 
# End Of The Road

### An Anthology Of Stories

## Jacques Antoine

## Robert Thomas

## James Rozoff

### Contents

Romance

1. The Kiss at the End of the Road

2. Anywhere

3. Home Now

Spiritual

4. The Savior

5. Waiting In Line

6. Sinners in Church

Literary Fiction

7. Traveling Companions

8. Young Chef's Regret

9. Nowheresville

10. The Long Road Home

11. Once We Were Children

12. Hilda's Song

13. The High Road to the Mountain Gods

Action and Adventure

14. Holmgang

15. The Zombie Pestilence

Science Fiction

16. Joint Venture

17. Sherdan's Road

18. The End of the Road

Crime Fiction

19. A Touch of Cold

20. The Last Hours of Brandon Kratz

21. Because I Love You

Horror Stories

22. The Sinkhole

23. Natural Selection

24. Downfall #1

25. The Velociraptor at the End of the Road
_T he End of the Road_, © 2013 Jacques Antoine.

Edited by Jacques Antoine, James Rozoff, and Robert Thomas.

Cover and Graphics by Suzie O'Connell.

* * *

All stories and introductory material used by permission of authors of each story. All rights are otherwise reserved.

* * *

Publisher's Note: This book is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

* * *

Smashwords Edition

* * *

All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Authors or Publisher, excepting brief quotes to be used in reviews.

# Romance

The heart is drawn to life in all its vitality, but somehow it is also drawn to the end of the road — in its longing for lost love, or in its vows of eternal fidelity, or even in the yearning love can inspire to break free from the present moment when we discover an unsuspected, sympathetic spirit.

# 1 The Kiss at the End of the Road

**B y Brandon Hale**

* * *

I sat at the bar, moving the shot glass in small circles, watching the alcohol swish around the glass. "She could kiss," I said quietly. "Damn, that woman could kiss."

"I bet," the bartender said.

"No tongues," I went on as I gazed absently at the glass. "It was just a soft, slow pressing of the lips. After ten years of marriage, her kisses still made me feel like I was a teenager. They just felt... hell, I dunno... _powerful_."

"Sounds like she was an amazing woman," the bartender said. He was an older man, probably about fifty or so, totally bald with a neatly trimmed gray mustache and goatee.

"She was," I said quietly. "I don't know why the hell I'm telling you this. It's not like you have any idea who I am." I looked around the bar. A few people sat in one corner. Other than that, the place was empty. "I didn't even know this place was here until I saw the sign tonight."

"You're always welcome here," the bartender said. "Sometimes it's better to talk about this stuff to strangers, you know?"

"I guess," I said. After a few seconds of silence, I started babbling again. "You know what's weird? She always swore she'd kissed me before."

"Not sure I follow," the bartender said.

"Our first kiss was at the end of our third date," I explained. "I still can't believe it was twelve years ago. Anyway, at the end of that date, I leaned over and kissed her. When I pulled back, she had this _odd_ look on her face."

"Odd?"

"Yeah," I said. "It's hard to describe. She looked surprised, I guess. Her eyes were all wild. Of course I panicked and thought I'd overstepped my bounds. I told her I was sorry and braced myself for a 'let's be friends' speech."

"Since you wound up married," the bartender said, "I'm assuming that speech never came."

"Right," I said. "She just looked at me for a few seconds, then said, 'I've kissed you before.'"

"But you said it was your first kiss."

I nodded. "It was. We'd never kissed before that night. Ever. But she _swore_ we had. She was absolutely positive she'd kissed me before. Over the years, it kind of became a joke with us. We always said it was proof of reincarnation and proof that we were together in a past life. We claimed it was proof that we really were soul mates, in this life and the next."

"It's a nice thought," the bartender said.

I sighed. "Yeah. It is."

I finished my drink in silence and he poured me another.

"When did she pass away?" he finally asked.

The question was a dagger in my heart. Up to then, nobody had asked me that question. I'd spent the past month with family and they obviously knew when she died. I wanted to punch him in the face for asking. I wanted to climb over that bar and beat the living shit out of him.

I took a steadying breath and said, "A month ago, but really, she was already gone. She was unconscious for the last two months of her life."

"Damn," he said, shaking his head.

"Yeah," I said. "You'd think knowing it's coming prepares you, but it doesn't. Not really."

"Cancer?"

"You know what I regret most?" I said.

Respecting that I ignored his question, he said, "I couldn't even venture a guess on that one."

"I regret that I didn't kiss her before she lost consciousness the final time. I know it's selfish as hell to say this, but I feel like I was cheated out of that final kiss. I really thought she'd wake up again, but she didn't. I know it was best for her. When she was awake, she was in pain, so it's good that she passed on in her sleep... but if I'm being totally honest here, I wanted her to wake up. At least for a few seconds. I was ready. She was going to wake up to a kiss from her husband." I downed the rest of my drink. "But her eyes never opened again."

"It's not selfish to want that," the bartender said. After a pause, he added, "Okay, maybe it's a little selfish, but it's also human."

"Every night since she died," I said, "I've thought about kissing her." I could hear my own voice breaking, but I didn't really care. I'd never been to this bar before. I didn't care what this man thought of me. "It's the weirdest thing. I mean, we didn't kiss all that much. We'd been married for ten years. Most of our time was spent just enjoying each other on a level much deeper than a kiss. We did everything together. Everything." I wiped the tears from my cheeks. "Yet all I can think about is how much I wanna kiss her. I know it sounds crazy, but I feel like I could move on from this if I could just kiss her one last time."

"It doesn't sound crazy at all, Jack," the bartender said.

"How do you know my name?" I asked.

He smiled. "You told me. A couple times, actually."

"Damn," I said. "I'm drunker than I thought."

"Speaking of," he said as he took my empty glass, "I think you've had enough. Besides, it's an hour past closing time."

I looked around at the bar. The people in the corner were gone. The place was empty. "Sorry," I said. "You should have run me off an hour ago."

"Nah," he said. "I'm here to help. Matter of fact, let me lock up and give you a ride home. You're too drunk to be driving."

"I walked here," I said. "Our apartment's just about a mile away. That's why I was so surprised I'd never noticed this place before."

"Meh," he said with a shrug, "we're new to town and tucked away pretty good here. You'd be amazed at the amount of people who don't notice us." He pulled a jacket from beneath the bar. "Jack, I insist you let me give you a ride. A mile is a long way for a drunk man to walk."

"Becca would have a fit if she found out I let a stranger give me a ride home," I said.

_Becca's dead._

The thought came like a punch in the face and I wanted to die for thinking it.

_Becca's dead._

"Becca would want you to get home safely," the bartender said. "I didn't know her, but I'm pretty damn sure I'm right on this."

"Yeah," was all I could manage to say.

"If you don't let me drive you home," he said, "I'll just follow you with my car."

I chuckled despite the crippling pain in my heart. "You really go the extra mile for customer service."

"Repeat business and all that," he said.

His small pickup truck was parked in the alley behind the bar. I staggered to the passenger side and climbed inside. He immediately cranked it up and started driving.

"Don't you want to know where I live?" I asked.

"You told me in the bar," he said. "You really can't handle your liquor, Jack."

"Cut me some slack," I said. "I don't normally drink."

At the first intersection, he went left.

"My place is the other way," I said. If I'd been sober, his wrong turn would have probably made me nervous, but I was really too drunk to care one way or the other. Besides, in those days I didn't much care about my own well-being.

"Don't worry, Jack," he said. "We'll get you home. We just have to take a slight detour first."

I shrugged. "If you're a serial killer, you'd probably get more pleasure from killing someone who gives a shit about living."

He laughed. "I'm not a serial killer, I promise."

We rode through town until we came to a road on the south side, near the college.

"I know this road," I said.

"I thought you would," he said.

"Why are we here?"

"You'll see."

He drove to the house at the end of the road and stopped in the middle of the street. The house's driveway was packed with cars. I could hear music thumping inside. All the lights were on, so I could see several people through the windows, standing around the living room.

"Looks like they're having a party," the bartender said.

"Yeah," I said. "College kids rent most of these houses."

"I know," he said. "There's something special about this house, though, right?"

My heart was pounding like it was desperate to get out of my chest. "It's where Becca lived during her freshmen year of college," I said quietly. "This was her home during the party years. It was before I met her, but I've heard all the stories."

"Not _all_ the stories, Jack," he said. "Go inside."

"No," I said. "This house has no meaning for me. I told you, she lived here before we met. That was over fourteen years ago. Nobody who lives there now would know her. What possible reason would I have to go inside?"

He placed a hand on my shoulder. "Trust me, Jack. Go inside. _Right now_."

"Why the hell not," I said as I opened the door. "Let's go. It's not like I have anybody waiting for me at home."

_Because Becca's dead._

I was learning to hate my own mind for the constant reminders.

"I'll stay here in 2013," he said. "I hated '98. The music was just too damn pretentious."

"Huh?"

He laughed again. "Just go inside."

Still quite drunk, I staggered toward the front door. As I got closer, I could hear people inside. Laughing, talking, singing.

They were happy.

It's like they lived in a different world. A world where Becca wasn't dead.

_But Becca is dead._

When I got to the top of the porch steps, I stopped. My feet _and_ my heart.

I heard Becca's voice.

_No you didn't, idiot. Becca's dead_.

The voice was young and happy and innocent, but it was unmistakably Becca's voice.

_Becca!_

_Is!_

_Dead!_

On the other side of the door, Becca laughed. _Oh my God, she laughed._ My heart filled with joy and despair.

"Okay, okay," I heard her say with a slur. She was clearly drunk. "A dare's a dare. I'll kiss the next person who walks through that door."

"And it can't be a peck," someone else said. "It has to be a real kiss."

"I don't half-ass my dares," Becca said. "It'll be real."

In that moment, I understood everything. I ran to the door and pulled it open.

There she was. Younger than I'd ever seen her. Beautiful. Vibrant.

_Alive_.

"A dare's a dare," she said.

She grabbed me by the shirt collar, pulled me to her, and pressed her lips against mine.

The young Becca kissed _exactly_ like the Becca I knew.

Soft, but strong.

And absolutely bursting with passion.

For that brief moment, my joy vanquished my sorrow.

Becca was alive again.

_I was alive again._

The kiss lasted about ten seconds.

It also lasted forever.

When eternity ended, our lips parted. She winked at me and said, "Welcome to the party. I'm Becca. I'm also very drunk." She turned to her friends and said, "How was that?"

"Weak," a girl said. "There was no tongue."

"Tongue is for horny teenagers," she said. "Anybody who understands kissing knows that." She looked around the room. "Okay, my turn. Tom! Truth or dare?"

My world was spinning. _Oh shit_ , I thought. _I'm going to pass out._

Without really thinking, I turned around and staggered back outside, desperate for air. As soon as I stepped on the porch again, I was assaulted by silence.

No music. No laughing.

Nothing.

I spun around. The house was dark. The driveway was empty. I looked at the street.

The bartender and his truck were gone.

It took me about three hours to walk back to the bar. When I finally got there, the building was completely dark. As I got closer, I noticed the sign above the door was missing. I walked to the window and looked inside.

Empty.

No tables, no bar, nothing. Just four walls, a ceiling, a floor, and dust.

I stared inside that empty building for at least an hour. By the time I finally wandered home, morning had come. Before I entered our apartment, I stopped and looked at the sky. The morning sun was just starting to peek over the apartment building.

_Beautiful,_ I thought.

It was the first time I'd noticed beauty in over a month.

I watched the sun rise for a few more minutes, then went inside and flopped down on my couch. I was asleep almost instantly.

While I slept, Becca came to me in a dream. I don't remember where we were or what we were doing. The only thing I remember is Becca.

She was smiling.

"I was right," she said. "I _knew_ I remembered kissing you. My first was your last."

"Who was that bartender?" I asked.

She just shrugged.

"I don't guess it matters," I said.

"No," she said. "It doesn't really matter. He was just a delivery driver. The gift came from somewhere else."

"Where?"

"Stop questioning," she said. "Damn. Just _appreciate_."

I smiled. "Okay."

"I love you, Jack," she said. "Note the tense."

"Present, not past," I said.

She winked.

"I love you too, Becca."

The next day, I started cleaning the apartment. I hadn't really cleaned in over a month, so the place was a disaster. Honestly, I hadn't done much of anything in over a month. I started cleaning because I knew the time for nothing had passed.

It was time to start living again.

Don't get me wrong, I wasn't naïve about it. I hadn't found _happily ever after_. I knew full well it wouldn't be easy. My grief hadn't vanished. My heart was still broken, but something _had_ changed. I felt sadness instead of despair. In a weird way, I actually felt optimistic.

_I'll get through this,_ I thought. Becca was gone and, yes, that was almost unbearable.

Almost, but not quite.

_Becca's not dead. Not really._

That was the day I stopped hating my inner voice.

Since then, I've had good days and bad. Some days are harder than others. Birthdays, anniversaries, things like that. But when the hard days come, I get through them. One day at a time, baby steps, take comfort in your friends, a million other clichés. Truth is, I usually get through the worst days by thinking about the night that bartender promised to give me a ride home but instead took me to 1998.

I don't know how long the grief will last. Probably forever. There are some wounds time just doesn't heal. But I'll manage. I'll keep moving. Eventually, I'll find happiness again. It'll be a different kind of happiness, but that's okay. Honestly, I have no idea what tomorrow has waiting for me, but no matter what it is, I know one thing...

I'll never forget that first and last kiss at the old party house at the end of the road.

# 2 Anywhere

**B y C.A. Newsome**

* * *

Kitty stumbled out of Teresa Waxler's house, furious at herself, furious at Tom. She'd let him bring her to this juvenile puke fest. She knew it wasn't her kind of party, but Tom said if she didn't want to go, he'd go alone. Then he got plastered and started acting like an ass. Now she was bolting into the night without a clue where she was going.

She spotted Joe across the road, leaning against his Chevy pickup. He had one foot propped behind him on the rusted fender and his arms folded across his chest. His real name was George. Only his teachers called him that. He was Injun Joe, or just Joe. She wondered if the tough crowd he hung with knew he'd named himself after a Mark Twain villain. Probably not.

He was a little shorter than she was, with skin that browned as soon as the sun came out and straight black hair almost down to his shoulder blades. He wore jeans and work boots in spite of the heat. His shirt was unbuttoned and a narrow strip of chest showed. He was motionless, like a snake considering prey. Smoke curled from his cigarette. It played hide and seek with one high cheekbone.

Joe was watching her with those dark eyes, his chin lifted. A hint of a sneer challenged her. He gave her a faint nod. Acknowledgment? Or just affirming his own opinion of her personal drama?

_Oh, Yeah?_ Kitty abruptly changed course and headed for the old truck. _Think you know me?_

"Give me one of those," she demanded, gesturing to his cigarette.

"You don't smoke, Buttercup." He lazily placed the filter between his lips and drew in. The end lit up, illuminating his face, red pinpoints reflecting in his eyes.

"Don't call me that. And how would you know?"

"I know a lot of things about you. Buttercup."

She ignored the provocation. "Like what?" She dared.

"Like you're too smart for that asshole you date, for one."

"And?"

"What are you doing here, Buttercup? Aren't you afraid your grade point average is going to drop?"

"I'm not some nerd. Give me one of those," she repeated.

"Aren't you, now?" He kept his eyes on hers as he pulled the pack of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket and shook out a cigarette.

She took the cigarette and held it up, waiting. "What are you doing out here, anyway? This isn't exactly your scene."

"Just enjoying the show." He lit a match, cupping it in the still air as he held the flame for her. His hand brushed hers. An electric sensation pulsed through her as their hands touched. Had he felt it? She stepped back and puffed, nurturing the ember.

Kitty looked away and dragged on her cigarette. She knew better than to take it into her lungs. She blew out carefully to avoid coughing.

She looked sideways at him. "You don't talk much, do you?"

He shrugged. "You going to inhale that thing?"

"Are you always this rude?"

"Usually. Remind me not to share a joint with you. I hate waste."

"Do you want it back?" She held her cigarette out to him. He took it from her, gently tamped it out on the side of his truck and returned it to the pack.

She crossed her arms. "I just wanted something to do with my hands," she groused.

"I can think of plenty you could do with your hands, Buttercup."

"Why do you call me that?"

He grinned. "Because it bugs you."

Kitty huffed. Light speared out from the house as the front door opened, drawing her attention. Tom was silhouetted in the doorway. He stormed into the yard, bearing down on them.

"Get me out of here."

"Trouble in paradise, Buttercup?"

"Can we just go?"

"Where to?" The passenger door squealed as he opened it for her.

She climbed up. "Anywhere."

"Not home?"

"No way."

She looked through the rear window as they pulled out. Tom was in the middle of the street, fists on hips, enraged. She leaned back against the bench seat, smug.

She'd spent the last month as Tom's girl. Being Tom's girl mostly meant being the adoring witness to his awesome-ness. It was boring. She had the feeling that who she was didn't matter. She could be one of a dozen females, and any one of the others could slide neatly into her place without Tom ever noticing the difference.

At least she hadn't 'done it' with him. He'd pushed, he'd kept pushing. Whatever she was supposed to feel, she hadn't felt it. So she kept saying no. She took a moment to be relieved.

Perhaps Joe was the only port in a storm, but at least he was fully aware of her. She couldn't explain how she knew this. She felt amazingly . . . something. Amazingly, well, 'here.' She lowered her lashes and observed him from the corner of her eye as he tucked another cigarette between his lips, the same one she'd started, and coaxed it back to life from the old one.

They rode in silence punctuated by the whining and grinding of the truck's gears. He headed out of town, then turned off on a section line road.

"Where are we going?"

"We're going anywhere, Buttercup. You ever been there?"

"I guess not."

Should she be worried? She'd heard about boys who drove girls out in the country and refused to drive them back home unless they put out. The stories were vague. It always happened to "this girl," or "my friend told me about a friend of hers." Never any names.

If it came to that, she'd be able to spot the town lights over the tree line. A long walk might be just what she needed to cool out. She discovered part of her was spoiling for a fight.

The boy beside her was silent as he drove, right hand on the wheel, his left elbow resting on the door frame. He'd barely touched her, just the once, when he lit her borrowed cigarette. He gave no hint to his intentions; no clue what was going to happen next. She felt prickly all over as each moment, each mile, took her further into the unknown. She didn't know if she liked the feeling, but she wasn't bored.

The motor droned as she hung her arm out the window and felt the air rushing through her fingers. She wondered what he was thinking.

The fields gave way to woods that crowded the road, rising over them and blocking out the sky. Joe turned onto a lane that was barely more than a pair of tire tracks in the high grass. He jammed his cigarette into the ashtray and put both hands on the wheel. The truck humped and bucked over ruts and fallen branches. Trees closed in around them, shutting out everything except the bouncing headlights. Then the track disappeared.

"End of the line, Buttercup. Everybody out." He grabbed a blanket from behind the seat and hopped down.

"What is this place?"

"You'll see. Come on."

She got out of the truck and stumbled on a tussock of grass. "I can't see anything. You must have eyes like a cat."

"Scared?" He was a gray smudge against the trees.

"You wish," she lied.

He ghosted over to her.

"Here." He took her hand in his own firm, dry one and she let him lead her down an invisible path. Gradually her eyes adapted to the void. She began to see something, a faint movement in the air ahead.

A clearing opened up around them, full of tiny, flickering points of light. Thousands of fireflies filled the space. They blinked in the grass, they hung from the branches, they flashed in the surrounding air. The minute beacons floated from the ground up into the tree tops, merging with the stars.

"Oh!" She grabbed Joe's arm. She could feel him grinning beside her.

He opened up the blanket, pulling her down next to him as he sat. She bolted up, startled. His arm came around her, warm and strong. She stiffened, caught in her own indecision like a small forest creature trapped by headlights. She should protest. Why wasn't she protesting?

"Relax," he whispered into her ear. She turned to look at him. His face was deep shadows and silver in the starlight. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to. I just like to come here when I'm mad at the world. You seemed plenty mad to me."

"How did you find this place?"

He shrugged. "Just driving around. Sometimes I like to camp out. This is one of my spots."

"This is amazing."

"I like it. All those bugs are supposed to be mating. The ones sitting still and blinking are the females. The males are the ones flying around. Only some of them are a different species, and they mimic the females to draw the other males near so they can eat them."

"That's terrible."

"It's life. And that light they give off is the most efficient light in the world. It's called cold light because one hundred percent of the energy becomes light. In a light bulb, ninety percent of the energy creates heat and only ten percent becomes light."

She turned to him. "How do you know all this?"

He shrugged again. "I like knowing stuff."

"You've got everyone fooled."

"I like finding out about things. It's school I can't stand. Some species have eggs that glow when they're poked."

"You're putting me on."

"Nope."

"I feel like I'm inside an atom."

"Nerd."

"That's just mean."

"But you're real cute for a nerd, Buttercup."

"Gee, you say the nicest things."

"Still mad?"

She blinked, aware her bad mood had evaporated. "No, why?"

"Because." He tugged on a lock of her hair, pulling her closer to him. He leaned in to bridge the gap between them and closed his lips over hers. He sucked on her upper lip, savoring, then teased her mouth open with his tongue. His mouth was decisive and intent on hers.

Kitty's world tilted. She fell through stars, kept falling as fireflies lit her up from inside. She felt like a pop-bottle rocket with a lit fuse.

She wrapped her arms around his neck to save herself, anchoring to the warm reality of his tongue in her mouth. He lowered her to the blanket and lay beside her, burying his face in her neck, nibbling his way up to her ear and sucking on the lobe, hot breath sending frissons of pleasure through her. She made little mewling noises that had him smiling against her skin.

Kitty lowered her arms and placed her palms against the hot skin of his chest, tentatively exploring. Joe leaned over her, his hair a curtain around his face, shutting out everything except his gleaming eyes. As his hand slid up under her top and the heat arrowed down inside her, she realized he was right. She wasn't going to do a thing that she didn't want to do.

"Anywhere" is an excerpt from the prologue of _Maximum Security_ , the third book in C. A. Newsome's _Dog Park Mysteries_.

C. A. Newsome lives in Cincinnati, Ohio, with her three rescues. She and her furry family go to the dog park every morning. To learn more, visit her website at carolannnewsome.com.

# 3 Home Now

**B y Suzie O'Connell**

* * *

From the comfort of his recliner, Robert watched out the big picture window as snowflakes drifted in a lazy, disoriented dance from a sullen gray sky, muting the once-vibrant colors of the autumn as they gathered in a frosty quilt. A few leaves still clung desperately to the skeletal branches, unwilling to fall with their comrades that now lay scattered and dead. His old eyes had seen so many days like this, but he had never appreciated the quiet, cold beauty of them until Edith. Days like this had always been something to endure on the ranch, bringing numb fingers and toes, and making hard work even harder, but she had shown him how to find the warmth in even the darkest, most bitter December night.

He wished she were here with him now to warm away the sorrow in his heart. _Has it really been a year already?_ he wondered as he picked up the framed photograph sitting on the table beside his recliner. His gaze sidetracked briefly to the gnarled hands that gripped the weathered-wood frame. Veins protruded like the knotty roots of an old tree pushing up the ground, and the skin was paper thin and splotched with liver spots and the bruises that came so easily these days. The face half-reflected in the glass didn't look anything like the smooth, smiling young man staring out at him from the photograph; it was creased with time, weathered by eighty-seven years of riding the range, and its main reason for smiling had died. _When did I get so old, Edie?_

He tilted the picture frame so he could no longer see the reflection, and focused instead on the man and woman in the photograph. They were so young, so full of life and love. There were other photographs scattered around their house—dozens upon dozens of them—chronicling their sixty-six years together. There were images of road trips and vacations, pictures of their son and grandson and great-granddaughter, and photos of beloved pets.

