan by sitting on a stool and riding the elevator twelve hours a day in anticipation of pushing that damn thirteenth floor button when it finally appeared. In between his vigilance he'd take a break, go down to the psychiatrist's cabin and chew out the man who had falsely promised him relief and didn't deliver. "You lying, money grabbing bastard," he yelled at him which ironically Victor had been his entire life.

Another week passed and the nightmares worsened. Victor had run out of pills and the doctor he now hated refused to give him neither additional samples nor a prescription to be filled in Los Angeles when they docked. When the ship did arrive in the California port, the man and his wife aborted their cruise and left in haste to escape the crazy person attacking their cabin door at all hours of the day. They demanded a full refund from the cruise line and got it.

After departing the next stop up the line, San Francisco, the ship's physician came to Armada and told him to get off in Hawaii or be confined to his stateroom indefinitely until his conduct and disheveled appearance improved. Victor had been acting erratically and looked like a ghoul from a science fiction movie which greatly disturbed the other well-financed passengers. His personal hygiene had also been all but abandoned. Small, spoiled children ran from him and cried. The ship's doctor assured he would check on him every two days. Armada continued to haunt the elevator or hunker down in his suite every day.

Weeks later at the port of Hong Kong

The Chinese government had refused to allow passengers or crew to disembark. The U.S. and Taiwanese navies were conducting joint combat maneuvers in the international strait separating the tiny independent island from the giant communist mainland. The party leaders in Beijing were vilified and in retaliation decided to _inspect_ all American ships arriving _and_ departing for illegal contraband, weapons, drugs and foremost - foreign spies by condoning off and searching each vessel for as long as the military exercise continued. Five hundred army troops were dispatched to complete the mission on the Colossus of the Ocean. China's greatest resource has always been manpower. Each room on every deck was _inspected_ by a search team which included a drug sniffing canine while an intelligence unit reviewed passenger passports and crew work permits. Everyone had been required to sit in a lounge, theater or restaurant during the process. All the elevators were shut down - similar to the mandatory pre-cruise life boat drill, forcing the people to use stairs.

Victor shuffled along, en route to report to his assigned Muster Station located aft on deck eleven in the elite, posh Pioneer Lounge. He felt tired as hell from his every other night horror show and as a result had lost fifteen pounds during the twenty-five days since departing Rio de Janeiro. Armada was definitely in no mood for this idiotic, political pissing contest. It was five stories down from sixteen to eleven, then back up which would be a lot more difficult after the Chinese's annoying, tit for tat show of strength concluded. This was the price he personally had to pay for being a capitalistic pig in an expensive V.I.P. suite. The first segment from sixteen to fifteen stretched the longest because it lacked a halfway mezzanine which all the ship's other stairways had. It was straight, narrow and the steps were a smaller size. He was not in a hurry but irritated and not paying attention until an army officer monitoring his floor prodded him with a baton to make him move faster. Armada turned to give the Chink a few choice words and missed a step. Down he went the full flight, landing head-first at the bottom. His neck had been twisted away from his shoulders at a sharp angle. It was broken and he was very dead.

The soldier scoffed, "Clumsy, stupid Americans."

There weren't many words of kindness or praise spoken at Amada's graveside service nor people standing in respect. Only one representative from his bank, law firm, brokerage and his personal physician joined a priest from the local parish who had drawn the short straw. Two old, black men sat at a distance on a motorized hoist waiting for the short ceremony to finish. No relatives, friends or ex-employees were in attendance to offer testimonies, eulogies or humorous remembrances. It concluded in less than in ten minutes and within two hours his plot lay indistinguishable from five hundred others. The night came and Victor did not dream.

Then...

"Welcome back Mister Armada. Nice to see you again," said Joy. Faith nodded in agreement. "Your little free fall down the stairs was rather unexpected wasn't it? We didn't see it coming either."

He blinked a few times then checked out his body sitting in the same lounge chair as before. "What the... is this another nightmare? I can barely tell real life from fantasy anymore," which pleased the girls.