A knock on the door disrupted his thoughts, and he pushed slowly out of his chair. These creaky old bones and tired muscles certainly didn't work like they once had, but he didn't mind. Truthfully, he didn't mind the wrinkles and fragile skin, either, because growing old was a privilege. He'd earned every sore joint, every scar, and every one of the few gray hairs he had left. Edith had taught him that, too. He shuffled to the back door and knew before he opened it that he'd see his son standing on the other side. It was time for Jim's daily visit.

"Hiya, Pops," his son greeted, stamping the snow from his boots as he stepped inside. A waft of crisp, cold air followed him in. "How are you today?"

"I miss your mother," Robert said simply.

Jim's lips curved in a sad smile. "I know you do. I miss her, too."

"You're a good boy, Jim. A good man," he corrected. "I hope you know how proud you've made me. And how much I love you."

"I know you're proud of me. And you've always made sure I know." Jim frowned quizzically at him. "Are you all right, Pops?"

"It's just this weather. Your mother used to love days like this. Make me snuggle on the couch with her under an afghan to watch the snow fly. So silly, but I loved it. I don't know if I ever told her that."

"She knew."

Realizing they were still standing just inside the back door, he hesitated before stuffing his feet into his muck boots and yanking his old Carhartt coat on. "Mind if we take a little walk?"

"It's pretty slick out. Are you sure you wouldn't rather stay in by your nice cozy warm fire?"

"I'm sure. I need some fresh air."

He followed his son out the door, and stepped from under the eaves. Closing his eyes, he turned his face to the sky, and the feathery snowflakes brushed against his skin. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard Edith laughing at his antics and felt his face lift at the sound of her cherished voice. When he again turned his gaze upon his son, he was startled to see that Jim wasn't young anymore, either. At sixty-four, his hair was the color of pepper, and the virility of youth had begun to fade faster in the past few years, but Robert had no trouble seeing the strapping young man he'd been. Memories of birthday parties and football games and their last father-son rides on the ranch poured through his mind.

"Are you sure you're all right, Pops?" Jim asked.

"I'm sure. But, you make sure my grandson and great-granddaughter know I love them," he said. "You'll do that for me, won't you, Jim?"

"Of course, Pops. Why are you...."

"Don't mind me. You should probably get on home. I know you're busy."

"Everything can wait."

_Such a good boy_ , Robert thought again. _What a legacy I leave behind...._

"I'll be all right, Jim. Don't you worry about me."

Jim hugged him for several long minutes, as if he sensed something out of place. He'd always been intuitive like that, though. He got it from Edith.

Robert stood on the back deck and watched his son climb into his brand new pickup. Their eyes met briefly in the rearview mirror, then the taillights glowed brilliantly red in the dull gray evening. He lifted his hand in farewell, and Jim did the same. They held gazes until the distance became too great, then Robert turned and went back inside.

There was nothing left to do. His son was grown, and his grandson, too. They were both successful with everything Robert ever hoped they'd have. And his great-granddaughter was a beautiful young woman now, well on her way toward a shining future. Their lives were in full swing, but he knew his was winding down. It had been since Edith had passed away last year on a night so like this one. Maybe he didn't mind the aches and pains so much, but there was one hurt that had become too much, and it couldn't be soothed away like the rest.

He fixed himself dinner—a tasteless microwaveable concoction—sorely missing Edith's delicious cooking. The house felt emptier than usual tonight, and he flipped through the channels for an hour before giving up and turning in early for the night. He went through the motions of preparing for bed, but none of it had any meaning. He was tired of being alone, tired of climbing into his bed to see Edith's side empty, and tired of lying awake, wishing he could hold her in arms just one more time. With a sigh, he stoked the fire for the night, made his way slowly through the house to turn off all the lights, and climbed beneath the blankets.

_Robert._

He turned his head toward the door and blinked, sure it was some trick of his eyes. She was still there, standing in the doorway of their bedroom, dressed in her favorite old nightgown with her hands braced on her hips and his favorite playful smile dancing on her lips and in her faded blue eyes. Her silver hair tumbled down over her shoulders in a shimmering river, and he levered himself up on his elbow to rake his eyes over her.

"This is a dream. It can't be real. You aren't here anymore."

_I_ am _here, Robert._

Disbelieving, he watched her sidle toward him, felt the mattress give as she slid over him to reclaim her spot in their bed. Then he reached tentatively for her, and when his fingers felt the heat of her soft skin, he gave in and dragged her into his arms. He held her tightly, trembling. She giggled, and the years fell away from them both. They were again the young husband and wife in the picture by his recliner.

"I've been so alone," he murmured, clinging to her like a drowning man clings to the sky. "I've missed you so much, Edie."

"Hush, my love. You're not alone anymore," she whispered against his lips. She kissed him lightly, then brushed her fingers tenderly across his cheek and his brow. "You're home now."

Find out more about Suzie O'Connell at suzieoconnell.com.

# Spiritual

Sometimes we end up at the end of the road because of a spiritual quest, at other times the end may just come upon us like the glint of the morning sun that wakes us from a dream, and every once in a long while, the end may seize us precisely because we've lost sight of our spiritual side.

# 4 The Savior

**B y Alison Blake**

* * *

Today was her 87th birthday. She celebrated by watching him die, then arranging for his cremation at a cost of one hundred dollars.

Afterwards, she drove herself home and managed to park under the carport without knocking anything down. A truly amazing feat when you consider that during the entire drive, she saw nothing and was aware of nothing, but the deep sigh he gave before he closed his eyes for the last time. Over and over she heard the sigh, saw his eyes close, and saw him die.

Well, we all die, and his was an easy death. It was surprising how calm she felt, how accepting, not really numb but—and then, as she got out of the car, the pain surged up. It was horrific, a knife stabbing into her chest, blocking her breathing, burning deep into her gut. Salty tears rolled down her wrinkled cheeks, her breath came in gasps between the rhythmic beats of her heart, and she silently screamed to the heavens.

Grief. How can something so insubstantial cause so much pain?

At the front door she fumbled with her keys and dropped them twice. Someone had stuffed a pamphlet through the door handle. She plucked it out and carried it inside with her. She dropped her keys and the crumpled pamphlet on the kitchen counter. Every light in the house was still on, just the way she had left it when they rushed to the hospital.

"I can't stand it," she said out loud between gasps and sobs. The pain was beyond bearing, and anyway, what was the point?

She was breathing rapidly, but no air was getting in. The kitchen, bright with hundred watt bulbs and butter yellow walls, equipped with all the latest gadgets, was missing one essential ingredient. Air.

Leaning heavily on the counter, slowly her panic subsided. Oxygen courteously consented to fill her hungry lungs. For a moment her body's relief overwhelmed her grief, but grief is a graspingly ravenous monster, and it stormed back, invading her mind with throbbing, twisting pain.

Riley was really dead.

In the bathroom she splashed water on her face. As she turned to dry her hands she caught a glimpse of movement. She dropped the towel, grabbing on to the sink edge to keep from falling. An ugly old woman with flaming red hair and wrinkled skin, glared at her from the mirror.

Had she really thought there was someone else here? She laughed a dry, harsh cackle. In all the four years she had lived in this apartment, there had never been a single visitor, let alone an intruder.

She studied the old woman in the mirror. The bones of her face were still elegant. Even the wrinkles weren't that bad when looked at straight on. It was the sagging profile that disgusted her. Her eyebrows, which used to be well formed and explicit, were now multicolored, scraggly thin and thick. Ugly. Around the edges of her hairline, white roots showed, blanching her face, extinguishing her usual vividness. No time left to dye it.

Years ago she'd been walking down Fifth Avenue, when out of the corner of her eye she saw this beautiful, radiant young woman coming towards her. Drawn by the woman's beauty she had turned, only to discover it was a reflection of herself. She had been embarrassed and looked around to see if anyone was staring at her, as if bystanders could read her vain, self-absorbed mind. Even now, remembering her unexpected beauty, she smiled.

"Ah, the hell with it."

Still she intended to look as good as it was possible for someone her age to look. She washed her face, brushed her teeth. Still had all her teeth. Not too yellow for an old woman. She hesitated, then with a sigh, she did the thing that offended her the most. Carefully wetting her face with a warm washcloth she applied shaving cream under her nose, down her chin, and onto her throat, picked up her razor, a pink ladies razor of course, and carefully shaved her growing beard. God, how she hated that. When she was married, well when she was first married, she loved to sit on the closed toilet seat and watch her husband shave. It seemed so masculine.

_Yeah, so masculine._ _If only she had known._ Well, what could she have done? The doctor had taken her off hormones after that study came out. So here she was, an eighty-seven year old lady with a shaving habit.

She changed her clothes because, by God, she intended to look decent. Even though they have been washed recently, there was still a lot of dog hair clinging to her dark blue pull-on slacks.

Little clouds of dog hair scuttled across the floor as she walked. Had a life of their own, they did. They were everywhere. No matter, she loved dogs. How many dogs had she had in her lifetime?

The few she'd had as a kid didn't count. Her parents had always become horrified when the reality of living with a dog sunk in, and had gotten rid of them. Since she was an adult on her own she had, she had had three, no four, no...but she wasn't going to count him. The first was some mutt she had picked up from the pound, a tiny, scared mix-of-everything, non-descript, little thing she had called Sparrow. Then there was the Bernese Mountain dog ( _what was his name?)_ It scared her that she couldn't remember. Then there was Freckles, a Springer Spaniel (also from the pound) that had traveled with her and her son as they drove across country in an old VW Van.

"Remember the time we parked near another VW Van and Freckles, who was as neurotic as hell, dashed into the other van. And didn't want to come out?"

Ah hell, she was talking to herself again.

That was after her divorce, her first divorce.

Before getting married she had lived in Manhattan without a dog. She told people she was an actress with a capital "A". She had gone to auditions, and lots and lots of parties. She took a few acting lessons. God, life is good when you're in your 20s. Anyhow she hadn't done too badly for herself.

The present day woman stared into the mirror.

"I didn't do too badly for myself," she informed her doppelgänger.

For someone who couldn't sing or dance, she'd gotten quite a few roles. Most of them off-Broadway. "I was a serious actress." She had even done a few TV slots. But she loved a real audience. For somebody who just sort of stumbled into it she had done surprisingly well. If only --

If only what? As if it mattered now. There were plenty who had had big successful careers. But everyone, if they were lucky, or unlucky depending on how things were going, got to be old after a while. She walked into the living room and pulled all the blinds up, letting the sun stream in. More dog hair danced in the sunlight. Ordinarily she would have gotten out her hand vacuum and chased them down.

She opened the balcony door and stepped out, still cool but that was okay. Slight breeze, that was okay, too. She stood looking down at the common. All around it were ugly two-story houses. In each building lived old, decrepit people, like her.

"The hell with it."

One or two of those old people were still married and living together, but most were women alone. A few of them still had husbands but usually the husbands were in nursing homes. It was rare to see a man limping down the narrow paths.

It was a long time since she'd had a man. But God she'd had a lot of them. Which was really, when you got right down to it, what had stalled her acting career. She had discovered men. Well, she had discovered sex.

"Always a late bloomer."

What she loved about sex, aside from the physical sensations, which were fantastic (even now she smiled as she thought of those long ago physical sensations) was the feeling of intimacy, closeness, and caring. But the great thing was, you didn't really have to care. You didn't need a real relationship, all you needed to do was fuck. That wasn't a word they had used much in her 20s and 30s. Mind you it had been used, but it was used more as a curse word, or for emphasis.

Nowadays, if one was to believe the movies and books, it was used almost as a greeting. 'Hey girl, want to fuck?' Or 'Fuck, my man, how you doing?' She herself never got to use the word very much, which was alright, there were plenty of other words. The important thing was not talking about it, but doing it.

Back in the bathroom she took up a blue sponge to wipe off the counter. Dog hairs caught in the dampness of the sponge. She ran water over it and watched some of the hairs detach and swirl down into the drain. How many dogs had she owned? Sparrow, the Beninese whose name was—YoYo! _Fuck you Alzheimer's._

Then there was Freckles, the neurotic Springer Spaniel, who looked like beauty personified when he loped gracefully over the fields. Somewhere in between there had been one other. And of course, there was the last one. But she wasn't going to think about him.

Change the subject.

"How many men did you fuck?" she asked the mirror.

By today's standards, at least according to what she read and occasionally overheard, she'd actually been rather miserly. The first was David. They had met at the White Horse Inn in Greenwich Village. After a few dates they had gone to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, where he had introduced her to sex. Which she had liked immensely, and from then on was an enthusiastic participant. She had been annoyed though because, up until then (she had been twenty-two) everyone had made such a big deal about it. As if the world would spin off its axis if she had sex before she was married, and in the end, it had turned out to be such a simple thing.

"What was the big deal?"

Then she had gone to summer stock in Vermont and had slept (well, not actually slept) with two different guys. What were their names? One of them was Ron Somebody. It bothered her that she couldn't remember the other one's name. Well, it didn't matter. They had all been older than she and were almost certainly dead now. The stark eyed woman in the mirror shuddered. All dead. She had never thought of that before.

She had never loved any of them. What she _had_ loved was having them chase after her. She loved their sweet talking lies. She had been hungry, hungry, hungry for people to say nice things to her. To just pretend to love her. She hadn't wanted real love because love involved emotions. Love involved--.

She made her way slowly into the kitchen and got out a glass. She filled it with equal parts orange juice and gin, then dropped a couple of ice cubes in and stirred it with her finger. Breakfast.

So the truth of the matter was, that as long as the man was not absolutely repulsive, and as long as he talked, and talked, and promised her the world, she would go to bed with him. She needed to be desired and admired. She wanted flesh on flesh, not heart upon heart. Above all, she did not want to be loved, or to love.

She sipped her drink. In the end she'd fucked maybe fifteen guys. She married one of them. Jesus, that turned out to be a mistake, a premature ejaculator who got her pregnant.

Another swallow of her drink. She shuddered, the gin was strong. She'd always liked gin. It wasn't fashionable but there was something about it, a flowery smell. Anyway it was her favorite drink. She sipped at it as she carried it back to the bathroom, where she carefully applied her makeup. Trying to make her eyebrows look more like eyebrows and less like unraveling strings, was a lost cause. She smudged a little eye-shadow on her eyelids. It didn't help. Her eyes still looked sunken and desperate.

"So what do you think, pal?" She looked around for—oh, right. He was dead.

"Probably being burned to a crisp right this minute," she told the woman in the mirror, then added, "Here comes the pain." And the pain did come. Waves of agony tearing into her body, grasping her around the throat, squeezing her heart, doubling her over, as thick, salty tears poured out of her eyes.

"And there goes the make-up," she muttered to herself.

The drink was finally hitting her. About time.

Her husband was dead too, of course. Had been dead a long time. She had divorced him years before he died.

"Did you divorce him for cruelty? No. Did you divorce him for adultery? No, but I could have. So tell me, lady, why did you divorce him? He bored the shit out of me. He was lousy in bed. He couldn't handle money. He got me pregnant."

She went back to the kitchen, staggering slightly, and poured herself another drink. Her son, Brent was dead, too. Buried long ago in a military cemetery. Pain dulled. She had vowed that that was the last pain she would ever feel for anyone.

But, oh, God, Riley was dead! A pain like a slicing knife thrust though her chest. Maybe she was having a heart attack. Maybe she would die right here, right now. She waited, bathed in pain, breathless...

"Nope, going to live."

She opened the bottom drawer, the deepest one, reached way in back, and pulled out a large, clear plastic bag. It was filled with brown bottles with white caps. She brought them back to the kitchen, hitched up one of the tall chairs next to the counter and settled herself, wrapping her feet around the legs of the tall chair. Like a child, her feet didn't touch the ground.

She took a sip of her drink. Reached into the plastic bag, removing the medicine bottles one by one, lining them up on the counter. Damn, she's forgotten something. She took another sip of her drink, got down from the chair, and walked to the cabinets where she kept her dishes. As she pulled out a small bowl, she glanced out the window. Naturally it was a beautiful day, God had a nasty sense of humor. She climbed back up on the chair, put the bowl in front of her, and began opening all the medicine bottles. Some of the damn things had childproof caps. True, she wasn't arthritic, but that didn't mean her hands were strong. She used to be very strong for woman, all that hiking, and sailing, and horseback riding, and fucking built a girl up. But now she seemed to get weaker every day. She was breathing easier now. As long as she didn't think about him.

She opened the first bottle, Compazine. Anti-nausea medication. She swallowed three pills quickly. That should keep it all down. A delicate swirl of dog hair dust-bunnies floated in the air near her face, stirred up by breeze from the open window. With an impatient gesture she pushed it away than watched as it landed gently on the floor and wrapped itself around one of the legs of her chair.

Maybe she should vacuum?

"Fuck that."

One by one she opened the other bottles and poured the contents into the bowl, stirring them with her finger. Pretty. Different colors, different shapes. Pretty.

"Now what else do I need?"

She walked back into the bathroom, opened her medicine cabinet and took out two small clear bottles filled with a clear fluid. She carried them back to the kitchen and placed them next to the bowl of pills. Anything else? Oh, of course. She went to the silverware drawer reached in the back and pulled out a large syringe. Her hand encountered a folded piece of paper which she pulled out and unfolded. It was a photocopied page of instructions, complete with illustrations. She took both the syringe and the paper back to her seat. Took another sip of her drink. Anything else? Oh, yes.

Damn, you'd think that today of all days she would be organized. Although come to think of it, why should she change now?

As she climbed down from the chair her head spun and she grabbed the counter. She spread her legs so that she had steadier base, and waited for the dizziness to pass. _Shouldn't of gotten up so fast._ She moved slowly into the kitchen one hand trailing along the wall, along the refrigerator, along the stove, until she reached the drawer where she kept her plastic bags. None of those Ziploc things for her, she pulled out a white kitchen garbage bag with an orange strip around the edge to make it easier to close, then staggered back to her chair. Now. Now she had everything.

No wait, there was something else. This suicide crap wasn't as easy as everyone said it was. With another sigh she got to her feet staggered back into her bedroom and picked up his photograph that was sitting on her chest of drawers. Then she staggered back to the kitchen. She carefully put the photograph in front of her, leaning it against a vase of dying daffodils. It was just a snapshot. Taken, God how long ago? At least five years ago. It showed him standing knee-deep in a pond surrounded by leafy trees, a slash of sunlight illuminating his happy grin. Just one of several snapshots she had taken that day. This one had come out perfectly. How had she let him get under her defenses? One minute she was happily heart-free and alone, and the next he was there, crowding in, taking over her heart. Well, that's what she got. Served her right.

She grabbed up three or four pills, popped them in her mouth, and took a swallow of her drink. She poured a little more gin into her glass, and stirred it with her finger. She was dizzy now. But her stomach was holding.

She raised her glass. "Here's to Compazine," she said, and drank some more. When she put her drink down her fingers brushed against the folded pamphlet that had been stuck in her door. Unfolding it, she tried to focus her bleary gaze on the words. It was one of those tracts that religious busybodies were always forcing on you. But this was not some expensive religious publication, it was a home grown piece of work, probably done on someone's computer.

**GOD IS LOVE**

**Whoever does not love, does not know God, because God is love**.

**JOHN 4:8**

She snorted and took another drink. "I don't believe in God," she told the paper and crumpled it up before tossing it on the floor. "And I don't believe in love," she added for good measure. But that was a lie, because she had loved him and he had loved her.

"Crap."

She picked up the folded page of suicide instructions and tried to make out the words.

Apparently she had a choice, she could inject 60 mEq or more of potassium into her veins, or she could finish taking the pills, lie down and put the plastic bag over her head. Proactive or contemplative, which should it be?

While she thought it over she popped a few more pills. The potassium, she knew, would give her a massive heart attack and she would die within minutes. On the other hand, it would hurt like hell. Just injecting it into her veins would feel like someone was dissecting her arm without anesthesia. If her hand wasn't steady when she was injecting the stuff, the needle might pull out of the vein. She looked down at her hand holding the glass of booze.

"Not so steady."

If the needle slipped it would burn up the skin and tissue and by the time it finally got into her heart there might not be enough to do a quick job.

"That doesn't sound good."

She looked at his photo. "Does it sound good to you, Riley?"

Dogs had it easy. The vet just injected Riley with something that made him sigh, close his eyes, and peacefully go to sleep. No more pain, no more sickness.

"No more love," she said to the photo.

Yep, the booze and the pills were definitely getting to her. She could tell because in the photo, really only an enlarged snapshot, Riley's lovely bushy tail waved gently at her.

_If only she could pet him one last time._

If she took the pills she would go to sleep, and putting the plastic bag over her head pretty much guaranteed she wouldn't wake up. Unless God was in his usual trickster mode.

"But you don't believe in God." Of course with her luck he probably did exist, which meant she was going to hell. "What's one more sin? I mean if you go to hell for all eternity He can't add years to your sentence can He?" She started giggling and popped a couple of more pills.

Served her right. "That's what I get for loving you," she yelled at his photograph. He looked so happy, so beautiful. Oh God she missed him.

Funny, well not really funny, considering all the people she'd lost over the years, all the things she'd walked away from, his death— God, his death. _A Goddamned dog, for crying out loud._ She started crying. Drunken crying.

Stop that, that's the one thing you never really did, well two things, you were never a drunk, and you always faced forward never looking back. So stop it!

His death was so easy. Why couldn't they do that for people? But no, humans have souls. She picked up the photograph staring at the beautiful golden retriever grinning back at her. Through her drunken haze she could see his tail wag with delight.

Riley was nothing but soul, a loving soul. There was no God, there was no afterlife, there was no Heaven or Hell. And if there was, she was going to Hell. And that was alright because...because... if dogs weren't allowed into Heaven, how could it be Heaven?

For the last week, he'd been so sick. He tried so hard to follow her around. He wanted to be with her so badly. She'd slept next to him, feeding him sips of water through a syringe because she knew how thirsty he was. Could feel his thirst herself. He couldn't hold anything down, just skin and bones, his beautiful coat so thin now. He'd been a huge dog, over 100 pounds and strong. Now he didn't have the strength to stand up. She had to get the handyman to help carry him down to her car so she could take him to the vet's. They kept him overnight trying to save him, but he was too old, too weak, too sick. Finally the vet had inserted an IV, then taken a syringe and slowly injected its contents. Riley looked at her, sighed deeply, closed his eyes and stopped breathing. All his pain seemed to rush into her. It grabbed her throat, slipped into her chest, clutching at her innards.

Did it matter that in the end it was a dog that she had truly loved? Wasn't love, love? Was God really love?

"I don't believe in God," she muttered. She grabbed up a handful of pills, crammed them down, grabbed up the bottle of gin and drank directly from it, shuddered at the taste, grabbed up the plastic bag, stood up, turned, and saw Riley standing there, watching her.

"Riley?"

He grinned his doggy grin and bounded over to her. She reached out to him and crashed to the floor. Her head smashed against the counter. Blood poured out to pool around her. She could feel his cold nose nudging her to get up, to come with him because he loved her. She reached out a shaking hand.

I'm bleeding to death. It's not suicide.

_Riley, will they let us in?_

THE END

Alison Blake is an award winning playwright and novelist. She has written for TV, and has been an Associate Editor for a number of fan magazine. Check out her website at alisonblakewriter.com.

# 5 Waiting In Line

**B y James Rozoff**

* * *

I have regained awareness in a place quite different from where I lost consciousness. Although I have never been here before, I'm quite certain I know where I am. Or perhaps I have been here before, long, long ago. I suppose that is the sort of question that I will get answers to before long.

The colors are very peaceful, all cottony whites and powder blues. The robe I am wearing is of like colors, a very clean looking white that almost shines with an azure hue.

I am standing in a line of people that stretches quite a long way ahead of me, so long that I cannot see where it ends. Even as I notice this, people are beginning to line up behind me as well. They are all dressed in the same clean white robes I am, a hint of blue to be seen in their radiance.

There is nothing to be seen except puffy white clouds and blue sky. There can be no mistaking where I am. I have reached the end of my road.

My God, is it really over? Was that my life, all of it? Life had always been something that lay ahead of me and now it is finished! That future I had always dreamed of was just a bright shiny lie. All that I had planned to be and all I had planned to do. It's too late for that now. I won't get any credit for the good intentions I had. I never acquired enough money to be as generous as I would have liked, never cleared the hurdles I wanted to get over before turning my energies into helping my fellow man. And Heaven knows I never finished sowing my wild oats enough to sate my earthly desires. I never even quit smoking! Even if they allow smokers in Heaven, I'm sure that smoking won't be allowed.

God, I could use one now. I notice my hand reach towards where my shirt pocket was just a few moments ago, but there isn't anything there now. For good or ill, I doubt I shall have another cigarette again. It's funny that the urge for nicotine has followed me even here. I wouldn't have thought a physical addiction would affect me here. Perhaps I'm just looking for a diversion from the reality I am now facing. Perhaps I just want to take an eight minute break from everything.

Is smoking evil, is it a sin? Perhaps it is not in itself evil so much as that the weakness of the body eventually leads to a weakening of the spirit. And right at the moment, I can't help feeling there is a huge nicotine stain on my soul. All of those time when I was inhaling toxins into my lungs, perhaps I could have been doing things for others, could have given that money I spent to charity.

Smoking must be a sin, if only because of the hatred I have for myself for having done it. And though it is not the greatest of my crimes, it is the one I acted upon with the most frequency. But my mind floods with a variety of deeds I am not proud of, actions done at the time thinking there was no witness. It seems that a thousand details that had been forgotten are now rushing through my brain. Pettiness I would never admit to, small but stinging jealousies of people who had what I did not.

Here I am, about to be judged, and I cannot even live up to my own standards.

Nevertheless, there is a calmness here that is the reason for me being as composed as I am (which really isn't very composed). Like everyone else here, I am wearing only a robe. My feet are bare, and I am aware that I am standing on clouds. I wish I was wearing shoes, wish that there was some separation between my feet and the nothingness that somehow seems to be holding me up. The touch of cold mist on the bottom of my feet is telling my rational mind that clouds are evaporated moisture, not something that should be able to support my weight. Perhaps it is faith that supports me, I try to tell myself. Perhaps my lack of faith will cause me to plunge through the cloud into a deep abyss, says the less optimistic side of me. I now notice that the line has moved forward. I am horrified at the idea of having to pick up my foot and place it down again upon the cold, dewy nothingness. Standing still, I feel as though I am floating. I feel like a child teetering on my legs while holding onto a chair, about to take my first steps without support. I move my leg with faith and fear, necessity being my only motivation. As my foot lands, I can feel no solidity beneath it, and a wave of panic pours through me, even as I am mysteriously held up. It is like my first time in a swimming pool, only I have no mother to cling to.

The line moves again and, when my fear permits me, I take note of the others in line. I notice a woman with a sublime smile, someone who seemed to have known all along that this is where her life was leading. I try to guess her age, but it seems malleable. She is old and young and just about any age I want to see her as. But she is beautiful, no matter her age. If she is old, I can very well imagine what she looked like as a child. If a child, I can see the woman she will grow into. Whatever the age I see her as, her eyes and smile remain constant. It almost appears as though her eyes and smile had always glowed, even before she came to be here.

In front of her is a man who seems to think he is in line for a complaint department. Evidently, the line is not moving fast enough for him, and he is feeling inconvenienced. If I had to guess what was going through his mind, I would say that he's running through a list of grievances that he was going to rattle off as soon as someone had the decency to give him a little service.

Another man appears quite miserable, as though burdened with a weight he had been meaning to get rid of for a very long time. Even now, it seems, he does not know how to let it go.

Most of the people here are quiet, although a few of them speak words of encouragement to their neighbors, exhibiting the kind of friendliness I had always admired but never possessed.

There is a couple holding hands: apparently, they must have died at the same time. They appear at times as children, then adult, then elderly. There almost seems to be an aura about them as though their separate identities were not as important as the unity they possessed.

I see a woman lost in worry, weaving webs of tragedy about herself. For every opportunity for hope, she places in front of it a wall of reasons not to, making of herself the center of an elaborate maze. There is no reason for hope in which she cannot find obstruction. And though I see a woman trying to console her, her eyes are transfixed on her convictions of doom.

Further down the line—closer to judgment—is a woman who is welcoming her own martyrdom as the means to her salvation. To everyone in line, she is telling the story of how she has sacrificed her life for her son. She tended to his every need in life, exchanging her happiness for his. I see her as a young mother, and the glow about her is warm and healthy. But if I see her as she is older, the aura about her seems sickly, as though her relationship has become unhealthy. She is unwilling to let go, to allow her child to become what he should be. It is though she sees her child as an appendage of herself rather than a separate living thing. The light of her aura is all on one small aspect of her, seems to be reaching out in a single direction like an umbilical cord. And as she talks, I cannot help but feel that it is not her son that is her concern but her martyrdom. She gives only in order to get. It is her need she feeds.

An old man—yes, he is only old—rushes about, trying desperately to change his predicament. He is lost in purposeless action, as though it did not matter what he was doing, merely that he was doing something. I can't help feeling that there is really nothing for him to do; it is too late for him...

Even as I think this, the nothingness beneath my feet becomes apparent once again, and I feel as though I am falling. The thought occurs to me that I am here to be judged, and not to judge others. Somewhere in my mind, it occurs to me that I should no more be judging myself than I should others—that judgment is not my job—but shame and guilt drive the thought from me. I am one among many, but I feel alone. Of all those who to my eyes appear lost, I am as lost as any. The feeling of getting ready to take a final exam that I have not studied for hits me. I never understood my life while I was living it; life was always going at a quicker pace than I would have liked. And now at the end of it all, I still don't know what it was I was doing, what I was supposed to do.

In trying to walk upon these clouds, I feel like Peter trying to walk upon the water. My initial success does not last, and now it seems as though the clouds rise up as I begin to sink. What throughout my life did I build that would serve as some sort of support for me now? Religion? My parents had given me a Christian upbringing, a set of beliefs and commandments. I knew right from wrong and was expected to act upon that. But that background was in my distant past. Perhaps it gave me fertile soil in which to grow, but I long ago dismissed it so that it would not prevent the branches of my life to grow as they wished. My roots may have been well-planted, but I would not let dogma dictate my reaching for the truth, whatever that truth might be. I was not willing to let my growth be determined the way a shoot is determined by a stake it is tied to. I was willing to let go of the secure path in order to...

In order to what? There was something there, wasn't there, something guiding me even as I let go of all creed and canon in my pursuits? That is the definition of faith after all, isn't it, to let go of the known in order to proceed into the unknown with hope? When I left religion behind, something important remained with me, the spirit so often obscured by the letters that hold it. Right?

What a desperate situation I must be in that I am relying on intellectual arguments. There should be some sort of feeling in my heart, in my soul, but all I have is confusion and dread. How is it that I have never found some kind of true understanding in all of my years of existence? After all, I really did care, really did look for answers amongst the endless diversions and distractions that life threw my way. Beyond the endless pursuit of the opposite sex and the desire to be noticed and countless sugary snacks that fed both physical and emotional desires, I always had a desire to be true to myself and to a higher ideal. Didn't I? Yes, I really believe I did. And while I didn't forsake all earthly treasure in order to tend to lepers, I always tried to give a little more than I gave. What the hell are the criteria, anyway, are only the top ten percent allowed in? Is it only those who got an 'A' in the classroom of life that get in, or am I accepted even with a 'D-' just so long as I did not fail?

Part of me thinks that I judge myself, that how I feel inside is how God sees me, that if I approve, He will do the same. After all, only the two of us know my true intentions and how I really feel. It is only the two of us who have seen what I have done when nobody else was watching. But I can't see how either God or myself is supposed to make anything from the muck that I feel is my inner self. It is a jumbled mess of thoughts too shrill to be articulate.

"It will be okay."

At first I believe the voice to be coming from God Himself, so wrapped am I in my own thoughts. Then I realize that it has come from someone in the line behind me. I turn to look and see a bearded man who appeared to have been a sailor—or perhaps a farmer—someone who had spent most of his life in the elements. There is a quiet confidence in his eyes, giving me a confidence I never could have found in myself. At other times, this sort of man could have caused me to doubt myself. Comparing myself to someone so earthy, so strong both physically as well as spiritually, might have caused my insecurities to rise, and with insecurity would have come envy and a host of other ugly sentiments. But he was talking directly to me, giving freely of himself without any obvious personal gain. It is almost as though he is giving to me from his overabundance of soul, my soul filling from his overflowing cup. It strengthens me, fills me with a new-found hope, until I feel myself almost overflowing with a gentle confidence. I find that I too have an abundance, an abundance that is reaching out to another. I approach the woman who is busy finding negative answers to the hope that others try to provide for her condition. I give her my understanding, my realization that there is no answer except the one which one truly desires. In time there appears on her face the faint trace of a smile, and I am filled with more serenity than I experienced when I had received a similar gift.

I am no more certain of my situation than I was before, but I am less concerned by it. I await more patiently what is to come, more appreciative of what I am experiencing in the moment. And when at last I look up to find a man standing in front of a great golden gate, I look at him with hope and openness. His face is at first emotionless, but at length a smile appears on his face. The smile reminds me of my grandmother, who seemed to have the same smile, a smile that always made me willing to do anything to please her. As he smiles, I can feel a smile opening up inside of me in response. It starts in my chest and spreads its way out, until all that I am is one big smile.

* * *

For more information on James Rozoff and his writing:

Within The Mind of James Rozoff

# 6 Sinners in Church

**B y Kathleen Steed**

* * *

Bert, Jerald and Chuck tried to stay awake through the service. Chuck told them they would get free food when it was over and the house across the street sold marijuana after church. Besides he wanted them to get a look at the gold cross. The pastor was slamming his fist on the wooden podium where he stood to preach.

"Give it up! God knows what you are thinking. He knows what you are planning."

Bert was startled. It was okay if God knew what they were going to do. God wasn't going to come all the way down to Earth for the likes of them. What was worrying Bert was how the pastor found out about their plans?

He whispered to Jerald, "How did he find out?"

"What? God? How stupid are you?" Jerald whispered back.

"Not God. That freaking pastor."

Chuck leaned over and gave Bert a look and kind of growled at him softly.

Chuck and his friends were sixteen years old. Chuck wore nice clothes and kept his hair cut because his father demanded it. The other two looked like they'd worn their jeans and t-shirts to bed the night before. Jerald had pink highlights in his unwashed hair. Bert's hair hung down unevenly over his ears. The group started smoking pot in middle school. There was a group of old spinsters sitting in front of them. One with very curly gray hair turned to give the boys a frown. They sat back and got quiet. She turned back to listen to the sermon. They sang the last hymn and the service was over. The boys avoided the pastor and snuck down the stairs to the fellowship hall for the free food. They got a paper plate and filled it with snacks and tiny sandwiches. Huddled together in a corner they smiled and nodded at anyone who said hello to them. Chuck was the son of the Sunday school superintendent. After a bit a young black man who was smiling and talking with everyone seated in the fellowship hall put his jacket on and left saying 'see you next week' to everyone.

Chuck made sure his parents were engaged in conversation and the boys snuck out of the church quietly. They met the young black man across the street and handed him fifty bucks. They took their bag of weed and crossed back over to hide behind the parsonage where the furnace oil tank was located. They rolled a joint and each took a hit. They passed the joint around until it was consumed.

"You guys know the pastor figured out our plan?" said Bert.

"You ass. He don't know nothing," said Jerald.

"What the hell are you talking about Bert?" asked Chuck.

"He heard the pastor talking about God knowing what people are thinking and this idiot thought he meant us," said Jerald.

Chuck laughed.

"Bert you are so dumb. Dumb Bert, Dumb Bert, Dumb Butt," said Jerald.

Bert took a swing at Jerald, tripped and fell down on the ground.

"What are you boys doing?" It was Chuck's father who was approaching from around the church side of the parsonage. Chuck was holding the bag of weed and quickly stuffed it behind the oil tank.

"Nothing sir. We're just talking," said Chuck.

"Your mother is waiting at the car. You remember she wants to go eat with the pastor and his family at that pancake place she likes so much, right?"

"We're coming now," said Chuck.

The three of them followed Chuck's dad leaving their precious weed behind.

"Where do you boys want us to drop you off?"

"My place is good," said Bert. Jerald nodded.

The boys were pissed. It was half an hour drive from where they all lived to the church. They had planned on smoking all afternoon. Bert and Jerald got out of the car and watched their being friend driven away.

"Scott's?" Jerald suggested to Bert.

"Yep," Bert agreed.

Chuck was good for money and weed but Scott was their source for alcohol and girls. As they walked they each lit up a cigarette. Scott's house was right behind a strip mall. The trash bins and rats were the view Scott had from his back porch. When Bert and Jerald arrived there were already several people in the house. Teniko was there and she was already trashed at two in the afternoon. She had a friend with her today.

"Teniko, babe how you doing?" Bert asked as Jerald headed for the beers in the fridge.

"Bert, come sit with me."

She was on a couch with her new friend. She reached up and using both hands grabbed Bert's neck and dragged him down onto the couch with her. He flopped down between the two girls.

"Who is your friend?"

"That is Reeta. Say hi Reeta."

"Hi," said Reeta.

"I'm Bert."

"And I'm Jerald," said Jerald as he handed a beer to everyone.

He popped open his own beer and sat on the other side of Reeta taking up the last of the room on the couch. They guzzled the beers and someone somewhere turned on some loud music. More people showed up. Some started dancing. Others were passing out bottles of hard liquor. Jerald grabbed a bottle of rum and took a swig. Tears welled up in his eyes as he swallowed the strong liquor. Reeta took it next and passed it to Bert. Teniko took a swig and passed it back down. They were all drunk now and still looking for more.

"God I wish we had our weed," said Bert.

Teniko was laying her head back against the couch. It looked like she was passed out. Reeta was interested.

"You have some weed?" Reeta asked Bert.

"We had some," replied Jerald.

"We had to leave it at the church," said Bert.

"Well let's go get it," said Reeta.

Reeta had a car. They left Teniko passed out on the couch. It was already getting dark outside. Reeta opened the car with a push of the button on her car key fob. They wouldn't all fit in the front so Bert took the back.

"Which way is it?" asked Reeta.

"Go out to the highway and turn left. It's in Danderville."

"Oh, that isn't too far," Reeta laughed and started the car.

"I hope the parsonage ghosts ain't there tonight," said Bert.

"That's just stories. It ain't true," said Jerald.

"What stories?" asked Reeta.

"It started when some kids disappeared," continued Bert. "It was three little girls one year a long time ago, back in like 1968. They were at the church with their parents one Sunday morning but when it came time to go home they were gone. They never found them. Then people said they seen them playing around the parsonage at night. Lots of people over the years say they see children playing around the parsonage at night. But nobody is really there."

"That's so sad. I wonder what happened to them," said Reeta.

"Then there is what happened two years ago," said Bert.

"He just ran away is all," said Jerald.

"Who?" asked Reeta.

"Jimmy. He was kind of a slow kid. People made fun of him a lot. The pastor told people to leave him alone but the one that bothered him the most was the pastor's son William. William didn't care what the pastor said, he messed with Jimmy all the time."

"So what happened to Jimmy?" asked Reeta.

"They found him hanging in the parsonage basement," said Bert. "But he wasn't dead. They took him down and took him to the hospital. He just disappeared out of the hospital. His parents went with the pastor to see him and the bed was empty. The nurses never saw him leave. Nobody ever saw him again. He might have come back though."

"He couldn't have done that," said Jerald.

"What happened?" asked Reeta. "Oh, and should I turn here?"

"Yes that's the turn," said Jerald.

"What happened is last year on the same day Jimmy was found hanging in the parsonage basement, William was found hanging in the same exact spot. Only William was dead," said Bert. "It's William's ghost we don't want to meet. William was a nasty kid and his ghost is just as bad."

"Jimmy could not have strung up William," said Jerald. "William was a big guy and Jimmy was just a skinny kid."

"What does William's ghost do?" asked Reeta.

"Nothing," said Jerald.

"He knocked the top of the steeple off the church," said Bert.

"No he didn't, it just fell," said Jerald.

"Chuck says lots of people feel bad vibes around the church. They all think it is William's ghost," said Bert.

"The church is right down there near the end of the road. Do you see it?" Jerald asked Reeta.

"Yes. We're almost there. Where should I park?"

"Drive past just a little bit and pull off the side of the road."

Reeta pulled over off the side of the road where it was dark. You couldn't see the car unless you were right on it. The boys got out leaving Reeta to wait for them to return with the weed. They snuck back to the parsonage. There were no lights on inside so it seemed that no one was home or they had all gone to bed early. Jerald had a flashlight he borrowed from Scott's house. The batteries must have been old because the light from the flashlight was weak. They crept up to the oil tank. Jerald shone the light from the flashlight between the oil tank and the parsonage. There was no plastic bag of weed.

"Damn. Someone took it," said Jerald.

"Give me the flashlight. Maybe it just fell down," said Bert.

Bert got down on his knees and pointed the flashlight under the oil tank. He squeezed in closer and illuminated the dark space.

"Wow. This must leak real bad into the basement when it rains."

"What?" asked Jerald.

"There's a hole into the basement. I'll bet our weed went in there."

"Let me see."

They exchanged places and Jerald squeezed in under the oil tank with the flashlight. After he examined the hole he pulled back out.

"We have to go in there and see if our weed is in the basement."

Bert just looked at Jerald.

"What?" asked Jerald.

"Let's go get the gold cross," said Bert.

"I'm not so sure it is gold," said Jerald.

"Chuck said the candlesticks are fake but the cross is real gold. He said you can tell by the weight," said Bert.

"We don't have the key to the church. Chuck was supposed to get it," said Jerald.

"He gave it to me so his Dad wouldn't catch him with it."

Bert held up the key.

"Shit!" said Jerald. "Still, Chuck was part of the plan."

"He still is part of the plan. He's the one knows the guy who'll pay us for it," said Bert.

"OK. We'll get the cross then come back here and break into the basement to find our weed."

The boys snuck around the parsonage and looked down at the parking lot. It was illuminated with some tall lights but no cars were in the parking lot. The church was dark. The boys had to sneak all the way around to the front of the church. When they got there they hid in some bushes near the front door.

"Damn. The outside light is on. Someone will see us," said Bert.

Jerald felt the ground under the bush and pulled up a medium sized rock. He took aim and threw the rock at the light. The light broke but the bulb didn't go out. He grabbed up a second stone and threw it at the bulb. Darkness resulted. The boys quickly ran up to the door, unlocked it and closed it behind them. They were inside. The sanctuary was empty but lit from the moonlight streaming in the stained glass windows. They moved rapidly up the central aisle and stopped at the altar. There was a large wooden cross on the wall up above them. Bert was staring at it. Jerald grabbed the gold cross.

"Man this is really heavy," said Jerald.

Bert dragged his eyes away from the wooden cross.

"Let's go get our weed," said Bert.

They peeked out the clear glass windows at the front door. There was a neighbor walking his dog.

"Shit. Hide," said Jerald. "Make sure he doesn't see us through the windows."

Bert sat down against the wall to wait for Jerald to give the 'all clear'. Jerald stooped down facing the window and he kept peeking up and out the window to see if the neighbor had gone home. As soon as he took his dog and walked down the street away from the church, Jerald punched Bert in the shoulder.

"Let's go."

Jerald opened the door a crack and the boys left carrying their prize. They closed and locked the door. Then they snuck back to the parsonage.

"Hurry up," said Bert.

"I'm coming. This cross is damn heavy," said Jerald.

"How are we going to get into the basement?" asked Bert.

"Maybe there is a window on the side that we can get open."

There were flower beds around the base of most of the walls of the parsonage. The boys found one window into the basement behind a bush. Jerald put the cross down, the gold gleaming in the moonlight. Jerald got down under the bush and tried to push the window open. It didn't appear to be locked but the metal handle holding it shut was rusted into position and Jerald could not get it to move. Bert was sitting as a lookout while Jerald was under the bush. Jerald crawled back out from under the bush. Bert glanced at him. Jerald dragged the gold cross under the bush with him. He used it to bash the metal handle loose. He dropped the cross though the window and slid down into the basement after it.

"Come on Bert. Bring the flashlight," said Jerald.

He pulled the flashlight out of his jacket and slid down into the dark basement with Jerald. Jerald helped Bert reach the floor in the basement and took the flashlight from him. Jerald shone the now flickering flashlight beam around the floor. It was empty. Jerald lifted the light and shone it on the walls. They were two by fours and insulation but no wallboard. It was an empty unfinished room. The boys moved toward the door. As Jerald reached for the knob a floorboard creaked above them. Both Jerald and Bert paused and glanced up. The footsteps moved off. Jerald opened the door.

The rest of the basement was also dark. Bert followed Jerald into the open area of the basement. On the far side the flashlight barely illuminated a washer and dryer. There was a stairway going up to the upper level of the house. Jerald walked toward the side of the basement where the furnace was located.

"Hey! There it is," Bert ran in front of Jerald and picked the bag of weed up off of the floor.

A cool breeze wafted past the boys. Jerald shivered. There was a sound like a muffled voice.

"What was that?" asked Bert.

"I don't know. There seems to be another window open. It's cold down here."

There were more sounds.

"Where is that coming from?" asked Bert.

"Over by that bookcase," said Jerald. He waved the flashlight in the direction of a bookcase standing up against the wall. To the left of the bookcase was the laundry room set back about six feet from the rest of the wall. The wall was covered with the old floor to ceiling bookcase and some paintings. There was a small area with a rug on the floor and some comfortable chairs arranged in front of a fireplace.

"There isn't anyone here," said Bert.

"Where was it that William hung himself, do you know?"

"Chuck said it was right by the steps. He climbed the stairs and tied the rope then he jumped off the steps."

Bert was looking up at the ceiling near the steps still holding the bag of weed. They heard more sounds. It seemed to be a voice and some banging coming from behind the bookcase.

"We should leave," said Jerald.