"Not a fantasy," answered Faith. "You're here with us again even though you're dead. But lucky you, you can still dream _and_ you will, without the every other night routine you cooked-up by using No Doze. It will be the Full Monty from now on. Awake in in the daytime to contemplate your sins then live their fates at night." He stared without comprehension.

"Your physical body is still in the grave," explained Joy. "This," waving her hand at him, "is your soul. You know: the _important_ stuff. Everyone has one, including scum like you. For us lovelies, your sudden passing is a game changer but we've seen it before... Don't worry, Sweetie, it's still do-able. Thank heaven." The girls looked at each other and roared in laughter. "Did we just say, Heaven!" they almost fell out of their seats. Victor gave an ignorant, stupid smile. "You didn't think our team was going to permit you to lie all peaceful and comfy in your coffin until the Judgment Day did you?" chided Faith. "This may sound redundant and tedious but you have an obligation to finish the game. All your victims are in the stands watching and cheering you on! And, as time passes more players will be added, increasing the number of dreams. On the downside, Joy and I will now have to pick new conclusion dates due to your unfortunate accident. The end will be accelerated."

Joy interrupted, "You don't think he'll become like that man from Macedonia who enjoyed the mental aspect of dying do you? We had to transfer him to another department," she explained to Victor. "They use much more _vigorous_ methods. Trust me, you don't want to go there."

Victor whispered, "When will the game be over? How will I know? I'm already dead... what do you want of me?"

"Why Mister Know it All, we're surprised and a little disappointed you haven't figured it out." Faith answered with pride, "It's over when you lose your mind. You know... go crazy. Duh, insane." She redirected to Joy, "Shall we tell him we just had another addition to the game, a new player?"

"By all means. His name is Bruce and he's a sky diver!" exclaimed Joy. "Isn't that exciting?" She cracked a humongous smile, "Say Dude, aren't you afraid of heights? This could be major fun!" Armada became dull-eyed as drool ran down his chin.

"Now we're getting somewhere!" declared Faith.

Victor found himself standing behind the newest player, Bruce, positioned in the jump door of a sky diving plane cruising at seven thousand feet. All the other club members had already bailed out and deployed their chutes for a soft landing in a designated, safe, open meadow. They (Bruce and Victor) had ten seconds before their turn came. Armada's new partner, felt happy and sad at the same time. Glad to avoid months of wasting away in an isolated Medicaid death house built to protect the general public from terminal AIDS patients. His significant other had passed six months earlier which left him devastated and empty. Bruce had contracted the disease also. His own strength was ebbing quickly and he was close to being forced into the same facility to await the inevitable, dehumanizing end. Not only that, in a month the INS planned to deport him back to Columbia because his work visa had expired and he couldn't find another employer to vouch for him after being laid off at the cigar factory. Hopeless. Bruce had vowed not to take the same route as his lost love.

Victor, melded into his mind, shrieked, "No, no! Not this way!"

Bruce tucked the dangling rip cord under his vest. "I'll be with you soon, my love," and leapt into the cold air. Down, down as Armada screamed all the way. Game over.

As many as a hundred people a day die in large metropolitan areas - many by suicide.

Sweet dreams...

# Into the Above

Victoria Colony, The New World

"As we all know our first settlement was established by an exploration mission sent from the Above many centuries ago. Over time, the prodigy of those dedicated pioneers have thrived, multiplied and expanded into the wonderful six colony society we enjoy today." reviewed the mayor of the amassed residents. "We have lived in peace and good health as long as anyone can remember. Yes, there were occasional intruders - mutant wildlife which accidentally wandered into our realm but were successfully repelled or destroyed. Sadly, we lost a few precious, valiant defenders but overall it was a small price paid to continue to live in safety underneath the uninhabitable, poisonous world of the Above. My friends, as you have come to learn in the worse possible way, there is a new threat - more lethal than any in the past. It has inflicted suffering and pain on our families even unto the death of our beloved offspring. Let it be known, this blight is not being borne by this hamlet alone. A noxious, lethal gas from the Above has seeped into our and the neighboring communities of our expanded brethren and taken a grievous toll on all. I and my fellow council members dispatched representatives to the surrounding settlements with the intent to form a specialized team to combat and halt this heinous, germ warfare attack. They responded gladly with great enthusiasm and support by offering and sending knowledgeable, trained personnel to enable the formation of a professional defensive unit to find and eliminate the threat. I salute our volunteer fellow colonial brethren. They are the best of the best!" A resounding response burst forth for the team of twelve selected members - two from each settlement, assembled on the stage behind the speaker.