They turned to return to the room with the window to escape. They didn't make it. They heard a screeching noise behind them as the bookcase slid open. They turned and in the dim beam of the flashlight saw the figure of a young man standing in front of the open darkness.

"Ahhhhh! It's William's ghost," Bert screamed and tried to run.

The ghost ran past Jerald knocking him to the ground and sending the flashlight spinning across the floor. Jerald was flat out on the floor but he heard the sound of something crushing Bert's skull then he saw William's ghost dragging his friend Bert back to the darkness. Jerald was terrified. His legs were weak and it was so dark. He got up and felt his way back to the room where he left the cross. Holding it by the crossed part and intending to use the heavy base as a weapon he returned and approached the dark hole behind the open bookcase where the ghost had taken his friend.

"Bert?" Jerald said in a quavering voice. "Are you in there?"

The ghost popped out from the darkness and grabbed Jerald by his shirt and threw him further into the room. Jerald dropped the cross and hit a cold damp stone wall and slid to the floor. He heard the bookcase close. An overhead light came on and there stood William.

"Please William don't kill us," said Jerald.

"I'm Jack. William was my brother."

"What kind of place is this?" asked Jerald.

Bert lay crumpled on the floor.

"It was an old coal bin," said Jack.

Jerald glanced around. There was a small table with three dolls in really old clothes seated in chairs around the table.

"What are those?" Jerald pointed to the old dolls.

"My sisters play with those," said Jack.

"Why doesn't the pastor get them some new dolls?" Jerald was nervous and confused so he just kept talking.

"Our Dad doesn't know about this place," said Jack. "No one does."

"How did you get the dolls and the table in here?" continued Jerald.

"I got the toy table and chairs at one of the church's yard sales. They must have crawled in here by themselves. You've heard the stories about the three little girls that disappeared sixty years ago? When I found out how to open the bookcase they were already here. They must have crawled through the coal chute and died when no one found them."

Jack walked over to where he had dragged Bert. He stepped over his lifeless body and pressed on the stone wall. Part of the wall slowly slid open.

"Over here is the root cellar," said Jack.

He turned around and dragged Bert by the ankles into the new darkness. Jerald watched Bert's body slowly disappear through the passageway. As Jack dragged Bert's lifeless body Bert's arms extended above his head as if he was giving Jerald one last chance to save him. Jerald shook his head back and forth saying softly, "No. no. no." The cross still lay on the floor beside him. He got up from the floor and grabbed the cross by the top part again. He entered the root cellar that was dimly lit from the light in the coal bin and swung the cross high up and crashed it down on Jack's head. He stepped back and tripped over a fourth mummified body. Jimmy's skeletal arms reached for Jerald as he screamed and backed away. He heard the bookcase open. He looked up just in time to see Jack's two sisters standing there. One of them pressed the stone that closed the root cellar passageway trapping Jerald alive inside with the two fresh corpses.

As the pastor was jogging around the community the next morning, he saw a car pulled over near the parsonage. He tapped on Reeta's car window. Reeta woke up blinking from the sunlight. She put in the key and turned it far enough to hit the button lowering the car window.

"Are you alright young lady?"

"Uh, yeah. I'm sorry I must have fallen asleep."

Reeta had no idea where the boys were but she was already late for work. She started the car and drove home.

The End

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kathleen Steed was born on September 12, 1953. She graduated from the University of Maryland with a degree in Medical Technology. She was a lay speaker with the United Methodist Church from 2007 to 2013. This short story is a first for her in this genre. To check out the rest of her books visit her Facebook author page at: KSteed.Thrillers.Mysteries.

# Literary Fiction

We often think of writing at those moments when the end of the road promises to reveal the meaning of all things. But when we try to set down our glimpsing visions, we discover surprising twists and turns in our thought, the wistful laments and surprising revelation, mysterious coincidences and mystical unions. The following eight stories take you along the writerly path of enlightenment and confusion.

# 7 Traveling Companions

**B y Anna J. McIntyre**

* * *

"We won't need to see you again for another six months, Mrs. Smith. How would November 8th work for you?" The woman behind the counter at the doctor's office asked me.

November 8th, how in the hell would I know? They always asked me questions like that, as if I actually knew what my plans would be six months down the road. Perhaps the better question, would I even be alive in six months to make any November appointment.

"Yes, that would be fine," I told her.

"Would you prefer morning or afternoon?"

Let me grab my appointment calendar and see what I've got booked for November 8th. Considering my recent social schedule I might have something exciting planned, like a dentist appointment, meet up with the eye doctor or a blood test.

"Mornings would be best," I told her.

"Oh, looks like you have a birthday this week. Happy birthday!"

"Yes, Saturday, thank you." I started feeling guilty for my silent annoyance. The girl was just doing her job and she was trying to be friendly.

"Oh, Mrs. Smith, there must be a mistake in the records." She frowned, as she glanced from the file sitting next to her computer, up to my face.

"Mistake?"

"We must have noted your year of birth incorrectly. We have it as 1928."

"No, that's correct," I told her.

By her puzzled expression I knew what she was thinking. It wasn't the first time I'd heard it. Compared to other women my age, I didn't look like someone nearing her 85th birthday. Good genes combined with the fact I never smoked, blessed me with a youthful complexion.

Just because I don't lead an active social life – there are no trips to the senior center, bingo party or some woman's church group – doesn't give me reason to neglect my appearance. I've never considered going grey, and unlike my older sister who has been wearing the same hairstyle for the last forty years, my hairdresser keeps me discretely in style.

A decade or so ago I was my dentist's first patient to have her teeth whitened. It's true; a bright smile removes years from a person's appearance. I've always taken good care of my teeth. Until a year ago, I could boast (to just myself, of course) that I still had them all. I suppose I technically still do, but six months ago the dentist capped my two front teeth, due to hairline fractures.

Weight also ages a woman. Too thin brings out the wrinkles and too heavy, adds years. Unless illness befalls me, I will never be willow thin like some women my age. I'm probably ten pounds thinner than I was ten years ago. I try to eat a healthy, well balanced diet. I regularly read the food labels when grocery shopping, something that seems to annoy my daughter. I wish she would pay a bit more attention to what she is eating.

I make an assertive effort to consume my daily share of almonds, prunes, oatmeal and fruit to minimize my need for pharmaceuticals. Unfortunately, my doctor insists I need both blood pressure and cholesterol medications.

Glaucoma took my mother's sight. Thus far I've kept my glaucoma under control, yet the glare is becoming more an issue of late, and I've asked my daughter if we can tint the window in my sitting room. Currently, I am forced to keep the curtains shut due to the blinding glare.

When I finally made it back to the waiting room I found my daughter there. I wondered how long she had been waiting. Normally she runs errands while I visit the doctor, and she waits for me to call her on my cell phone before coming for me.

I try to schedule my appointments so I'm not too much of an inconvenience for Ann. She works from home, so her schedule is flexible. Yet, I know how she hates running errands and shopping. I gave up my driver's license years ago. In truth, it was not a great sacrifice. I learned to drive in my thirties and never felt comfortable behind the wheel.

Going from the subdued office lighting to the bright sunlight makes it difficult for me to see. My daughter momentarily forgets that as she marches on ahead, leaving me stumbling nervously on the sidewalk; I'm afraid I might trip. She is forever telling me to stay off the step-ladder (which I need to reach the top shelf in my closet), treating me like some foolish child; reminding me I might break a hip. Ironically, if I break my hip it probably won't be from a step-ladder fall, but a sidewalk I couldn't maneuver.

Ann looked back to see where I was, and obviously remembered her oversight. Rushing to my side, she guided me by my elbow, apologized and then helped me to the car.

During the day, Ann spends hours in front of her computer. When my son-in-law gets home in the evening, I try to stay in my area of the house, so they can have some privacy. We may reside under the same roof, but I spend little time with my daughter. I wonder if she realizes how little time there really is in life.

When we got home I was greeted by a phone call from my older daughter, Carol. My husband and I were blessed with two daughters, Carol and Ann. I'm grateful they are close, like best friends. I love my only sister, but she and I have never been close.

I was much closer to my brothers. I had three of them. In some ways my parents had two families. First came the three boys, and then years later my sister arrived. Dad was thrilled to finally get a girl, yet she didn't turn out to be the sweet little girl he imagined. Oh he adored her, but she was always a tomboy with a volatile temper. I arrived two years later, a mistake. However, I never felt like a mistake. I was the surprise blessing, the little girl they had been waiting for.

All but my sister Margaret are now gone. I was just a child when Daddy died. I think it was harder on Margaret than on me. I was always a mama's girl. Mama has been gone for over thirty years now. No one has a clue how profoundly I still miss her. The youngest of the brothers died when we were all young adults. My eldest brother passed away not long after Mama. Days after my husband Walt passed, I lost my last brother.

Of course, they were much older than Walt. Walt was in his early sixties when he died, a lingering death that took two years to complete. Ann was there, as was our son-in-law, helping us get Walt to the hospital twice a week for medical treatments and witnessing the drastic change in my husband's personality.

Once, when Ann expressed her frustration, I gently reminded her it would be over soon enough. I think she forgot her father wasn't going to live forever, and he really was reaching the end of his road. She preferred to revel in her annoyance at the inconvenience as opposed to facing the harsh truth of death's finality. Don't misunderstand me – Ann loved her daddy dearly. But I suppose we all cope with death in our own way.

"Mom, Uncle Ed called me about Aunt Margaret," Carol told me. By then, I was sitting in my leather recliner in my small sitting room taking Carol's call.

"What's wrong?" I normally spoke to Margaret on a daily basis. She and Ed had moved into the Masonic home almost ten years earlier, a move Margaret resisted yet one Ed had been looking forward to since he was a young man. It was something I always found peculiar. With me living in Texas and Margaret and Ed living in California, we were lucky if we saw each other once a year.

"They've moved Margaret into her own room." I knew immediately what that meant, and my heart fell to the floor. A separate room meant assisted living. They would eventually give Ed a smaller room, where he could go on living independently at the home – free from the burdens of an ailing wife. She would hate it there; I knew Margaret. I told myself I needed to call my nephew, their only child, and make sure he checked on his mother. I didn't particularly trust Ed to act in the best interest of my sister.

When I finally got off the phone, I went into the living room to tell Ann the news. I found her sitting on the couch, her laptop computer propped up on her knees.

"Poor Auntie Margaret," Ann said sympathetically. Maybe Margaret and I were never close like Ann and Carol, but she tried to be a good aunt to my daughters. I always knew Margaret was jealous, never having daughters of her own. During our regular phone conversations she would remind me of how lucky I was to have two such wonderful girls, commenting how they were always there for me.

Daughters, they are a blessing. I adore my three grandsons, but I wish Carol had also been blessed with a daughter, as was Ann.

Ann's oldest is a boy – my first grandchild. Oh, how I adored that boy. I was never one who longed for grandchildren, and I was quite surprised how totally in love I was with that child – so was Walt. Walt swore he only wanted girls, but when his first grandson, Bobby, arrived, he was over the moon.

Bobby and I were close. He called me "Ma" and I remember how he and his younger sister would race after our car when we had to go home, both crying for us to return. Today he is in his early thirties, and I am lucky if he calls me once a year. I can't really complain, he doesn't call his mother much either, and when he was little, he was even closer to her.

Carol's two sons are good boys. Well actually, all three of my grandsons are good boys. Although they are now men. Her oldest is attending college in Colorado and I see him as often as I do my eldest grandson. Of the three boys, Jeff, Carol's youngest, makes more of an effort to reach out to me. Perhaps it is because he is the only one of the three with a child. Family is important to Jeff. I like to think Jeff and I have a special bond.

My only granddaughter, Beth is a constant reminder of why I find daughters so special. Of the four, she lives the farthest away – in Hawaii. Her husband is in the military. In spite of that, she talks daily to her mother on the phone, and she calls me at least once a week.

She's given me two beautiful great-grandchildren – a boy and a girl. I've yet to meet the grandson, but she is coming for a visit in four months. One of the sweetest things she ever shared with me came up when we were discussing guardianship of her children, if the unthinkable ever happened.

"If something had happened to my parents, I would have wanted to live with you, not Aunt Carol," she told me. I was shocked. Carol adores Beth, and the feeling is mutual. Yet, Beth explained that for as much as she loved her aunt, I would be the one she felt more at home with if she lost her parents.

"Mom, this has been a rough few months for you, I'm really sorry," Ann commented, as I sat down on the loveseat across from her. She was right, it had been. Last month I lost my last first-cousin, Virginia. Several weeks ago one of my dear friends, George, died from cancer. While I hadn't seen either in years, I exchanged regular phone calls with both of them.

"I am also worried about Kate," I reminded Ann. Kate is another friend of mine, who I keep in touch with by phone. The last time we spoke she was recuperating from a car accident, and she didn't sound good. When I tried calling her yesterday, her phone was disconnected.

"You don't have her daughter's phone number?" Anna asked.

"No, she lives somewhere in Alaska. I don't remember her last name."

"Do you want me to check online?" I knew what Ann meant: the online obituaries. I told her yes, and gave her Kate's full name and the town she lived in. I sat quietly as Ann's fingers flew over the keyboard, making the search.

"I'm sorry, Mom." Something twisted inside of me. Instinctively I knew she wasn't sorry because she couldn't find Kate, but because she had.

"When?"

"Last week. The funeral is tomorrow."

There was no way I could get to the funeral. I didn't know any of those people anyway. It seemed all my friends had died already.

"I might as well take my phone out," I said ruefully. "I can save myself twenty bucks a month."

Ann looked at me sympathetically. My husband had been gone for over twenty years. My best friend had left me a decade ago, yet was still alive. Alzheimer's took her from me. Over the last twenty years my good friends have been disappearing – one by one – a steady procession, leaving me behind with my youthful skin, straight white teeth and stylish hairdo.

I tried to be funny, but this wasn't funny. Soon, I would have no one left to talk to on the phone. I missed my husband, my parents, my siblings and my friends. They all left without me.

Ann set the computer on the coffee table, stood up and gave me a hug. She told me she loved me and promised me a special day for my birthday. She promised she'd spend the entire day with me. I wondered if she meant it or was again treating me like the child I wasn't.

I had lost my appetite by the time dinner hour rolled around. Forcing myself to eat, I nibbled on a small portion of chicken, a few carrot sticks and drank a glass of milk. Emotionally drained, I took an early shower and went to bed.

I'd been asleep for several hours when I rolled over and bumped into Walt. Drowsily, I opened my eyes and saw him sitting up in bed next to me, leaning against a pile of pillows. I'd left the bathroom light on, which helped illuminate my bedroom.

"Are you watching me sleep?" I asked, noting his intent expression.

"You seemed a little depressed tonight."

"Kate died," I told him.

"Yes I know."

"Margaret isn't doing well."

"No, she isn't. She'll be going soon. It's her time."

"Walt, I hate this. Everyone is leaving me. I don't want to stay here anymore."

"Sweetheart," Walt said gently, reaching out to brush my forehead.

"You have Ann and Carol, the grandkids, not to mention those beautiful great-grandbabies. Plus, you have a world full of new friends to meet."

"I'm too tired and too old to meet new friends," I said stubbornly. He only laughed.

"It was always difficult for you to meet new people. But your family still needs you here. The rest of us will be waiting when it's your time. But, you've a bit more road left to travel."

"Do they really need me? I think I'm just in Ann's way."

"Trust me, she needs you. Remember how she was when it was my time? Angry at me for being sick. She wasn't annoyed because I was a nuisance, she was angry because I was preparing to leave."

"She doesn't act like she needs me. And I try to be helpful around here. I help with the housework, do the laundry."

"She doesn't need you that way. She needs you like you needed your Mama. Don't you remember?" I thought of my Mama and tears filled my eyes. I wanted to go to her, but something held me back.

"Maybe Ann doesn't always act like it," he went on, "but she loves you dearly. She considers you one of her best friends. I also know our other daughter – and our grandchildren feel the same way. So remember, even if many of your older friends have moved on, you've some precious ones who continue to need you in their lives."

I sleepily closed my eyes and rolled over. I had a longer road to travel, and I was grateful Walt reminded me I would have plenty of companionship along the way. I would eventually get to the end of the road – just not as soon as many of my old friends.

* * *

Bobbi Ann Johnson Holmes writes fiction under the nom de plume, Anna J. McIntyre and non-fiction under her real name. For more information visit http://robeth.com

# 8 Young Chef's Regret

**B y David A. Cuban**

* * *

_A young man has to decide which career to follow: chef or teacher. His judgment is clouded-on one hand-by his sense of pride and his cockiness; on the other, by his loyalty and desire to help others. The results of his choice could be disastrous._

_Now a mature man—as he reminisces on the choice he made—the sudden death of his best friend forces him to make an introspective trip and scrutinize for the very first time what his own life has become._

_A clever study into the soul of a tortured man who, by all appearances, has achieved a high degree of success._

**Journeys of the Mind**

Oftentimes, it is hard for us to trace the single thought that triggers a vivid emotion in our minds; one that makes us think of an important event in our lives. This is not one of those times. As I reread a cruel e-mail telling me that my best friend Godwall had died of a heart attack in his sleep, I immediately thought of much happier times for the two of us.

I am packing a light bag and heading for the airport, passport in hand. I know that the hardest thing will be looking at my best friend for the last time and wondering if the rumours are true. My uncle Denis told me that Godwall took a fatal [accidental] overdose of his heart pills.

Godwall was only two years older than me. Together since elementary school, we had survived the army, bar brawls, skydiving, boxing, motorcycling, numerous double dates and a few other adventures I will perhaps share some other time. As I scanned the best memory of him I had, this one popped straight into my mind...

The summer of '79 was a great time for me...or so I wanted to believe. I had turned 23 in May. By mid-June, I had graduated from Teachers' College and I was already relishing my future adventures in the classroom. I was also seriously considering becoming a chef.

We were serious foodies at home. I cannot recall a day without three or four dinner guests, at least. Our French and Spanish background and the emphasis my grandfather, my father–as well as every other male member of our family–placed on cooking, made it only natural that I wanted to receive formal culinary instruction. Either way, the request I received from my best friend's sister in early July most definitely threatened to foul up the rest of my holidays.

Godwall was a great guy. His whole family loved me. That's why when I was invited to a formal dinner–where his sister's future groom and in-laws were guests of honour–I took it as yet another sign of their affection for me. Everyone knew I loved cooking and dinner parties. Of course I would be there.

**The News that Set the Room on Fire**

The large dining-room was beautifully decorated, as befitting the occasion. Godwall's sister, Addys María herself found a place at the table for me. –"Here, Dave. You sit right here close to me" she said with a big smile her right hand discreetly squeezing one of mine. I sat down quietly. My mind was racing like a wild horse. Was she all right? Had she made a pass at me? Goodness! She's almost family! Twenty minutes later, when Godwall arrived, I was on my third glass of wine. It was not helping though.

Godwall and Addys María's parents had been divorced for many years. Theirs had been a very acrimonious split. Only something as important as Addys María's wedding could get them together under the same roof again. In addition to both parents, their respective spouses had been invited. These four people had been respectfully, yet strategically, seated around the longest Arthurian table human eyes could ever see–other than in English movies depicting mediaeval opulence. Naturally, Godwall and Addys' five aunts were there along with their eight children.

Godwall, the family's official "Ambassador of Peace", made the necessary introductions, carefully making sure to allot everyone equal "air time" at every turn. The groom made a toast. His parents also expressed their happiness. The groom's father stood up and said in a booming voice that scared the children –"This blessed union will strengthen our families" then he quickly sat down.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the center of attention turned to the logistics of the upcoming wedding itself. Both the bride and the groom wanted to discuss the issue with the whole clan. While they were talking, I continued to enjoy my _moros y cristianos_ [literally "Moors and Christians". This is a mildly spiced Spanish dish made up of black beans (the Moors) and rice (the Christians) cooked together. Oftentimes, it contains bits of ham, pork, or even chicken] which I cleverly washed down with a generous amount of strong Spanish ale. The amount of people to attend, the number of ushers and tables, as well as a myriad of other details were talked about at length.

Next came the issue of the menu. A cacophony of voices rushed in to offer suggestions. Always outspoken, Aunt María (after whom Addys María had been partially named) expressed her humble opinion –"At _my_ wedding, and a blessed event it was, we served a traditional Spanish menu and that was that...my Pablo...rest his soul...suggested the idea. I could..." Addys María took control saying –"I want several courses, not just one. Yes, the traditional _puerco asado_ [roasted pig] will be there...but we also want chicken and seafood. We wanted to share that with you" she said looking at the groom for moral support. The young man nodded in agreement. I continued to listen very quietly, beer in hand. The small army of aunts–almost in unison–pledged their time and expertise in preparing all those dishes. Not surprisingly, Aunt María emerged as the undisputed leader. Then, it happened! I heard Addys María's voice saying –"I appreciate everyone's help! We _both_ do! But, this is _my_ wedding and I make the final decisions." The room went dead. Addys María charged on –"I have an important announcement to make.." she said in a grave tone. I leaned toward Godwall and whispered in his ear –"I hope she's not dumping this guy right here!' Godwall started to giggle. Addys María's glare made us stop. Addys María regained the room –"I want Dave to cook for us at the wedding", she said in a calm, yet firm voice; her right index pointing at me.

The announcement caught me at a bad moment. I was busy working on a succulent piece of pork I had snagged with the fork in my left hand and the two _tostones_ [(singular form: _Tostón_ ). Pieces of green plantain (not bananas) that are cut into 1½ inch chunks. They're fried, squashed and fried a second time. They're drained of oil and salted quite a bit. Tostones have a crunchy outside and a soft interior. My Canadian wife says _tostones_ taste like fried potatoes. They do not!] in my right hand. Every eye in the room turned to me. Most of them were angry eyes. I looked at Godwall for help. He raised his arms helplessly. The expression on his face told me that his sister's crazy announcement had also surprised him. –"Dude, you're dead meat!" he added with a smile. That was about the size of it!

Everyone's first reaction was an imprecise mix of shock and disbelief, quickly followed by a reasonable dose of concern and panic. I stood up and explained that the unexpected honour, and unexpected it had been, while very flattering had been grossly misplaced on me. I was only a cook wannabe who lacked the experience for such a serious undertaking. –"That's right!" declared the chorus of aunts in perfect pitch. Godwall's mom, Addys, intervened saying that I was _probably_ quite capable of doing the job, however...this was a big responsibility, a one-of-a-kind celebration for the bride and groom and, as such, the situation called for a group of seasoned people; those who had already gone through the heavy strain of cooking at a wedding. –"Addys is absolutely right!" I said emphatically. I was engulfed by a sea of silent approval. Two of the aunts were openly snickering and whispering in each other's ear God-knows-what. The condescending tone of those who spoke was beginning to annoy me in ways unimaginable. –"I could probably do it. But, it would be a first for me...if that makes any sense" I added trying to regain some of my dignity.

Everyone at the giant table agreed, perhaps for the first time that evening. I had never cooked for so many people before (as a matter of fact, the final number of guests had not even been decided). Why risk it? It just made no sense at all.

As my eyes panned the table in search of support, I found calmer faces and many assenting nods. Then my eyes met Addys María's. She quickly looked down to avoid me. I saw two huge tears silently drop on her lap. The groom held her hands trying to console her. His eyes were on me, searching for a reason for my attitude.

That was more than I could bear. I dashed over to Addys María's seat. We had been good friends for many years. I knelt down right between the bride and the groom. I grabbed Addys María's hands and asked her to look at me. Before I could open my mouth, Addys María said very softly –"It's O.K., Dave...if you feel you cannot do it, I don't want to..."

My own voice surprised me when I heard a strange yell say –"I'll do it! I'll cook for you two!" Yes, long live chivalry, my friends! Wine does make the most sensible person say and do stupid things...and I am not even half sensible! Around us and beyond, the room erupted on fire.

Godwall and I dragged the bride and the groom out to the covered patio. The old Spanish house featured an interior courtyard with benches, trees and a big fountain. We all sat on a bench trying to sort out the plan for the wedding meals. It was necessary for me to state very clearly that I would be in charge. –"You don't have to tell us that, Dave. We chose you for the job!" said the groom. –"I don't mean you two. I mean _them_ " I said pointing my finger to the dining-room.

I sent Godwall back to fetch all the aunts. As the main hostess of the affair, Addys María's mother could not be part of the cooking team. That was understood. Two female cousins who had joined the dinner party about an hour later also volunteered to cook. I could use the extra hands for sure. I sat everyone down on the benches and around the fountain.

I knew I was outgunned by the aunts. My words needed to convey a maturity beyond my young age. –"As you all know, we all will be cooking for the wedding. Every person here has volunteered to participate in this important activity. People will talk about the bride's dress, those who go to the church ceremony will be in awe of the service and the bridal entourage, those who join us here will smell the flowers and will dance to the music that will be played. But they will stay for the food. Food is what holds this wedding together, not only as a celebration, but as a sacred rite for the couple joined in matrimony. We have the most important job of every person involved in the wedding...and there are many of us. I want all of you to understand that. I take my responsibility very seriously. Every person here will have specific tasks. I am in charge. I will assign those tasks. If there is anybody here who is not willing to do a certain type of job, like cleaning up, prepping, peeling or fetching something when told to do so...I need to know right now." I stopped for a moment and turned around looking every person in the eye.

The recriminations were now a little more subtle –"Dave, we all understand how important this is. I cooked for my two daughters when they got married, I cooked for Addys María's mother and I've cooked for many other people too. I know what I'm doing!" explained the ever loquacious Aunt María.

Some naïve folk don't recognize when they are being set up. –"I'm very glad you are with us, María! You have no idea how much I appreciate your presence and your experience. You will be invaluable to us. The question I have for you is this; Can you put all you know aside and follow directions... _my directions_? If the answer is not a firm yes, I do not want you on the team. I cannot be jousting with you every second and cooking at the same time. In addition to your experience, I need something even more important than that: Your full support. I want to make this clear to you and to everyone here right now. I have the bride and the groom's full backing on this. They are present. If anyone here cannot participate in this intense activity under those conditions, I need to know at this very moment and I'll find somebody else who can. The question is _not_ : Can you cook? The question _is_ : Can you follow my directions without questioning my judgment or ability at every turn? You all are going to prep, peel, slice, shred, fry, sauté, clean and do whatever else is needed. I am going to prepare the recipes, select the ingredients, adjust all seasonings and cook. Everyone here knows the difference. Are we clear on this?" Grudgingly, everyone agreed. If they thought I trusted them, they were even more foolish than I had anticipated.

After I sent the group back to the dining-room, I asked Godwall to find five young men he could trust. We had many common friends. I only suggested one name: Chuchy; a bodybuilder who at 6 feet 4 inches and 245 pounds of sheer muscle could intimidate a hungry gorilla, let alone the aunts. Godwall could pick any other four he wanted. Their job was to watch the aunts at all times. Their sole mission was to stop anybody, absolutely anybody, but _me_ from lifting a lid and seasoning any of the meals being cooked in so many pots at one given time. These lads were to be "on guard duty" in the cooking area during the whole process. I would announce that to the aunts some other time.

**The King's Advice Comes at a Price...**

My father offered me a beer and poured himself a double shot of dark rum on the rocks. –Well, well, well...you've stepped in it this time, ol' boy! You'll soon find out if you can be a real chef, Mr. David" he said with his usual sarcasm. I shook my head and bit my tongue almost to the point of bleeding. –"I came for help on how to cook for 100 people, dad. Please, save the sermon for another day. I'm sure you'll be able to squeeze it in next time we talk." My father was obviously enjoying the moment. Rest assured that, had I known a single soul with the kind of knowledge about cooking dad had, I would have walked into the burning fires of Hades to speak to that person rather than seek my father's super smug advice. I needed him and he knew it.

A stupid thought came to me: Maybe I could ask dad to cook at the wedding. He was an old friend of Addys María and Godwall's parents. As youngsters, they all had run amok together when the dinosaurs were still on the earth. Nah, I couldn't possibly unleash that kind of misery on Addys María, especially on her wedding day. I had to do it.

This was the very first time when the immensity of the task ahead of me really hit me. A cold sweat and a quick shiver soon followed. Dad set his drink down. He then put his right hand on my head and said softly, almost in a human tone –"You O.K., son?" I was not about to spoil dad's moment by going soft on him. –"I'm fine, dad. Just that I've never cooked for so many people in my whole life...you know" I said trying to hide my noticeable physical discomfort the best I could.

–"How many guests will you have, Dave? Was 100 the real number? If so, you need to go about 15 to 20% over that amount. There will be people showing up that you never knew existed. So, let's say 120 people to have a nice, round number. The next step is getting the right ingredients, as fresh as possible." Dad looked at the menu. –"Not everybody eats everything you serve. Food for 120 people...alternating all the entrées and meat dishes in such a way that you don't have excessive amounts of left overs, but that you don't run out of food either. We got that down. In fact, keep ready-to-go meat in a cooler. In a pinch, you can season it, sauté it and serve it with rice and salad. It's your back-up plan."

My father was getting excited about the project and I could sense his desire to help. I pointed out to him a few meat dishes on the menu I had underlined. He gave me some ideas on how to parcel out the meats. He also told me that we needed two types of salads: tomato/cucumber and the other just lettuce. He took out a pen and crossed out an item on my menu. –"Stay away from avocado salad, no matter who asks for it! In an hour, the avocado will turn dark and look unappetizing. Of course, if you sprinkle lemon juice on it, it perks right back up, but...who needs that!" he warned.

I was afraid of writing anything down and have my father make fun of me. My mind was working overtime both trying to retain and process all the information dad was dishing out and keeping myself calm; the latter a much harder task.

–"Preparation is key. It is so much so that every restaurant in the world, in addition to weekly plans, begins every single day with what is called a ' _mise en place_ ' check. This is done in the kitchen by the chef and on the floor by the restaurant manager for the waiting staff. What this means is: Everything in its place. Not only must you have all you need, but all that must be in its place, clean and ready to be used at a moment's notice. You must do the same. Since you are not a professional and you are not dealing with professionals, your _mise en place_ will be done every day the week of the wedding. People get sick. You can't use them. A person prepping might get a cut on a finger. Have two or three people on stand-by, son. Gather all the spices you need, starting today. You are going to need big pots. Your uncle Denis has enough contacts in the army to get those loaned to you. Have the pots and pans in your possession two days before the wedding. Get yourself 6 gallons of good olive oil."

I thanked my father and collected all my papers. –"Next thing to remember is that when cooking any type of meat or seafood for large amounts of people, you need to season each piece individually before putting it in the pot. Then, you stir, add sauces and oil. Towards the end, you taste and adjust the seasoning. Better under than over. You can always add, but it will be impossible for you to save a dish that is too salty. Be careful!" I had already heard that one should season meat by the piece from an army cook I knew. But, he wasn't really a very good cook. Now, dad had corroborated the old cook's advice.

As I was almost out the door, my father said almost in a whisper –"Of course, I still need to tell you the real secret of how to pull this off, you know. It won't be today. Swing by the day of the wedding and I'll tell you!" I couldn't believe it! He had done it again. He knew that keeping valuable information from me at a moment like that was going to gnaw at me, day and night, until the day of the wedding. He didn't care. I kept my mouth shut and walked out.

There's a Calm Before the Storm

I reviewed and edited the menu. Now, it was final: _puerco asado_ , _moros y cristianos_ , lobster in tomato sauce, shrimp in white wine sauce, chicken in béchamel sauce and the two salads. Yes, it was going to be a feast worthy of the Gods in Olympus.

Godwall and I had picked another platoon of eight men to do the centerpiece outdoor ritual: Roasting the pig, a process that can last more than eight hours. I had prepared a bucket of _adobo_ [A spicy sauce used to both marinate and keep meats moist while they're being roasted], using a combination of my father's recipe and a bit of my own concoction.

Two of the younger aunts were in charge of the two salads and the dressings. No avocado salad for anyone. Three aunts were assigned baking the flans and the bread puddings I would prepare. All desserts were scheduled to be refrigerated two days before the wedding. Addys María, her mom and two cousins would make plenty of _dulce de leche_ [A kind of dessert made with milk, sugar, cinnamon bark and eggs] and _cascos de guayaba en almíbar_ [Guava shells in sugar syrup. It is served cold, along with cream cheese].

**Uncertain Wishes...**

And so, I had my grand _tour de force_ before I was ready for it. I have since wondered if it happened because I was innocent enough to believe that I was ready for the task , selfish enough to risk somebody else's special day or egotistical enough to think that at my young age, I could do what had taken others a much longer time to achieve. Who knows!

The day of the wedding, my "guards" had to physically step in and firmly press down the pot lids in order to stop the aunts from seasoning the meals behind my back. The aunts didn't like it, but all they could do was moan and curse and not much else.

I was half through cooking at the wedding when I remembered that I had not gone to see dad for the famous "secret" of pulling this off. How could I have been so careless? A wave of fear invaded me. I looked to my left and saw two of the aunts sheepishly dicing tomatoes and peeling shrimp. On my right, the rest of the army was hard at work too. Everything was going well. I might not have the secret, but I was still very much on top of everything.

Aunt María and her younger sister did not exactly mince words when they called me a _gallo capón_ [Literally, neutered rooster. A pejorative term for a man who meddles in women's affairs] almost to my face. My personal "buffer" disappointed the small legion of admirers who, having heard that I was in charge of the kitchen, had come to wish me well and/or see me at work. They were all summarily ushered out of the cooking area without much ceremony. The groom's mother tried her luck and was also escorted out of the kitchen.

There were several curious souls who–standing outside the cooking area–kept on yelling out asking for my recipes on the spot. I had a sign posted announcing a free-for-all talk after the party. But, I was not to be spoken to while I was working. The sign helped a little.

By the time dinner was ready, I can proudly say that, conservatively speaking, I had managed to irritate about 80% of the guests who had dared to try getting close to me. I did not care! I was not there to socialize.

I had dinner ready for the official 8:00 P.M. sit-down dinner, but we had to wait another half an hour for the roasted pig to be cut into serving portions and put onto the serving trays. I used that time to take a quick shower and change. Back in the kitchen, my "guards" were still on duty watching the aunts. By the time I returned to the kitchen, they were calling out to dinner.

Somebody came in with a note for me. Addys María wanted to see me in the dining-room on the double. A million thoughts crossed my mind. All my insecurities came out to haunt me. Was the food so horrible that they were calling me after only two bites?

When I entered the dining-room, Addys María and the groom stood up. Though always beautiful, Addys María had never looked as radiant. She was beaming with joy. This was her big day and she was going to enjoy it!

I had secretly cursed her for giving me the job, but looking at her at that moment, I could only thank her for allowing me to contribute to her happiness. –"Here he is, ladies and gentlemen. The best cook in town. A toast and a round of applause!" Everybody followed the bride and groom in congratulating me for the food. Godwall handed me a glass of wine. I could use a drink! I raised my glass –"A toast for the bride and groom and their never-ending happiness!" The people applauded and started to sing. Addys María stood up again –"My friends, I thank you...but now...we eat and drink! To your health and happiness too! God bless you all!"

I turned around and began to walk out of the room. I felt a hand on my right shoulder. It was the groom. –"Where are you going? Your seat is right next to ours! Please, join us!" I was moved.

I could hear the clinking noise of glasses and the pecking of forks and knives on the plates...it was like music from heaven to me.

Addys María's mother and father had made an extreme effort to be civil to each other. They were quietly standing behind me. The old man pulled me by my right ear and said to me –"Son, I always thought you were a bit of a goofball. I guess I was wrong!" How flattering!

The bride and groom handed me a present. I was ordered to open it on the spot. It was a ladle with the inscription "Dave, Chef Extraordinaire." I still have it in my kitchen.

I scanned the room from left to right looking for my mom. From the distance, she blew me a kiss. I could barely speak. Godwall traded seats with the groom's father and moved next to me. –"Somebody needs to keep you watered, my fellow chef!" Indeed!

There was one person I wanted to see. Actually, there was a person I wanted to be seen by, to be exact. Where was he? I felt a familiar heavy hand on my left shoulder. –"I almost missed the wedding waiting for you to come by so I could tell you _the_ secret for pulling this off, chef!" Godwall asked my dad to sit down. –"Only for a moment, Godwall. Don't go far" dad said.

I smiled. I had long realized that the secret had been revealed to me a long time ago. Dad was making sure I understood the heavy side of this new profession I was thinking of choosing over teaching.

**_Après moi, le déluge_...**

After it was all over, I took stock of the whole experience. One the plus side, I had now more confidence in my cooking abilities and I had helped a great friend. I had also made my mother very proud and showed my father that I was a man. The dinner had been an outstanding success. Before the night was over, I had my coat pockets stuffed with girls' phone numbers and with serious requests for me to cook at other weddings, birthday parties and professional events. On the negative side, fed-up with the inordinate amount of time I was spending wrapped up in the preparation for the wedding, my girlfriend had broken up with me just the day before the party. I was totally drained both mentally and physically.

Yes, I _could_ be a chef if I decided to become one. I had proved that to myself. However, it was time for me and me alone to decide if I wanted to be a chef or a teacher. That "Oprah Moment", as I can call it now, marked the beginning and the end of what some 35 years later–more than an exciting adventure of my youth–feels like a faded dream.

**The Loss of a Good Friend**

All that matters now is that I'm back at the airport heading for my home in Las Vegas. Addys María, her husband and Godwall's oldest son have come to see me off.

It has been a heavy journey. I had not seen Godwall in three years. –"Listen, you son-of-a bitch...you better clean up your act. If I catch you screwing around, I'm going to kick your ass when I come back next year" I had said to him only half in jest when I was leaving. He was drinking too much. He gave me a beaming smile, a big hug and told me not to worry about him.

But, I did not come back. Life abroad can be glamorous, but it comes at a very high emotional cost. I had told my uncle Denis to keep an eye on Godwall. He was the one who had sent me the message about Godwall's death. I never envisioned that my next meeting with Godwall would be like this.

As my uncle Denis explained to me, many of the things my good friend Godwall held so dear, had been crumbling down bit by bit. First, Godwall and Addys María's mother died in car crash. She was in a coma for three days. Nobody told me until she was buried. Then came Godwall and Myra's bitter divorce. At Godwall Junior's wedding three years before, you could have cut the tension with a knife. I almost had to play referee. Godwall and I had double-dated two sisters. I had broken up with one of them, he had married the other one.

I cling to the good memories. I have to. When I watch a Western, I still think of Godwall. He loved the genre so much. He enjoyed doing John Wayne impersonations, recreating his "shootings" at our parties. His was a gentle sense of humour that never put anyone else down. We laughed at his jokes, not because they were terribly funny, but because he told them with such candor. I miss him very much.

Every wedding I go to reminds me of Addys María and Godwall. He was the best friend a man could have. He was discreet, reliable and honest. Generous to a fault, he was the kind of man who always thought of everyone else before getting anything for himself.

Godwall had become isolated inside the strange microcosm his life had turned into after so many disappointments. He was alone, very alone. Strong enough to handle the other travails of his hard life, he was no match for the big silence and the vast emptiness.

While flying south for the funeral, I had formulated in my mind many questions about his death. Somehow I thought that if I found out the reasons, I could perhaps bargain with the Universe and reverse the unfortunate course of events. I knew deep down that that was not possible, but it was comforting to me because at least I was "doing" something about my best friend's death.

All my questions were answered when I looked at Godwall's lifeless body. The muscular frame had given way to a rather light, bony structure. Despite the undertaker's best efforts to make him look presentable for viewing, I noticed some degree of disarray in his appearance. Godwall was laid-back, but at the same time rather fastidious about his appearance. I bent down to touch his forehead. I whispered a private message in his ear. I could hear his voice answering back and his unabashed laughter filling up the room. I smiled.

Pills or no pills...Godwall had died of a broken heart and I was not there to stop it. I turned around to look at the faces of the many people who had gathered to pay their respects to a good person. I barely knew a handful of them. How many of them truly knew my good friend the way I did? Yet, I was jealous of them. They had spent the last 30 years with Godwall while I was trying to make a living in exile.

Godwall was not the only lonely soul in the room. Most of our common friends were somehow gone...dead, living abroad, unaccounted for. Why do we end up running away from the ones we love? I tapped my friend on the chest for the last time and I returned to my seat to ponder on the answer.

**D avid A. Cuban, Ph.D.**

Canadian-American author of French-Spanish ancestry.

He attended the University of Toronto where he received two Master's degrees.

David moved to the U.S. to do doctoral studies in the early 90s.

He has published academic books and essays in the fields of literature, linguistics and teacher education. He is also a novelist

He has also published works of fiction in Europe, Latin America and North America.

He is fluent in English, Spanish and German; with working knowledge of French, Italian and Portuguese.

See his books at: www.davidacuban.com

# 9 Nowheresville

**B y Donna B. McNicol**

* * *

Stepping off the bus, Gary slung the battered duffel bag over his shoulder and moved to the sidewalk. A cloud of dust swirled around his feet as the bus departed. _Another Nowheresville town. Looks just like the last one, and the one before that, and the one...._ He laughed at himself and took a moment to survey his surroundings. Dusty sidewalks ran down both sides of the main street. Down one side he noted a hardware store, a small pharmacy, a bank and a brightly decorated fabric shop. Continuing to the other side he saw a combination beauty salon - barber shop, a laundromat with several folding chairs set outside and a diner. He swiped his ragged sleeve over his face and he headed for the diner.

A bell tinkled overhead as he paused in the doorway to savor the mixed aroma of fresh coffee, fried foods and fresh baked goods. Cracked, peeling black and white tiles covered the floor with booths lining one wall and traditional counter seating along the other. The kitchen was behind swinging doors that had seen better days; one half was permanently open, the other needed a new coat of paint. The only table was under the large display window at the front where two elderly men barely glanced his way, both engrossed in their card game.

A motion in the corner of his eye caught his attention. A waitress juggling an arm full of dishes smiled over her shoulder and shouted, "Grab a seat anywhere. Someone will getcha' in a minute." The swinging door closed behind her as he walked to the back. Tossing the duffel bag under the booth, he slid in and opened the greasy menu. "Feels just like home," he mumbled as he perused his choices.

He was interrupted by a younger and prettier version of the first waitress. "Did ya' see the specials on the board?" She inclined her head toward the chalkboard on the wall. "We're outa' everything but the beef stew. We're never out of that." She leaned closer and he could smell her unique aroma, reminding him of days and women past. "That's cause it ain't no good. Get the apple pie or if you've a real hunger, go for the cheeseburger first." She straightened, patted a stray blond curl and smiled. "Can I getcha some coffee while ya' decide?"

He nodded and as she walked off, he let the _if onlys_ roam briefly through his mind. If only he were ten years younger; if only he had something to offer; if only he were staying here longer. He quickly stopped the thoughts. He knew the _if onlys_ weren't worth the lint in his wallet but like always, he managed to roam through them anyway. _Silly, sad and pointless mind game. don't know why I always do it._

A clatter from the kitchen startled him out of his thoughts. The older waitress, the one who had greeted him, stuck her head out the swinging door. "Sallie Mae? You got that handsome customer? He's mighty cute, I might have to take care of him if you don't." A raucous laugh emanated from further back in the kitchen.

"Ma, you just hush up. Go take care of stuff in the kitchen. I got things out here handled just fine." Sallie Mae returned to his table with the coffee. She smiled and told him, "You just pay no attention to Mama. She's not used to fine folk coming in here, just the local riff-raff." She giggled and managed to plump her breasts higher in her low-cut uniform.

Gary surveyed her enticing figure as she filled his coffee cup. "Thanks. I needed that." He wasn't sure if he meant the coffee or the view but she seemed to appreciate the thanks.

"So, can I get you anything else?" She licked her pencil and held it poised above her order pad.

Gary returned the menu to its hiding spot behind the napkin holder. "Just the apple pie, I think. Heated maybe?"

"Sure thing. Wanna scoop of vanilla ice cream on that?"

"Sounds good to me. And please, keep the coffee coming. I'll be here for a bit."

Reaching into his back pocket, he found his battered pack of cigarettes with the matches securely tucked into the cellophane. He sighed, realizing he'd need to buy another pack soon. "Should quit," he muttered.

"Yup, you should." The waitress cautioned him with a waggling finger. "No smoking in here though." She motioned to a side door. "Out there's fine. I'll watch your stuff, not that anyone would bother it."

He glanced down at the weathered gray duffel bag sitting at his feet as he stood and stretched his lanky frame. He drawled a thank you, shuffled outside and lit his cigarette as he surveyed the town again. _Not much to write home about._ He snorted derisively. _Not that I have a home to write to._ Only half smoked, he tossed the cigarette down and ground it out with the scuffed toe of his boot.

He inhaled deeply, letting the smells from the local farms invade his senses. He closed his eyes and relaxed against the side of the diner, one boot propped behind him. He tried to clear his mind but even envisioning cute little Sallie Mae in a state of undress failed. He was quickly brought back to his reason for being here.

He patted his pockets until he found it; an envelope that looked as tattered as he felt. He carefully traced the lettering on the front. It had been addressed to him care of the only person he'd stayed in touch with from his past. Gingerly he pulled out the letter and photograph, both looking as though they would crumble if he wasn't careful. It had been written months earlier but only gotten to him a few weeks ago.

_Dear Gary,_

_I don't know if this letter will find its way to you but I had to try. I wonder if you even realize I exist. I'm your brother Edward, or Eddy as most folks call me. I've spent years trying to find you, even when they told me you weren't alive. In my heart I knew that wasn't true._

_I finally got some of your old addresses from the foster care office in Belmott and I wrote to all of them. This is the only one that wrote back. She told me she heard from you once or twice a year. So I'm taking a chance that this will eventually get to you and I'm enclosing the only photo I have of both of us._

_I put my phone number on the back. Please call me, even collect if necessary. I'd really like to meet you and I hope you will want to meet me. It's been too long and you're all the family I have._

_Your brother,_

_Eddy_

Gary refolded the letter and studied the picture. It had seen better days, looked as though Eddy had carried it in his wallet for years. An old black and white photo showing two young children in an almost empty room. One boy was facing the camera, the other had his back turned. It was hard to determine the ages but he recognized the boy in front - it was him. He guessed he it was taken when he was around two.

He stared at the picture until his vision grew grainy. He carefully put everything into the envelope and stuffed it back into his jacket. Taking a deep breath, he pulled out another cigarette to calm his nerves. Changing his mind, he put the pack away and walked back into the diner.