"Within the hour these brave souls will depart on their arduous ascent to the Above to locate the source and stop this deadly gas flow into our communities. A task of this magnitude has never been attempted before. They will need to retrace the tracks of the Pioneers with extreme caution. Who knows what perils have developed within the trails first traveled? Their path will be unknown and in all probability, dangerous - yet I am totally confident in their ability to overcome all treacherous obstacles and complete their task. We salute their courage, dedication and love for us all!" which prompted another round of deserving praise. "These heroes will now spend a short time with families before their ascent into an alien land in our defense."

With their personal goodbyes said and well-wishing done, the twelve member expeditionary team assembled beneath the ancient tunnel from which their forefathers had descended to escape the perils of the Above. The ever-present, noxious gas still flowed steadily in a sufficient quantity to reach beyond the farthest colony and inflict grievous harm to the young - even unto death. The team members were strong, young adults and could tolerate the toxic air for a reasonable time, not indefinitely for sure. Plugging the tunnel entrance would not suffice. The surrounding outside walls were old, crumbling - porous, overhead and in every direction the pollutant seeped through. The threat had to be stopped at its origin. "Apply your (breath) intake protection," directed the leader and physically largest member. "Let's go."

The ascent was slow, the passage had shrunk. Their traction constantly shifted beneath due to the now near-powder dirt. Collapsed sections had to be re-dug but after many hours they came upon an air chamber - a place to take a break and discuss the viability of their chosen route. "Okay, we'll take a little time to rest and assess our situation." The leader explained, "You should have realized by now the true magnitude and difficulty of this mission." He hardened his voice, "It will only get worse... much worse. If anyone is having second thoughts, this is the time to speak up. No ill will shall be afforded you. Many with good intentions attempt the impossible, few succeed." One by one each member was polled and all reaffirmed their commitment. "Thank you all, now let's continue." They had no maps or directions for reference; the forefathers could not imagine anyone attempting to return to the Above. The expeditionary force assumed upon entering their present rest stop the next - largest, open and apparently clear tunnel leading upward would be the right choice and were correct except to their surprise it was now blocked by several large creatures in its entranceway. Ants: giant aggressive, mutant red ants were barring their continuation. The insects totaled three in number and stood easily at one-half the height of the average expeditionary member. The team leader stood firm, in control and barked, "Four to each ant! Take its legs out and smother it. Move quickly before they attack. Now!" However, the ants were faster and struck first but the team members had their assignments, didn't panic and dealt efficiently with the creatures' assault. All the ants were subdued, controlled and slain. One team member was bitten and suffered a massive dose of poisonous venom. It was certain death. They surrounded their mortally wounded comrade and provided comfort as best they could until he died. At least it was quick. Although saddened, they had to move on. Hard reality hit home in their hearts, forcing them to consider: "I _may_ _not_ return to a hero's welcome as I expected." Then each resolved anew to themselves in their own way, "I made a pledge and my word's my bond. There's no turning back now!"

The climb became easier, apparently the ants had used this tunnel often which was a plus at the moment, except in reverse it also increased the probability of encountering more of them and if the insects attacked en mass the entire expeditionary force would be killed... quickly, yet most painfully. They noted the toxic gas seemed to be increasing but the most pressing thing on their minds was suffering another assault by the ants. Were the bugs trying to escape the deadly fumes also? Did they attack in a survival frenzy? Not that the creatures' thinking was negotiable or could be changed - they were carnivorous killers.

After many more hours the team came upon a second air chamber which was larger than the first. This one was unique in that it had elongated scratch marks as if they were created by large claws, ranging from top to bottom, within and in addition the entrance on the far side loomed three times greater than what they or the ants could have dug. "No ant made this cavern," remarked a fellow member.