Sliding into the booth he realized he was the only patron left in the diner. He waved to Sallie Mae and she brought him a fresh cup. "You gonna be here long?" she queried as she poured.

"Coupla' hours maybe. Depends. I'm waiting to meet someone." He blew into the cup and took a tentative sip.

"Well, have to say, this place is as good as any for that. I'll get your pie 'n ice cream now." She winked and he watched her hips twitching as she sashayed off. He shook his head before he went back down the _if only_ road again.

Drinking carefully from the steaming cup, he leaned back into the corner of the booth as he stretched his legs out on the seat. His scuffed boots hung well off the end but since the place was empty, he didn't worry about them being in the way. While he waited for his order, he finally let his mind wander backward through the years.

Eddy was right, he hadn't known he had a brother. In fact, he still wasn't sure he did. _Could just be a scam, although what anyone stands to gain from me, I have no idea._ Tossed into foster care before he was three, he had no real memories of life before school age. He had been small for his age, shy and slow to make friends. When he finally made some friends, he inevitably got moved to a different foster home in another area. That meant a new school and no friends again. At some point he discovered that pulling pranks brought attention and quasi-friends. By the time he hit junior high, he'd been labeled as a troublemaker with low intelligence.

Thank goodness for Auntie Tee, he thought, picturing the woman who had been the only real mother he'd ever known. She'd always been old, at least to him. Short and round with her hair braided and wrapped around the back She'd taken him in, set the rules and boundaries, then proved to him that breaking them wasn't going to make her send him away. He'd stuck it out, improved his grades, eventually graduated and then enrolled in the Army. Six years and four inches later, he'd been discharged due to an injury.

From then on he had drifted, from town to town and job to job. His injury had improved and he tried his hand at a variety of jobs. No one thing had ever really stuck, he wasn't sure why. He'd loved some of it; like working the range as a cowhand or as a roughneck on an oil rig. He tended to be a loner, having retreated into himself over the years. He always felt like he was searching for something but he had no idea what that something was. With a loud sigh he drank the last few sips of coffee and signaled for a refill as Sallie Mae headed towards him with his order.

After setting the pie down in front of him, she returned with the coffee pot and filled his cup. She sat on the other side of the booth and stared at him for a minute. "You look like someone's got aholda' your gut and won't let go. Wanna' talk about it?" A warm smile accompanied the question and he was tempted.

"It's kind of personal. Haven't really talked to anyone about it." Well, except for Auntie Tee and she had told him to go for it. Told him he had nothing to lose and lots to gain if Eddy really was his brother. For some reason he was having a hard time taking her advice.

Sallie Mae patted his arm. "That's okay but sometimes it's good to talk to someone that doesn't know anyone involved." She beamed. "Like me! I'm a good listener and I just went on break." She leaned back and crossed her arms. "Try me," she challenged him.

Gary sighed and considered the situation. Why not tell her about Eddy? He'd leave later today and never see her and Eddy again. Well, maybe he wouldn't. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the envelope out of his pocket and handed it to her. "This is why I'm here. I may have a brother." He sat back and watched her face as she read the letter and looked over the photograph.

Sallie Mae smiled slowly as she spread it all out on the table between them. "So, who's the cutie-patootie in front?"

"Um, that'd be me." Gary took several swallows of water and waited.

"I thought so. I can see the resemblance. Hang on. I'll be right back." As good as her word she returned with an empty mug and poured herself some coffee. Taking a sip she continued, "And I take it that's the missing brother in the background?"

"Yup. Leastwise he says so." A worry line creased Gary's forehead.

"So you never knew you had a brother? No one ever mentioned him?" Gary shook his head. "How in the heck-"

"I know, it's weird. My, well our, parents died when we were little. I really don't remember much until I started school. I'm thinking Eddy is a year or two older so he remembers more."

"You called him?"

"Yeah, finally. Took a bit before I figured out I had nothing to lose. My foster mom, Auntie Tee, chewed me out for not calling him as soon as I got the letter." Gary sipped his coffee. "We didn't talk for long, I had to call him collect and didn't want to cost him a fortune. I agreed to meet him here since it was on my bus ride to my next job."

Sallie Mae raised an eyebrow and asked, "What do you do?"

Gary laughed. "Just about anything legal that pays." He leaned towards her and whispered, "In my younger days it didn't even have to be all that legal sometimes."

Sallie Mae didn't appear to be bothered by the statement. "Where are you headed now?"

"Up to North Dakota to work in the oil fields. There's a boom going on up there and I've heard there's lots of work available. I worked on the rigs in Louisiana so figure that should count for something."

"Say, you gonna eat that pie or not? Your ice cream's getting all soupy." Sallie Mae chuckled. "Guess maybe I should talk and let you eat, then you can finish your story." She waved her hand at the plate, "Go on! Eat up. I'll do the yammering for a bit."

Gary returned the chuckle and took a big bite of the dessert. He let the flavors meld a bit before he swallowed. Crisp apples, sweetened with cinnamon and cooled slightly by the creamy, rich ice cream, all wrapped up with a pie crust that melted on the tongue. "Wow, this is really good. Been a long time since I had a really good homemade tasting pie. You make them here?" He stabbed another mouthful, not waiting for a reply.

"Sure do. Ma makes the best pies in the tri-county area, even won some ribbons for them when she was younger." She looked over her shoulder at the kitchen. "She won't give the recipes to anyone, not even me. Says her secret ingredient is gonna' stay a secret."

"Well, can't hardly blame her for that. But I have to admit that I hope she does give it to someone before it's too late. It'd be criminal for this to disappear." Gary swirled his fork around the plate, being sure to get every last crumb. "I might just have to hang around long enough for supper, just so I can get more dessert."

Sallie Mae's head swiveled as she heard the kitchen door open. "I'm on break, Ma. Ten more minutes 'cause I never got my morning one." Her mother nodded as she wiped down the counter and filled the sugar containers. Turning back to Gary she asked, "So tell me more about your family or your growing up. I can't imagine not knowing your ma or brother or nothin'."

Gary wiped his mouth and picked up the coffee pot, refilling both their cups. "Not much to tell. I was maybe two when my mother died and my dad died before I was born. At least that's what I was told at one foster home when I asked."

Sallie Mae interjected, "Didn't they have any family?"

Gary shook his head. "I really don't know. For some reason, no one would ever talk about them so I quit asking. Just never felt the need to push the issue."

"What a shame. I fuss at Ma but I love her to death. Can't imagine growing up without her."

Gary smiled, "You got any brothers or sisters?"

"Sure do, but I'm the baby. They all moved off to bigger cities. Me? I'm happy here helping Ma with the diner. Someday I'll run it." Sallie Mae beamed with pride. "You said you had a foster ma?"

"Well, there were a lot of foster homes but only one stuck. That was with Auntie Tee. She showed me that no matter how bad I was, she wasn't gonna send me away. We still talk or write a couple times a year. She's been my only family..." Gary pointed to the photograph in front of them, "at least till now."

"Why don't you think he's really your brother?"

"I dunno, just suspicious, I guess."

"Well gee, can you think of any reason someone would want to pretend to be your brother?" Sallie Mae made a silly face and tapped her fingers on the table, making Gary laugh.

"Naw, I guess not. I've got no home, no car, no money, no girl friend. Heck, no real friends. Guess I've been a wanderer too long." He shook his head and sipped his coffee.

"Maybe you were looking for something that you didn't even know you were missing?"

Gary sat silent for a few minutes, then nodded. "Sallie Mae, you may be right. If Eddy is my brother, he might be the only member of my family left." He exhaled slowly. "Now I'm getting nervous, dang it."

"Naw, nothing to be nervous about. You appear to be a smart man, you'll know if he's your brother or not. If he is, great. If he isn't, maybe you'll make a friend." She smiled and stood. "Think my break's over. You let me know if you want anything else." She picked up the now cool coffee pot and walked towards the counter. "I'll make a fresh pot."

Gary nodded absently, already lost in his thoughts. Could he really be getting ready to meet his long lost brother? Up until now he hadn't thought so but had agreed to meet anyway. After talking to Sallie Mae, he felt different. Optimistic but also like he now had something to lose. _Quit it, you can't lose something you never had._ He looked at the clock on the wall. Less than thirty minutes and he'd get some answers - maybe.

Sallie Mae handed him a copy of the local paper. "Something to keep your mind busy," she'd said. He'd read the comics and was perusing the classifieds when the bell over the door tinkled. Putting the paper down in anticipation, he refused to glance over to see who had entered. He listened as Sallie Mae and her mother chatted with the newcomer, then he heard the approaching footsteps.

A deep voice asked, "Gary?" and he glanced up. The newspaper slid to the floor as he stared at the man in front of him. The face seemed very familiar. He stood to shake hands and as Eddy smiled Gary realized why. It was true, he and Eddy were brothers. In fact, they were twins.

_P hoto copyright Kate Ramsey_

Donna B. McNicol retired after 30+ years in the IT industry. In 1996 she started moonlighting in freelance writing; she spent the next ten years writing for such online sites as The Mining Company, Suite101, BellaOnline and About.com.

In January 2012 she started dabbling with flash fiction and before the year was out had published several compilations, two short stories and was included in an anthology. In early 2013 she published her first two novels, Home Again - a contemporary romance, and Not a Whisper - the first in the Klondike Mystery Series.

Donna currently lives and travels full-time with her husband, Stu, and their pup, Sadie, along with their two Harley-Davidson motorcycles in a 41' fifth wheel toy hauler trailer pulled by their medium duty Freightliner.

http://donnamcnicol.com

http://facebook.com/mywritespot

Twitter: @dbmcnicol

# 10 The Long Road Home

**B y Jeanette Raleigh**

* * *

_-1862 in a Federal camp, along the Tennessee River-_

John Summers closed his eyes and pulled the blanket over his shoulders, his wife's letter on his pillow while he breathed the scent of her perfume. The stench from the latrines choked the air and the offal brought flies by the hundreds. Rebecca stood between him and the abyss. He felt this truth somewhere deep in his soul.

As the light faded, he could no longer see the picture of her and so he tucked it into his jacket, but the letter he always slept with, a talisman against nightmares. His wife's scent sometimes brought good dreams.

Drifting off to sleep, John felt longing and homesickness, a world-weary exhaustion born from boredom and fear. Late in the night, long after John's loneliness had dissolved into dreams, hell descended on camp in all its fury.

The sound of gunfire shocked John awake with the shouts, "We're under attack."

The men in his tent stumbled in the dark, grabbing their guns. After pulling on his boots, John followed Ted out and saw him point to flashes and smoke in the trees. "Over there."

Swarming out of the tents half-dressed, the men scrambled to take positions on the line where the pickets held. John was running toward the flashes where shots were exchanged when one of the shadows holding firm with a rifle at his shoulder dropped with a cry. The soldier must have been one of the heroic ones, the men who stood firm and fought with a fury, because the instant he fell, the rest of the men scattered. He hoped it wasn't the lieutenant. Suddenly the scouts were running past him. "Fall back. Fall back."

John turned, carried along with the running men into the trees while the enemy pursued. It was then that he remembered Rebecca's letter. He had two other letters from his wife, but this one was special.

While the men took positions on the far side of camp, John stared at the dark outline of the tent where the letter still lay on his pillow. The moans of the wounded carried across the field.

One of the men nearest whispered and asked about the enemy, "You think they're still out there?"

"Yes," John edged back. They waited with guns poised, watching for movement in the damp cold, grateful for the clouds that cloaked moon and stars and left pockets of midnight in which to hide.

Creeping out of the shadows, the rebel war cry rose into the night and John shivered while the same man said, "They're coming now."

The shadows separated from the trees as the enemy moved forward into camp. Confederate soldiers laid fire into the woods. His companion edged forward and fired on the encroaching shadows.

When a minie ball blasted the bark of a tree just over John's ear, exploding bits of detritus across his hair, John hit the dirt, slinking back on all fours and looking into the dark for the man who shot at him. Shouts and gunfire and screaming horses echoed in the night. Belly-crawling through the dirt he worked his way deeper into the darkness. In the moment of quiet between volleys, he listened for a voice he could recognize. A voice cried out, "Hold the line!"

He heard gunfire and a desperate scream.

The whoops of the confederates chilled John with their proximity. He lay in the cold mud with a stone pressed to his cheek and waited in silence. Each breath seemed to stretch between eternities. He thought of the letter, replaying every word while the rebel yells of confederate soldiers surrounded him and bullets crashed into the trees and the few men brave enough to stand.

Every word gave him hope. Every sentence gave him courage. _My Dearest John,_ _I hope this finds you well._ Not so well, really. The rock was cutting into his cheek and the wet earth chilled his skin and he trembled. He was alone in the dark, surrounded by enemy troops. And I lost your letter, Rebecca. It's gone. He took a deep shuddering breath and realized that he could get it back, what with all the confusion and the dark. He had time, how much he didn't know, a few minutes, an hour until daylight. Maybe he'd be captured and sent to a dank prison, but he'd have the letter.

Somewhere far to his right flank, exchanges of gunfire crackled. John squirmed through the cold, wet slime inch by inch trying to work his way around the camp perimeter, back to the tent.

An hour later and John was close, so close. But a new line had formed near the very tent he was trying to reach and bullets ripped through the air. As he slowly inched his way forward, he heard a voice say, "John, is that you?"

Lieutenant Ralph Barrister, in command of the thirty men who had formed the picket, spoke from the shadows, startling John who had crawled by in the dark. "Yes sir."

"Why are you coming this way? Most of the company has already fallen back." The voice in the dark was a hoarse whisper, spoken between bouts of gunfire and shouting.

"My wife's letter. I left it on my pillow. If those bastards get hold of it..." John knew how desperately foolish he sounded. He had slithered by his superior through muck to get a damn memento. How does one confess to that? "Sir, I have to get the letter back. I know how foolish it sounds."

"We're already overrun. You can't think to go out there and survive. Not without help"

Ralph lifted his gun and fired. John saw the flash and blinked. Not enough light to see his face or even body. Ralph's shadow separated from the tree, moving forward. A brave fool. The lieutenant made a target of himself. John whispered to him to get down. He was surprised when Ralph ducked back.

John could see the shape of the tent now just a few yards away. He whispered to Ralph who had gone down on one knee next into the shadow of the tree. "It's so close. I'm sure I can make it."

"We'll do it together. Henderson. Smith. With me." He hadn't sensed or seen them until the two men joined Ralph. The smell of smoke and sulfur drifted across the camp. The night seemed lighter, and John wondered how long they had until daylight.

Willing himself to stillness, John thought of the moment just last afternoon when he fingered Rebecca's letter, the parchment crackling to his touch.

_"Reading that letter from your missus, again, eh?" Theodore Jarvis handed John a chunk of dried beef and took a bite of his own with relish._

_John nodded, wanting to be alone. He should be grateful for the food taken from a dead enemy's pack. Instead he felt a faint queasiness._

_"Read me the part about the flowers." Theodore didn't have a wife of his own. He was old enough, not a child like the drummers or even a young swain looking for romance. A few gray hairs edged his beard, though he laughed and said they popped out after the first battle._

_John cleared his throat, "_ You would like the daisies, peeping shyly out from mama's hedge. Whenever I see them I think about the evening we walked through Mama's garden, and the moment you first said you loved me. It seems so long ago now."

_Theodore crossed his arms, "Bet it seems longer to you, huh?"_

_John nodded. An eternity. Forever since he'd held Rebecca's hand under the stars the night after they were married and declared his love for the rest of his days. He folded the letter._

_"You always stop there. Why don't you keep reading?"_

_"It's personal."_

_John waited until Theodore wandered away to bother some other poor fellow reading a letter from home. Then he settled onto his make-shift chair in the mist to think about the rest of the letter._

John stared into the darkness. He had to find that letter. After a long wait in the cold dark, Ralph made the first move, taking point with a quick step, step, crouch and search. He stepped with a smooth efficiency that John envied. His men shared the same skill. John had slithered and crawled through the woods taking an hour to cover as much ground as Ralph did in five minutes. He slowly lifted himself from the ground. There was something wrong with trusting the air. He wanted to sink back into the mud but if the lieutenant was willing to help, John could at least keep up.

By the time John crawled his way through the trees, Ralph was hunkered at the far side of the tent, scanning the camp and listening to the sounds of the night. John was lucky his tent was still in the part of camp being fought over. Across the clearing, the enemy waited to pick off anyone coming out of the tents. In the darkness it seemed a great distance, but it wasn't really, not if they moved forward.

While Ralph kept watch, John snuck along the side of the canvas wishing for a sharper knife. It would have been easier to cut a hole in the back. Ralph's men started their diversion with a sudden volley that had everyone looking away from the tent where Rebecca's letter waited.

John swept into the tent and wiping his hands on his sleeve, picked up the letter and tucked it back where it belonged with the thin paper photograph of his wife, a carte de vista purchased for a nickel before he shipped out.

"Hold."

From outside the tent, Ralph's voice gave the command that told John to stay put. A sudden volley across the field and the sound of horses startled John. Even with his pants soaked through and the chill midnight air, he felt sweat bead along his forehead. He itched to pull the flap back and take his chances with the whooping and hollering men pouring into camp. He heard the laughter across the field and the sound of objects thrown. The looting had already begun. John didn't dare call for Ralph, but what if he'd been shot? How would John know to leave?

He lay on his stomach at the flap and with the tiniest flick of a finger, lifted the canvas to look outside. In the dark he could see nothing, only the remnants of a fire and a pot turned on its side. No movement struck his attention, but then from that angle, his line of vision wasn't the greatest.

"Now, John, hurry."

Ralph's voice called to him, a beacon in that dismal hell. Pushing himself up, John bolted through the flaps and sprinted sideways, crashing into the trees. Gunfire exploded behind and Ralph called for the retreat. The pine he ducked beside exploded, splinters driving into the arm he had thrown over his face, into his neck and chest. Stumbling, his foot caught on a root and he fell hard on one knee.

Before he could straighten, he felt a hand at his arm pulling him up. "We'd best run for it now."

"Thank you, sir." Such paltry words for a feeling of gratitude he could never express.

He and the lieutenant, along with a dozen other men fled the camp, leaving food and clothing behind. As they crashed through the trees with shouts and shots behind them, John felt a twinge of guilt that so many men had stayed just so that he could sneak out Rebecca's letter. Never again would he sleep until it was in his pocket safely tucked away.

Ralph led the men along the river as the sky brightened and the day warmed. Stragglers joined the group and slowly the regiment regrouped. The new day dawned miserably on most of the men to whom the loss of food and shelter was a dark blow, but to John, he felt the loss somewhat less. He bore his luck close to his heart, lost and regained in a night.

They stopped mid-morning to regroup. Half the regiment was lost in the woods and the rest were tired and sore, a few wounded. John's arms itched and stung, although he'd pulled out as many of the slivers as he could find while they walked.

They built a make-shift camp, hunted for squirrel and pooled the food from the packs rescued in the melee. Without a fire, the camp was cold. John sat in a small group, his back to the tree, still picking bits of wood out of his skin.

"So what's in that letter worth your life?" Smith, the gruff fellow who held the forward position with Ralph, found a patch of moss and sat down.

Unfolding the letter, John skipped to the part that he thought could somehow justify his actions, the small section that might make sense to five men who risked themselves for his damn romantic notions. The part he'd never read aloud before. He swallowed and found the words he'd kept to himself for so long.

With a rough voice, he read Rebecca's letter. "You are going to be a father, and I pray this letter finds you safe and bears you home to us. Every night I pretend you are holding my hand and we are discussing names for our child, and every morning I think I am one day closer to seeing you again. When I feel the seed of our love blossoming within..." John blushed and stopped reading. He skipped that part and read from the end. "I pray you come home soon. All my love, Rebecca."

The men were too rough and had seen too much to do anything maudlin with the words. They clapped his shoulder, wished him luck with the baby, and joked about whether he'd be putting the letter in his boot for safe-keeping.

John returned the laughter. "I'll be sure to keep it close from now on. Next time I go rushing back into a fight, it'll be for some beef."

With the afternoon sun warming the thicket, he pulled his cap over his eyes and pretended to sleep.

In his thoughts he returned to his last day with Rebecca before joining his regiment. He thought they'd made the babe during his last night home with her, a frantic coupling when the two shared equal parts of pain and love, wondering when they would see one another again and worrying that this night would be their last. Not that they spoke the words out loud. Words had power.

A week later and John was back in his regiment running up a hillock once more into a horrific slaughter. By the end of the day with blood flowing in the fields, his lungs full of smoke, and his ears ringing, John found himself exhausted. A sharp crack pierced the air and John threw himself into a ditch, finding himself next to Ralph.

It wasn't a smile really. One didn't smile when the whole world was shaking loose, but John felt deep relief at seeing Ralph unharmed. He gripped Ralph's shoulder and the two men nodded to one another with solemn camaraderie. They shared the ditch and looked out together on the field. The Confederates were mixed up with the Federals and John worried more than once that he might be shooting a friend.

He and Ralph sat side by side taking turns packing down powder and reloading. When the volleys finally stopped, John's head ached and his ears hurt. They were signaling to one another by hand and fighting in tandem. They waited for several minutes, listening for the sound of the drum and the fife above the random crackle of the shots taken. The confederacy was in retreat. Feeling stiff and exhausted, John lifted his head like a cautious turtle to see a strange field of men, most of them stretched out like so many fallen branches, some long cold, some still screaming for help. He scanned the horizon and when it seemed safe, slowly lifted his head over the ditch.

Battle had taught John not to stand tall. He always felt naked that first moment up, with an itch on the back of his neck, the feeling that at any moment he would lose his head or an arm or leg, and it made him hunch a bit and feel shaky. It was just too easy to die on a battlefield.

Ralph followed him out of the ditch. Across the field, other men were slowly coming out, shocked that after hours of battle, the confederates had retreated. Weary to his soul, John closed his eyes. He sought a memory of Rebecca, the moment in the church when they first kissed before God and man and the stray butterfly that meandered across the chapel floor when he pulled away. He felt the sun on his face but the smell of sulfur intruded.

A shout and John felt himself flying through the air, pushed by the lieutenant as a shot crackled in the air. He fell hard. Ralph was lying heavily on John. John pushed back, rolling him away. Ralph gurgled blood with a shot in the lung, a shot meant for John, and Ralph was breathing in a high-pitched whistle. Three more shots rang out as men from Ralph's regiment executed the shooter. But it was too late for Ralph.

John knelt beside the lieutenant. "Ralph? We'll get you to the field station."

Coughing blood and his voice thick with fluid, Ralph stared at the blue sky. "I want to see my Mama."

It felt strange hearing those words from a man so brave. And when John heard Ralph speak, all he could think of was Rebecca and that she was going to be a mother, and please God, don't ever let his child die on a battlefield calling for his Mama. As the light faded from Ralph's eyes, John felt cold, a bitter coldness that somehow covered any fear or anger or loneliness he should have felt. He knelt at Ralph's side for an eternity too empty and numb to think clearly. And soon Ralph was gone, to his own eternity leaving all else behind.

John sat by Ralph's side in a daze until Jarvis found him and helped him stand. He didn't write again for nearly three days and when he did, he was exhausted to the point of illness. But it felt important. He might not have another chance to say what needed to be said.

He wrote, " _My dearest Rebecca, I look forward with great longing to see you. I hope this letter finds you well. I fear that the babe will come before I see home again. There is a man here to whom I owe my life. If our child is a son, I'd like to name him Ralph in his honor. Please go into the garden for me and spend a few minutes looking at the daisies, and maybe at the same time, I will be imagining you there."_

John stopped writing. It wouldn't be enough, the naming of a son. But what more could he do? Ralph was already gone, and it would be a long road home.

Copyright March, 2013 Jeanette Raleigh

_Jeanette Raleigh is an author and artist who lives in the Seattle area. Some of the characters in "The Long Road Home" can be found in the novel_ The Zombie-Cowboy __ Two-Step _slated for release later this year._

# 11 Once We Were Children

**B y Chris Ward**

* * *

Makayoshi died in the spring, just as the cherry blossoms began to fall. The eighty-fourth time his eyes had looked upon the pink _sakura_ trees of Nakajima Park was his last. Takahiro didn't mourn his younger brother's death. He walked to Nakajima Park, sat on a bench among the dying cherry blossoms and toasted Makayoshi with a glass of _sake_ made from their own home-grown rice. His brother would have approved.

He didn't want to cry. He didn't like crying, it made him feel weak, and for as long as he could remember he had been the cornerstone of his family, the dependable one.

He wrote a letter to Ayana in Okayama, asking if she would come back for her great uncle's funeral, and perhaps bring the children?

She didn't reply in time.

Makayoshi was cremated on May 14th. On the 15th, Takahiro, together with his brother's neighbor, Kobayashi, interred the remains into the family shrine on the little hill outside Matsumoto.

Ayana's reply arrived on the 17th:

_Sorry, Grandad, I was away on business. Sorry to hear about Uncle and sorry I couldn't make it. I'll try to visit during Obon. Love, Ayana._

It was a postcard, not even a sealed letter. He knew she resented his failure to convert to the electronic generation, but he would be following Makayoshi sooner rather than later and didn't see the point of stressing himself out on something he would never understand.

He hadn't wanted to cry. But he had.

'Dad, look. Oh, look. It's a girl. A beautiful girl.'

His eyes filled with tears as Kentaro held out the tiny bundle of life, pink and clammy in a hospital blanket. They had thought Hiroko couldn't conceive, had tried everything. When she fell pregnant after some experimental IVF treatment, the family still hadn't dared to believe. But here was the wonderful result, a beautiful little girl.

'She has her grandfather's eyes, I think.'

Takahiro smiled. Maybe she did.

It was always planting time that Takahiro liked best. Knee deep in mud, a bright sun shining overhead, the hum of conversation all around him. Things always worked in order of seniority, so Takahiro and Makayoshi would plant the seedlings, while Kentaro, together with Makayoshi's boy, Seima, would wade along in front of them carrying the trays. Takahiro's wife, Yumiko, and Makayoshi's wife, Tomoko, would prepare the picnic of rice balls, sushi, boiled eggs and fried chicken. Hiroko and Makayoshi's daughter, Hiromi, got the bum job, cleaning out the old trays in the small canal that ran between their rice field and that of Mr. Tanaka next door.

As a baby, Ayana was as well behaved as a child could be, sitting in her pushchair while the others worked, only crying when she was hungry or needed changing. While they chatted over their picnic she would be passed from lap to lap, and Takahiro would always want to hold on to her the longest, look down at her tiny puckered face as it broke into a grin aimed only at him.

'I'll bring my sister next year, promise,' Hiroko teased Seima, who was thirty-one that first year after Ayana was born. 'She's looking for a husband.'

'Who says I want a wife?' Seima replied with a wide grin designed to mask the insecurities they all knew he felt inside. 'Maybe I'm happy as I am.'

Kentaro punched his shoulder. 'Come on, cousin. She'll love you. You've got a great car!'

Even Ayana seemed to giggle in Takahiro's arms.

'Stop teasing him and eat your boiled egg,' Tomoko scolded.

Above them a warm June sun beat down from a cloudless sky. A sparrow chirped from a tree back near the road. Takahiro wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow and smiled. Good times, good times.

Takahiro was seventy-nine and Makayoshi seventy-five the last year they planted the rice field. Of course it was all done with a machine by then, but even so, riding what looked like a tractor crossed with a spider under the hot sun was too much for either of them. This would be the last year, they both decided when it was finally done.

And another book was closed.

Ayana had been gainfully scrubbing seed trays for five years when the phone rang one evening in May.

'Hiroko has cancer,' Kentaro said. 'We're going to stay in Osaka for a while so she can have treatment.'

Takahiro didn't cry after he put down the phone, but he frowned for a long, long time.

'Another boiled egg?' Tomoko said.

Takahiro took it, as was expected of him. The women had made eight, the usual number, but there were three spare. No one wanted to say anything, so Takahiro, Makayoshi and Seima had an extra one each.

Hiroko had died. Her family was from Osaka so Kentaro had stayed down there for the funeral. He had transferred his job too, because he couldn't bear to take Ayana away from Hiroko's grieving parents. _We'll visit often_ , he said.

Kentaro was true to his word, at least in part. Ayana was sent up for a visit every spring. In the little canals around the rice fields they caught tiny fish and eels and kept them in a tank in the house. Once they found a rhinoceros beetle hanging from a tree branch and put it into a plastic case because Ayana said she wanted to give it to a boy she liked at school. Takahiro had wondered about taking it on the _shinkansen_ , but they forgot to close the case properly and in the night it got out and flew off somewhere. For years afterwards Takahiro expected to find the shell of its armoured body down behind a bookcase or under a pile of old magazines, but he never did.

The fish, little _dojo_ , which became harder to find as the years passed, lived. They bred. Every few months Takahiro or Yumiko would scoop out a handful of babies that were little more than swimming eyes and let them back into the little canals where they would drift away towards the river beyond the rice fields. Even though there were always too many for the tank, Takahiro hated to see them go.

Often, sitting on the bench in Nakajima Park, with a hot sun beating down, Takahiro would let his head loll back, allow his eyes to close, and he would dream of those days.

Ayana had found a frog once, a really huge one, more like a toad, and popped it under Seima's sweater as they sat eating their lunch one year. Seima and Kentaro were sharing a couple of beers and a joke. Seima leaned back, reaching for a rice ball, not looking. The toad bounced under his hand. Seima shrieked and rolled backwards. One leg slipped into the muddy water of the rice paddy, and only Kentaro's quick hand stopped the rest of Seima from following it in. For a moment he looked shocked, then Ayana laughed, quickly followed by the others. The toad bounced across Seima's chest, into the water and away.

Seima, always the butt of jokes but a good sport with it, died in a car crash at the age of forty-one. He was still unmarried, but Makayoshi had heard talk of a girlfriend, albeit in passing. No girl came to his funeral, so they never knew for sure.

Of course he missed them, it went without saying. He missed them all, but more than anything he missed how they had been. The most tiring days of toil in the fields were painted with a sheen of romance when folded back into the arms of nostalgia. He remembered bright sunny days and laughter, jokes and picnics, companionship, family. He remembered them all, and he missed them. He missed them so much.

After Makayoshi's death, Takahiro made his decision. He enlisted the help of Ryosuke, Mr. Tanaka's son-in-law, to plough the field. It had grown dry and wild, a haven for weeds and other brush, but once the earth was broken the water would do its work. Five years had passed since the sluice gates from the little canal had been opened, and it took Takahiro a morning of toil to clear away the accumulated soil and weeds to get the water flowing again. Old Tanaka and Ryosuke tried to help, but Takahiro wanted to do this alone. His back screamed at him to give up, to quit, but he was made of solid stuff. Finally the water began to flow, and from then on things were easy.

Within two weeks, a couple of lengthy sessions to clear the old roots of the weeds had left the rice paddy looking as clear and fresh as it always had.

Takahiro wiped away a tear.

Yumiko died of a heart attack at seventy-three. It was unexpected but quick, and for that Takahiro was grateful. He had thought that finding her collapsed beside the sink in the little outhouse was the worst day of his life, but the day she was cremated was harder. He let himself cry that day. After all, every man should cry over his wife.

He had met her by the rice paddy when he himself was a young man. Twenty-three, with a lean, muscular physique that he would never better, he had been helping his own father the day she came walking past, a floppy white hat pulled over her brow to ward off the sun, gloves and long sleeves protecting the pale skin of her arms.

He looked up from his work to see she had stopped to watch him. Makayoshi had nudged him and given him a sly, conspiratorial wink. Yumiko had smiled, and for a moment had looked uncertain, lost, as if she had forgotten all about the business that had brought her here. Then she had nodded, half to the boys, half to herself, and gone on her way.

But later she had come back. And she had stayed.

Takahiro wondered sometimes what curse he had brought upon himself to outlive them all, but it wasn't strictly true. Tomoko died a year after Yumiko, and the two brothers were alone but together again. Seima was just a framed photograph on the wall but Kentaro was very much alive, if overworked, in a government office in Osaka. Ayana was at university, apparently with a sweetheart she planned to marry.

There was one last time the fragments of his family were together, when Kentaro visited over the _Obon_ holiday in August. Rather unexpectedly he brought Ayana with him, and tailing her was her man, Yohei. They ate and drank _sake_ and laughed and joked over old times. Yohei was a city boy but a kind one, and a year later he and Ayana were married. Takahiro and Makayoshi caught the _shinkansen_ down for the wedding, danced like young men at the party, drank too much _sake_ and slept most of the way home.

'I know you sold yours but you can have mine,' Tanaka told him, standing on the grassy verge as Takahiro stepped down into the water.

Takahiro smiled. 'Like the old days.'

'Well, at least let me hold the trays.'

Takahiro smiled again and nodded. For a moment he glanced up at the sky, as if searching for someone looking down on him. Makayoshi, or Yumiko, perhaps. Maybe even Seima.

'That would be grand if you would.'

'It all passes on, doesn't it?' Tanaka said. 'Everything goes in the end.

Takahiro said nothing. He broke the first little rice seedling off the rest and pushed it down into the waterlogged soil. _And yet the world carries on, without us_ , he thought.

He had wanted to see Ayana one last time, but she had children now and life was busy. She wrote him letters, and sent photographs of the children, but he was fading to memory. Her own father was ailing and had moved in with them, and the grandfather that lived up among the rice paddies in the shadow of the Japan Alps drifted further and further away down the river of her life.

He was gone before he was gone, but he didn't hold it against her. She had her own life to lead.

'That's it,' Takahiro said as they reached the end of the row. 'Not bad for a couple of old men, eh?'

Tanaka, sweat drenching his brow, laughed. 'You mind if I take a rest? I might have a couple of years on you but this is still young man's work.'

Takahiro nodded. 'Go ahead. I'm going to stay here a while longer.'

Tanaka climbed up out of the mud and headed off towards the little shed where he kept his own tools. Takahiro sat down for a moment to get his breath back. He felt a little fluttering in his heart, and looked up once at the sky, then down at the grass verge beside the rice paddy where they had sat so many times, and talked, laughed, enjoying each other's company.

His mother and father, his brother Makayoshi, their wives Yumiko and Tomoko, Seima, Hiroko, all passed. Now Kentaro was sick, and Ayana, his little angel, was a mother and the master of her own destiny, a destiny that no longer included him.

What he would give to have them all back together, just one more time! Takahiro closed his eyes, remembering the warm June days, the boiled eggs and the rice balls, the little _dojo_ in the stream, the frogs croaking in the water.

_So this is what it feels like_ , he thought. _The sunset of my life_.

He opened his eyes as tears streamed down his face. He saw two small children skipping along the side of the rice paddy, and for a moment he wanted to call out to them, to tell them to be careful, that although it wasn't deep it was thick and you could easily get stuck. One of them raised a hand and shouted something that he couldn't understand.

And there, behind them, he saw her, taller than he remembered, stepping slowly along the grass verge with the care only a mother would take.

Was she real or was his mind having a last dance with him, a last turn around the ballroom floor as he followed the others into dust? He started to stand but his feet felt suddenly heavy. His heart seemed to jump and his chest felt tight. He looked down at the dark, swirling waters of the rice paddy and knew where he had to be. He stood up, took a step forward and let his feet sink into the soft mud below the surface of the water.

The children were all around him, dancing like fireflies. Ayana was standing over him, her face the heavenly palour of an angel, ageless. Somewhere far, far away he was aware of Tanaka calling his name.

'I'll be with you,' Takahiro whispered to no one. He closed his eyes, and he was back there in those beautiful days, his family all around him, the tops of the rice seedlings poking up from the brown water in organized rows, the smell of youth and life and vitality in the air. Takahiro smiled, and welcomed them all back.

END

# 12 Hilda's Song

**B y John Daulton**

* * *

Hilda's large head bobbed to the tinny rapture of the banjo player's song. His fingers flickered in the dim light of the Busted Jug's rickety stage and filled her with joy. She smiled without knowing it, her eyes partly glazed, the twang and melody carrying her mind away while the bass thud-thumped and drove her booted foot to stomping on the floor. Something about that man's hands upon those strings enchanted her; the way his fingers danced like mercurial feet, his knuckles pulsing and the writhing ecstasy of the veins visible beneath his skin. Every movement that he made, every plucky note caused her to fill up inside. The music poured into her, warmed her like a lover slipping into bed. She wiped moisture from the corners of her eyes, sprung there unexpected and despite the song being as happy as could be.

The banjo player was older than she by at least ten years, his gray hair and bolo tie evidence of a generation well on the decline. But his music was youthful and masculine, as masculine as anything she'd ever heard, and as his hands ran across that banjo, as they touched those strings so splendidly, Hilda, for the first time in twenty-eight years, wanted to be touched as well.

The song ended, and she stared into the darkness while the band, a visiting trio called The End of the Road, took a ten minute break. She had to shake her head to break herself from the trance, a reverie that held her happily until it occurred to her that he wasn't playing anymore.

"That's music," she said when her mind cleared. She looked across the crude plank table at her friend Edith Miller, who was draining the last of double shot of Jack. "A fine shame they only gonna play one night."

"Yep. They good."

Hilda turned and spat a thick stream of tobacco juice on the floor, missing the spittoon by at least an inch and a half. Edith heard the spit hit the floor and fixed Hilda with curious, narrowed eyes.

"What?" said Hilda to that look.

Edith glanced down at the spittoon and raised an eyebrow.

"I reckon that feller got me distracted some." Hilda drained the last of her drink and wiped her mouth with her thick wrist.

Edith smiled. "Who, the banjo man? He ain't that amazing."

"Amazing ain't the half of it. That feller is divine."

Edith studied her for a moment, staring into Hilda's face, squinting as if looking deep into a fire. Then she began to laugh. "You got to be kidding."

"Don't you say a goddamn thing, Edith May, or I swear I'll beat you till you scream."

Edith kept laughing. Hilda raised a hand for another round of whiskey and the two women sat glaring and snickering respectively until the band returned.

The trio came out again and took their places beneath the two dim stage lights and began once more to play. Almost immediately Hilda was caught up and taken away again, her spirits lifted and floating upon the bubbling rhapsody of a "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" as if she were being buoyed by a cloud. She'd heard the song a million times before, a thousand million, but never like this.

His hands moved in a blur, and the picks on his fingertips were silver streaks sparking hypnotically beneath those two lights suspended above him as if the sun and moon had sent surrogates to pay tribute and to watch him play. No one had ever been so beautiful as him, of this Hilda was sure, and a need for him began to fill her like grain pouring into a bloating gunny sack, swelling her and threatening to burst her at the seams. She nearly couldn't take it, it swelled so much inside.

"I got to meet that feller," she said, leaning across the table to Edith. "I just got to."

"So go and meet him then."

"I can't just go up to him like I was some child in heat."

Edith shook her head and laughed again.

Hilda spat, this time with perfect accuracy. "Goddamn it, Edith, you're supposed to be my friend."

"Well, what am I gonna do? Go and do it for you? 'Say Mister, you see my friend over there frog-eyeing the hell out of you? She wants to know if you'll come buy her a drink.'" Edith wrinkled up her face like as if she'd just sucked a lime. "Come on, now. We ain't fifteen no more."

Hilda leaned back and drew in a long breath. The chair creaked and groaned beneath her weight. Edith was right. She had to do it herself. She was acting like a silly girl. She spat again, and got up and went to the bathroom to fix herself up.

Standing before the mirror she stared at her reflection, studied the lines of her face in ways she hadn't done since Eljin died nearly thirty years ago, studied herself as a woman. The pretty blue eyes Eljin had loved so much were still blue enough. Lilac blue, he told her once. She'd laughed and had to tell him Lilacs weren't blue. He'd laughed too. Then he kissed her and brought her Lilacs every anniversary for eleven years. Nobody brought her Lilacs anymore. And nobody kissed her. She grunted and spat into the sink.

"Shit."

She pushed a strand of coarse gray hair off her broad forehead and tucked it behind her ear. Had that many years gone by? She wished she had some makeup or something, not that she'd ever been much good putting that stuff on.

She stepped back and straightened her dress. Once white with a busy floral print, it was mostly faded to gray now, the flowers long since past the springtime brilliance of younger days. Right dingy, she figured. Still, she pulled it down, straightening it round her thick hips and lining up the front to best amplify her titanic bosom. She stared at herself and spat again. Hope he likes big women.

She returned to her seat across from Edith. "Well, how do I look?"

"Same as when you went in."

Hilda spat again.

They sat and watched the band for another half hour, Hilda getting more and more nervous as the minutes went by. By the time the band stopped, Hilda was so agitated that her stomach made noise: one long growl, traversing the winding innards buried beneath the layer of gravy-grown belly fat, rumbled loud enough for Edith to hear from across the table and despite the low murmur of the modest crowd.

Hilda spat.

"Well," said Edith. "There he is at the bar. You gonna go talk to him or what?"

"Shit."

Edith laughed. "You're a piece of work, you know that?"

Hilda ran her fingers down the corners of her mouth as if stroking a beard. "I'm fixin' too. Just figuring what I'm gonna say."

"Start with 'hello' and maybe 'your music is great,' see where that gets you."

Hilda spat again.

"You sure I look alright?"

"You look fine. Go already."

Hilda worked the wad of Red Man in her cheek furiously with her molars, grinding juice out of it like a chewed-on oil can. She sent another jet of brown through the yawning brass mouth of the spittoon. "I can't do it."

Edith watched her for a time, her jaw moving back and forth, lips pursed and her left eye squinting some. Wasn't much she could say.

The house band came on to replace the banjo man and his group. Hilda slumped in her chair pushing a packet of sugar around the table with a thick forefinger.

Every so often she'd look up and watch the banjo man visiting with patrons at the bar or bobbing to the sounds of the local house band. She thought it was noble and beautiful that a man so capable of magic like he was could appreciate the sounds of these homegrown boys. Showed his makings on the inside. Genuine.

She spat and went back to pushing the sugar packet around.

When the house band took its first break, Anders Jackson, a great hulk of a man, a steer wrestler and the guitar player for the local group, headed for the bar, moving through the sparse crowd with too wide smiles and touching frequently the wide black hat he wore, making sure it was pressed down tight and the secret of an encroaching bald spot only his to keep. He ordered a bottle and commenced to drinking heavily.

Hilda watched Anders settle in to his bottle at the bar. Having taught him when he was in third grade, she'd known then what kind of man he'd grow up to be. She watched him eyeballing the elegant banjo man with jealousy in his eyes. Hilda shook her head and, with a glance at Edith, pointed with her chin.

Edith saw the inevitable shaping up too, and she sighed in that exasperated way people do when some things can't be helped.

Anders took the bottle with him back onstage and nursed it steadily over the course of the band's next set, tilting it up between songs and chugging it while the two dim stage lights reflected off the glass and the bubbles rose noisily inside, the gurgling broadcast over the microphone and garnering chuckles from the crowd. Some of them anyway. By the time the band's next break came, Anders was wobbling some.

He put the empty bottle back on the bar and ordered another. He was really eyeballing the banjo man this time. Even the banjo man noticed it and tried to look away, which of course pulled Anders to him like the scent of chickens draws a fox.

"What you looking at banjo man?" Anders said in a voice that was thick with whiskey and misshapen with a snarl.

The banjo man, unable to ignore the brute before him, was forced to look up. Hilda could tell he was intimidated as hell. Anders leaned over him and ground him down with his gaze, causing him to wilt like a flower under an evil heat.

Hilda felt heat rising of her own. Edith reached a hand out and tried to hold her back. "No," she said, but she was too late.

The sound of Hilda's chair hitting the wall and tumbling to the floor made both Anders and the banjo man look toward her. She stormed across the room and grabbed Anders by the shirt front, spinning him to face her and shoving his back against the bar. "Anders Jackson, if you don't stop right goddamn now I will beat you till you bleed. You hear me, boy?"

Ander's eyes went wide. Fury flared in his face and his body swelled with ignited rage.

But somehow Hilda swelled more. She gripped him tight, his shirt wadding and popping a button in the vice of her powerful fist. She leaned into him, her eyes narrow and earnest, and she pinned him with a look of such wrath that his mouth fell open even as he tried to find the nerve to strike.

"Do it," she said, eyes narrow as she pushed her face forward right at him. "Do it!"

He seemed to teeter, a great boulder wobbling on the brink of some terrible fall. But he settled back on his heels, glaring at her with hatred before pushing past her and out of the bar with a "Fuck you" for everyone in the room.

A few moments passed in hushed silence, but finally the Busted Jug's quiet clamor returned to normal again. Hilda turned to face the banjo man. At least she was up here now.

But she could see his shame. It blossomed red on his face like an opening rose of self-reproach, the dawning recognition of a man whose masculinity is lost. She saw it and watched it spread all the way to his ears, saw it and realized with horror what she had done.

"No, no," she started to say, and her words clamored for grip. Embarrassment filled him, drooped him at the shoulders and the mouth like a tent that's lost its poles. He mumbled something, faked a smile, limp and flitting, then left through the same door Anders had, leaving her to turn and watch him go. She followed him with her eyes all the way out the door, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps, attempts to fill lungs that were flooding with helplessness instead. How could she be so stupid?

When the door closed behind the banjo man, she turned towards the wall, shaking, her whole body one great tremor rising. She saw the jukebox sitting there, shining and blinking its stupid lights, filled with mockery and its stacks of musical ghosts. She kicked it in. Kicked in the whole front of that juke box with a heavy booted foot, her leg pumping into it like a diesel piston and sending bits of shattered plastic and paint chips skittering across the floor. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," she yelled, and kept yelling until her rage finally turned to acid tears and the acceptance of a lonely truth.

The other patrons could only stand and watch. Even Edith did not dare to intervene.

Eventually Hilda stopped kicking and stood staring blankly at the wall again, fighting for calm. She closed her eyes and willed the tears to stop. Once they had, she wiped them from her cheeks with the backs of her hands.

"Fuck it," she said. Then she went away.

About the Author

John Daulton is a novelist best known for his bestselling science fiction and fantasy series _The Galactic Mage_ , but he does, from time to time, make forays into literary fiction and short stories like he has done with "Hilda's Song." For more information or to find his other work, visit his website at http://DaultonBooks.com.

# 13 The High Road to the Mountain Gods

**B y Jacques Antoine**

### 1. Sonam and the Bullies

When she first arrived in Kathmandu, the summer after graduating high school, Emily stayed in a little guesthouse off Gangalal Road, near the river. In those days, her interest lay further east, in the Pashupati temple by the airport. At three miles or so, the run directly there was not enough exercise. A zigzag route through the streets made it much more satisfying.