"Just the same," agreed the leader. "I'm certain this large tunnel leads to the surface. We'll need to eat and sleep for a few hours then continue. I know in my gut we are close." They were all tired and fell asleep, including the appointed look-out. The team awoke to screams. They could actually hear flesh being ripped away and eaten. A giant beetle had one of their members pinned down - straddling on top and tearing him to shreds. The insect was massive - four times larger than their own leader. The team had two escape routes available and staying to fight in an attempt to kill the beetle was not an option. They would need a hundred more comrades to _maybe_ have a chance. So, fall back or go forward?

They knew they could withdraw and survive because the tunnel they came from was much smaller than the beetle's girth. Should they escape the immediate threat and retreat back to the Colonies with a failed mission... knowing a slow, lingering death by poisonous gas of all inhabitants followed them? Without their stopping the threat, there would certainly be no hero's praise, only panic. Everyone in the team realized if the ultimate sacrifice had to be made it would have to be going forward _not in retreat_!

They charged into the far-side, larger tunnel... hoping to finally reach their destination, the unknown. Fortunately, the team quickly exited the final portal, bursting into the mystical Above and halted just beyond the exit point. They found themselves out in the open, surrounded by towering green foliage and a unfathomable starry expanse overhead. "What a strange world!" followed by: "What is this place? Where are we? What's next?"

"We do what we came for," reminded the leader. "Find the poisonous source and plug it." He surveyed their surroundings and saw a flat, black ridge not too far away which they could climb and get better bearings. They also noticed the heavenly expanse was becoming lighter.

The expeditionary unit made good time to the plateau's bluff and ascended to its top in under an hour. The team had a good vantage point from its edge and saw that the tops of the green foliage below seemingly stretched forever. They also noticed the immediate surface under them had the same pungent smell as the deadly gas. "We must be close to the source," declared the leader. "We'll fan out in a search pattern and locate it." They snaked across the hard, flat, black terrain to the far- side and discovered basically the same greenery layout they found at their initial entry point to the plateau. Looking toward the other directions, both black surfaces also appeared to extend indefinitely. The light above had brightened and the temperature risen to a level of discomfort. "We'll have to split up into teams of five and search the other two directions," instructed the leader. "Meet back here in three hours and report your findings unless you are confident you have found the source then return immediately." Just after they separated and began moving toward their assigned areas the team heard a _Whoosh_ and soon learned the member closest to the edge had disappeared. "Continue on," ordered the leader. "He must have fallen over. He'll be alright and will rejoin us shortly."

It was warming at an accelerated pace and after another hour they were wandering about in no defined pattern. Most could not see due to the now blinding light and all were being drained of their strength. They collapsed, gasping for breath and soon began dying one by one. None could find the plateau's edge to perhaps fall down into the foliage below seeking cool relief or locate the escape tunnel.

Two contracted workmen were walking and inspecting, one on each side of the asphalt exercise trail built a week ago in the newly developed public park. "The path looks pretty good. I haven't seen any cracks and it appears level to me," one remarked after the first quarter mile.

"Hey, check it out. There's another batch of dead slugs ahead," noted the second man. "Or is it?" He picked one up. "These are smaller and brown. What's the story here?"

His partner responded, "They're subterranean slugs. They live deeper in the ground than the more familiar grey ones. Every time we lay asphalt it drives them to the surface. It must have something to do with the petroleum based odor seeping downward. They come up, wander around and get cooked in the sun. We'll find more I'm sure," and tossed the little, dead body behind them. They heard a _Whoosh_ , turned and saw a blackbird flying away with a slug breakfast in its beak. "Circle of life, Dude. Circle of life."

The(ir) end

Thanks for reading my stories, hope you enjoyed them, J.E. Moore (John)

joycemoore0928@comcast.net

Next up... a novel: The Omega Seed, in the fall of 2014.

After several thousand years of visiting and abducting humans, an alien fleet is sent from another star system to invade Earth and built within all the conflict lies a love story.

And following that, another novel: The Time Doctor's Chronicles which depict two scientist/doctors exploits when they travel back in Time to hopefully correct horrific present day situations caused during The American Revolution, The Civil War, World War Two and finally Armageddon.