The morning air always felt big with expectation of the day to come—the sights and sounds of a living city, brightly colored buildings and people, deliveries by bicycle and motor scooter weaving this way and that, children shrieking in the streets, tourists everywhere. "Surely Amaterasu will not find me here," she told herself when she first arrived. But under the guise of Pashupati, the lord of all living things, Vishnu spoke in her dreams with the shrill voice of the sun, the queen of heaven.

Raised in Hawaii and Virginia, Emily did not pray to the Shinto gods of her mother's native Japan, and did not know how to find the comfort of the Buddha. To be caught in the tension between two spiritual yearnings with no rituals to reconcile them was disorienting, to say the least. The dreams that disturbed her sleep proclaimed her the great-granddaughter of the goddess of the sun—she didn't bother about the precise number of generations standing between herself and Amaterasu. She simply thought of her as "Granny."

Her own reading, driven by spiritual turmoil, had reinforced what she felt deep inside. The great nature demons commanded the worship of our ancestors for millennia, until a more spiritually abstracted faith supplanted them, no longer focused on appeasing the personalities who controlled the bounty of the harvest and the turning of the seasons, weighing instead the contents of our hearts. The process was strikingly similar in Europe, Africa and Asia, in each case working through one or another paradoxically historical figure to mediate for us with an increasingly distant divinity. The Buddha was one of these.

But the Buddhism of Japan felt to Emily like too stark a contrast to the demands Granny made on her. She craved mediation, and sought it in the foothills of the Himalayas, in the homeland of Siddhartha Gautam, in Nepal. Perhaps here, living among a people with a unique genius for assimilating opposites into an already crowded pantheon, she could finally find some relief, or at least understanding. Now her attention had shifted to a temple at the western end of the Kathmandu valley.

Her landlady, Sunita Kansakar, plump and self-satisfied, gray hair dyed black, watched as she went out early to run through the still dark streets of the city all the way to the outskirts. And she watched for her return an hour or so later, just as the sun peeked over the rooftop of the building next door.

"I'll never understand you, Michi- _chhori_ ," she said, using Emily's Japanese name, but appending a couple of affectionate syllables. "Why do you run so far? It looks exhausting. What is the point?"

"I find it restful. It helps me think."

"And what is so difficult to think about that you need to exhaust yourself over it?"

A fair question, Emily had to admit. And why come all this way to think? Mrs. Kansakar must expect to hear that a young man occupied her thoughts, someone like fourth year midshipman and soon-to-be Ensign Perry Hankinson back in Annapolis. But would she so gladly hear the rest of it, the violence that seemed always to stalk her, the deaths she felt somehow responsible for?

"You know, the usual things," she said.

And it would have been more or less true, or at least not utterly false, if the usual things included wondering if she could risk releasing her chromosomes into the human gene pool.

"Young people," Mrs. Kansakar said, with a snort. "Everything is always so dramatic."

Emily laughed. "Thank goodness I haven't disappointed you."

"Come, child, at least you can eat."

A couple of bowls of potato vegetable curry and a plate of _poori_ bread filled the little space between them on the kitchen table. Emily was the only guest she ate with, the only one up early enough to share a meal with... and the only one whose company she enjoyed enough. The breakfast for the rest of the guests sat steaming in a large pot on the stove next to a huge iron skillet ready to fry the rest of the _pooris_. It wouldn't be needed for at least another hour.

The orderliness of Mrs. Kansakar's kitchen soothed Emily on a deep and visceral level. Everything found its place here under her direction, legumes and root vegetables in cool bins below the counter, spices allotted temporary quarters in jars and boxes on the upper shelves, greens delivered just that morning while it was still dark heaped up next to the sink. Everything expressed equally Mrs. Kansakar's providential authority. She was the tutelary demon of this place.

"Can you teach me how to make curry?"

"Yes, certainly, child. But you'll have to give over your running to find the time in the morning," she said with evident satisfaction, and a sneaky little smile.

"Can I come with you to the market?"

Mrs. Kansakar nodded, eyeing her companion with fresh curiosity. How quickly Emily had found a place in the affections of an irascible old lady, one whose stern moral judgment and sharp tongue all her neighbors feared at least as much as they respected. Like the kindly old dragon-lady from a Russian novel, everyone tiptoed around her, apprehensive of the sarcasm that stung wherever it landed. A visit with her could loom over one's day like an ancient fortress on a hill. What must they think of her newfound protegé?

"Michi- _didi_ , Michi- _didi_ ," cried a young man in the burgundy and saffron colored robes of a monk, standing at the kitchen door. Clearly upset, practically trembling, he addressed her as "big sister."

"Michi- _didi_ , it's Sonam... he... he..."

"Nawang," Emily replied, glancing at the clock over the sink. "What's wrong with Sonam?"

Just then, a little boy peeked around the doorframe, dressed in a light gray uniform shirt and tie, wearing a torn blue sweater. A scrape on his chin and a purpling bruise under his eye told her all she needed to know.

"Here, _chhora_ , take that off," Mrs. Kansakar growled in the voice of maternal authority. "Let me see to it."

She gave his sweater a disapproving shake and took it into the next room.

"It wasn't my fault, Michi- _didi_ ," he pleaded.

"Another fight?" Emily said. "What was it this time, more name-calling?"

"They ganged up on him, Michi- _didi_ ," Nawang offered in Sonam's defense. "I know he didn't start it this time."

"Kaji and Gulu pushed me down in the mud," he said through a loud sob. Stains on his pants corroborated this element of his story. "They say I have no family, and I'm good for nothing."

"Is that when you hit them?" she asked, as she dabbed at his face with a damp cloth. "Now let's have those trousers."

"They hit me first," he protested, a little embarrassed by all the female attention. In the end, there was no way to avoid taking off his pants. "And they tore my sweater."

Emily smoothed out the little boy's hair and patted his cheek. Her hand seemed to have magical calming powers. He stopped sobbing. She brushed dirt off his pants.

"There. That will hold it for now," Mrs. Kansakar said, returning with the mended sweater. "Bring it back this afternoon and we can do something more permanent."

"You better get back, Nawang. I'll walk him to school," Emily said. "C'mon, Sonam, put these back on. Let's get moving."

"Do I have to go?" Sonam whimpered. "I'm not supposed to be late. I'll be in trouble."

"Oh, so you think the reward for fighting is a day off from school? Well, think again. Let's go, soldier."

After a smart tug on his shirt and belt, Emily pulled the sweater over his head wrangling each arm through a sleeve. With a hand on Sonam's shoulder, she guided him out the kitchen door. He went quietly.

Out on the street, the city now almost fully awake bustled with activity. Shops and businesses had begun to open their doors, carts loaded with produce rattled along the pavement, stands and barrows piled high with colored fabrics, flowers, fruit greeted them around every corner.

"You have to learn to control that temper, young man," she said.

"You won't tell Rinpoche, will you?"

"I won't have to, because you will."

Sonam's face fell at this news. In front of a shop window, Emily pulled the little boy aside and knelt down to look him directly in the eyes. Sorrow and pain made their home there, as well as fear, probably of Rinpoche's inevitable disappointment. But there was more, a deep resignation, as if the boy had convinced himself that happiness was not possible in this life. His father died when he was an infant, a gangster killed by rivals. Three years later, his mother, dying of consumption, persuaded the Rinpoche at one of the monasteries on the fringe of Swayambhunath, the Monkey Temple, to take him in. Now the monks were his only family. His eyes were dark, almost as dark as hers.

"Making a mistake isn't the worst thing in the world. But you can't learn from it if you conceal it from your friends."

"What did you do about bullies, Michi- _didi_? Didn't you fight back?"

Another fair question, she thought. She did fight back, eventually, and with terrible effect. She'd gazed into the eyes of too many dying men, hoping to ease their passage. But what consolation could she offer them, distracted as they were by the sudden finitude of their lives? "Can he sense that about me?" she wondered.

"I fought back when I had to, but never because someone called me a name. And nothing good ever came of it. Not fighting is always better. If only I had known."

"I want to be strong like you, _didi_. You're not scared of anything."

He was still small enough for her to carry, if only for a few steps. When she scooped him up and pressed her nose to his, something like joy flashed in his eyes. After a brief moment, he set his head on her shoulder.

"Okay, big guy, now you're too heavy for me," she said, putting him down. "Let's get walking."

Hand in hand, each filled with new resolution, they wended their way to a little Catholic school near the temple, stopping to collect his book bag from behind a trash bin where someone had thrown it. She had a word with the Sister in charge, then peeked into the classroom to let Sonam have one last glimpse of her.

* * *

**2. Rinpoche Tashi Meets a Deva**

High atop a hill in the middle of a large wooded park just west of the city, the _stupa_ of Swayambhunath projects skywards from the dome of the world. Central to the origin story of the Newari Buddhists, the main temple and grounds are replete with the colorful statuary and iconography of the Newars. Tourists climb the three hundred sixty five steps in a steady stream for the weary privilege of walking the circular path around the temple and spinning the prayer wheels.

Out of sight of the main temple, a Tibetan monastery, or _gompa_ , a relative newcomer in the Kathmandu valley, rests among the trees on the eastern end of the park. Here, Buddhists of a different stripe meditate peacefully under the guidance of a reincarnated spirit, or _tulku_ , an ancient _lama_ named Rinpoche Tashi. The day to day running of the monastery he leaves to the senior monks, as he spends his days in the company of a dwindling number of younger ones. But lately, one particular seeker who enjoyed the benefit of his attention had become the source of some consternation to some of the elders.

"Rinpoche-la, she is a dangerous distraction for the young men," Brother Pasang pleaded. "She dresses inappropriately. They can't help but notice."

"We have no place for _bikkhuni_ here," Brother Norbu added, using the Sanskrit word for a female monk. "Can't we just send her to the Newars? They are able to accommodate her, and she can meditate with them in peace."

"And is she even a seeker at all?" Pasang asked, almost as an after thought. "Has she even tried to purge herself of her body through yoga?"

"Have you not noticed the boy?" Rinpoche asked softly.

Pasang and Norbu looked puzzled, unable to fathom his meaning. What could a little orphan boy have to do with anything?

"Sonam feels it whenever he is around her." Rinpoche Tashi continued. "When she is away, he is ill at ease. When she is near, he is at peace."

"But she cannot guide him, can she?" brother Pasang asked. "Or the other young monks?"

"Can't we just help her find a _yidam_ to focus her meditations?" asked Norbu. "Isn't that what she came for? If she chooses a tutelary god, and we guide her initiation into the _mandala_ , she will be free to meditate anywhere."

"There is no _deva_ for her," Rinpoche said, using the Sanskrit term for god or demon.

The monks looked stunned by this pronouncement. If there is no _istadeva_ for her...

"Rinpoche-la, are you saying...," Pasang began.

"Yes, she is herself a _deva_."

It took a moment for this thought to fully sink in. Norbu and Pasang knew the holy books spoke of such things, that _devas_ walk the earth, like _bodhisattvas_ only much more powerful, and perhaps even dangerous. But those stories always seemed like allegories, or infinitely distant possibilities. Neither of them ever thought to encounter one in person. Can Rinpoche be serious? Can this girl really be a _deva_?

"Then what can we possibly do for her, Rinpoche?" Brother Norbu finally recovered enough self-possession to ask.

"That may become clear in time, as well as what she may be able to do for Sonam."

The tall trees cast long shadows across the monastery courtyard by the time Emily arrived in the cool of the late afternoon. Rinpoche waited for her by himself, sitting in the grass under a banyan tree.

"Welcome, Michi- _chhori_. Sit with me."

"Thank you, Rinpoche Tashi."

He spoke just enough English that, with the smattering of Nepali she had learned from Mrs. Kansakar, they could communicate.

"Sonam told me about this morning. That was a kindness you did for him."

"I'm afraid it's my fault, his fighting."

Weeks earlier, in her very first conversations with Rinpoche, Emily had recounted her meditative visions to him. She described the forest and the meadow she walks through, the stream she follows back to the waterfall, and how the cave she finds there carries her down to the bottom of the world. She also told him about the voice of the goddess of the sun and the god of sea and storm, and the sword of fire they once sent to her. He reflected on those conversations now.

"You are a fierce warrior, Michi- _chhori_ ," he said. "You have seen men die."

She nodded.

"And you have taken the lives of men, too?"

"Yes, Rinpoche."

"You suspect Sonam is influenced by the spirit within you."

She couldn't hold back a tear trembling in her eye. It rolled down her cheek and she wiped it away.

"Yes. When he asks, I tell him that fighting never solves anything. Today, he asked me if I ever fought a bully, and I didn't know how to answer. My father taught me it is right to fight only to protect someone else. Now I no longer care when fighting is right, but only when it is good. It is never good."

"You are wise, Michi- _san_ ," he replied, looking for a familiar Japanese phrase to express his respect for her.

"If he feels the spirit in me and is guided by that, then I should leave."

"He is not the only one. Many of the young monks worship you inadvertently, thinking they follow an _istadeva_."

"Is that what they're doing? I have noticed something peculiar, a feeling, I suppose, when I'm around them."

"I imagine it feels very familiar," Rinpoche said.

"My sensei taught me a saying of a Japanese monk, Takuan Soho, that the true master cannot know friendship. I'm afraid it might be true for me."

Rinpoche saw how she trembled as she mentioned her fear, and smiled to comfort her.

"I know this saying. It is from a little book called _Taia-ki_. What do you think Takuan meant?" he asked.

"I used to think he meant it would be too dangerous for anyone to be my friend. Now I worry that the people who think they are my friends are like the monks here. They are influenced by my _chi_ without realizing it," she said, using the Chinese term out of habit. "That is not real friendship."

"Again, you are wise, Michi- _san_. Takuan was writing for warriors, and explaining how the mastery they sought was dangerous. But a second meaning, referring to a second kind of mastery is implicit, just as you thought."

"Then is there no hope of friendship for me, Rinpoche?"

"There is a third meaning hidden in Takuan's saying, and a third form of mastery."

Emily sat quietly for a few moments pondering Rinpoche's suggestion. He watched her carefully and felt the warm glow of her spirit. "How strange," he thought, "for an old ascetic to find her so intoxicating. Norbu and Pasang are not wrong to be worried."

"Friendship is a form of suffering and bondage to the cycle of cares about life and death. That's it, isn't it?" she asked.

"Friendship is only an affectation of the individual self," he said. "The truest master leaves that self and its bonds of friendship behind."

"I don't think I have the strength to do that. I long for companionship, and when I open myself to others I find its consolation wherever I go."

"You are strong enough, Michi- _chhori_. But you have other tasks to complete before you take that path. Sonam still needs you."

"How can he find peace as long as I'm here? And what about the other monks?"

"They are old enough to overcome a distraction on their own. But the boy will never know peace if you leave now. There is one last lesson he must learn from you."

"Can you tell me what it is?" she asked. He shook his head slowly. "Isn't there any lesson you have for me, Rinpoche?"

"I cannot be your guru, Michi- _sama_. You do not need my help finding a tutelary divinity."

This time Emily shook her head.

"I don't understand, Rinpoche."

"The voice who speaks in your dreams is not just any nature demon. It is your voice. You are the god of your dreams."

"That's just what Sensei tells me," she said with a laugh. "But I don't think you mean it the way he does."

"The Hindus might mistake you for Surya, or Agni, or perhaps Indra, if they could see inside your dreams. Maybe even Kali. Of course, Krishna would fit best of all. But those _devas_ are still trapped in the cycle of birth and death. They, too, must be left behind eventually."

"I came here to find a way past the violence of my life, but..."

"I know, Michi- _chhori_. When the time is right, you will find that path, and you will be your own _istadeva_. But it is easy to see that the way of the warrior still beckons to you. You may need to follow it, at least for a little longer."

### 3. Asan Chowk

Breakfast eaten, the kitchen cleared and made ready for the next meal, the other guests ushered out of the house for a day of touring, Emily and Mrs. Kansakar finally had the morning to themselves.

The fading measures of a light rain tapped out a lazy _tandava_ of _Shiva Nataraja_ , the lord of the dance, against the ornate façade of the second floor balcony. Emily leaned across the railing to take the temperature of the sky and decided to put a denim jacket over a peach colored blouse. Mrs. Kansakar called up to her from the sidewalk.

"Hurry yourself, child, while we have a break in the clouds."

"Coming," Emily sang out.

She peeked once more over the railing and smiled down at Mrs. Kansakar's outfit, a traditional green sari with gold embroidery draped over a pale blue _choli_ and orange skirt. The _choli_ was short enough to allow the slightest glimpse of a plump belly button.

"You didn't tell me this was a fancy dress occasion," she said in a teasing voice as she stepped through the front door.

"Perhaps we need to find you some better clothes while we're out."

The walk to _Asan Chowk_ wound through the side streets of Bangemudha, where brick and wood houses crowded the lanes, expanding with each story until in some cases they practically touched overhead. Old men sat in doorways, placidly observing the foot traffic, apparently waiting for the moment when a witticism formulated years earlier might become relevant to the scene unfolding before their eyes.

A wild-eyed man in once brightly colored rags leapt into the street to accost Emily, chattering out words she could not understand. He was so caked in mud and dust as to render him unrecognizable even to his closest relatives. Mrs. Kansakar stepped in front, holding both hands together under her nose and bowing her head politely. She pressed a small brass coin into his hands and said what sounded to Emily like a prayer. Apparently satisfied, or at least distracted, the mud-covered man bared what few teeth he had left and scurried off laughing. Emily turned to Mrs. Kansakar with a quizzical look on her face.

"A holy man?" she asked.

"Yes, just like the lamas you run off to see everyday," Mrs. Kansakar replied.

"You disapprove of them?"

"There is so much else to see in the world, child, so much to do. What a pity to waste such beauty on men like that."

Located at the intersection of two ancient trade routes connecting India and Tibet, legend says the _chowk_ sprang up on the spot where a fish fell from the sky. Today the market spreads out along the six roads that meet in one little square, crowded with shops and street vendors, and almost as many shrines as storefronts including, of course, a shrine to the fish.

Mrs. Kansakar steered Emily into a little shop on Botahity Road. A sign over the door gleamed with ornate gold lettering almost none of which Emily could read, just a name in English letters: Ranjeet's. Brightly colored fabrics hung from high shelves and draped casually in front of all the windows. Clothing hung from circular racks around the main room, folded shirts and tunics filled lower shelves along all the walls. The bell jingled as the door closed behind them and the owner, Mrs. Ranjeet, invisible at first, called out from behind a stack of fabrics on a counter in the back.

"Welcome, welcome. I'll be with you straight away."

A moment later she squeezed out from behind the counter, long white hair pulled back into a bun and somewhat smaller than Mrs. Kansakar, but in roughly similar dimensions. She wore a deep blue tunic with gold embroidery that stretched almost to her knees, and black pants hung down to her ankles.

"Ah, Sunita-didi," she exclaimed, hands clasped before her face. "It's been so long."

Mrs. Kansakar nodded and grunted.

"Manisha- _bahini_ , let me introduce my house guest, Michiko."

Mrs. Ranjeet smiled and bowed her head, but looking her up and down the whole time, as if she were measuring her for a dress. Emily smiled uncomfortably. The two older women chatted, apparently amiably, in Nepali, or perhaps Hindi, or maybe some other tongue altogether. They spoke too quickly for Emily even to identify the language, much less what they might be saying. Judging from the frequency with which they glanced in her direction, she could guess the topic of discussion. Emily cleared her throat loudly.

"I'm so sorry," Mrs. Ranjeet offered politely.

"I'm sure you want to know what we were talking about," Mrs. Kansakar said.

"Oh, don't worry about me," Emily said."

"Mrs. Ranjeet thinks you are too skinny, and so do I."

"I've heard that before. But it's not like I don't eat."

"That's true," Mrs. Kansakar said with a conciliatory nod. "But all that running and exercise. It's not healthy."

She turned to Mrs. Ranjeet, muttered a few clipped, incomprehensible phrases, and smiled.

"Come here, child," Mrs. Ranjeet said, taking her hand and leading her into a tiny backroom. "I have just the thing for you."

Before she quite knew what was happening, the two old ladies had her in a pair of lime green pants and a long peach colored _kurtha_ , or tunic. They bickered over the color of the shawl to drape over her shoulders while Emily tapped a foot. Another quick change had her in a purple _choli_ and pale blue pants wrapped up in a saffron sari. Both women giggled and clucked over her. Perhaps they'd just discovered that being skinny wasn't so bad after all. At least it was easy to get her in and out of clothes.

"Excuse me, guys," Emily said, trying to get their attention. "This is wound a little too tight."

"Nonsense," Mrs. Kansakar snorted. "You'll get used to it."

"She's so tall," Mrs. Ranjeet whispered. "Everything looks good on her."

"Shhh," hushed Mrs. Kansakar. "She'll get a swelled head. She's hard enough to manage as it is."

Finally, they threw her into a broadly pleated skirt with an ornate paisley pattern and a short half-tunic on top. She did a half twirl and watched as the skirt belled out.

"I like this," she said. "Lots of room to move."

Emily put her foot down about the sari. She couldn't imagine going through a day in an outfit that confining. How would she defend herself? It was an old habit of thinking. So much for choosing a different path, or for leaving behind her warrior self. What would Rinpoche think if he saw her now?

After everything had been tried on, refolded and put in one stack or another, all three women were exhausted. No saris, Emily had held firm. But everything else was an explosion of color: jewel tones, ruby red, lapis blue, emerald, and bright pastels, robin's egg blue, coral pink, lime green. "I won't be sneaking up on anyone in these," she mused.

A few feet away, the old women were holding hands and smiling at each other.

"Thank you, Manisha- _bahini_ ," Mrs. Kansakar said.

"Maybe she's not too skinny," her old friend said with a laugh. "Now I understand."

The women slipped again into another tongue she couldn't understand, obviously exceedingly pleased with themselves. Emily cleared her throat.

"How much is all this?" she asked, reaching into her pocket.

Mrs. Kansakar laughed out loud. Mrs. Ranjeet bowed her head to Emily with both hands pressed together. Then she reached up to place a hand on her cheek.

"It was so pleasant to meet you, _chhori_."

Out on the street, Mrs. Kansakar showed her the best spice shop. On another side street, fruit and vegetable stands crowded along the sidewalks under large umbrellas, produce bulging out of enormous, burlap-lined baskets. Potatoes, carrots, onions, garlic, several types of _khursani_ peppers, spinach, kale and mustard greens soon filled a large market bag.

"This way, child. We still need some bananas, a mango and beaten rice. It'll make a nice treat for Sonam after school."

"Who is that for?" Emily asked, pointing at a large pagoda-like structure with several stacked roofs, topped by a crescent moon. The entire upper structure was wrapped in what looked like an immense fish net.

"The temple of the goddess of food," Mrs. Kansakar said with a snort.

"And those two?"

She tipped her head toward two more structures on the north side of the square.

"The tall one honors Ganesh. The little one is for Narayan, or Vishnu."

"Ooh, let's go see," Emily cried out, tugging on her benefactor's arm.

After some resistance, a frown and some loud grumbling, Mrs. Kansakar allowed herself to be led to the entrance of the Ganesh shrine. A golden doorway overhung with three large bells faced them, topped by a large, semi-circular medallion depicting the elephant-headed god surrounded by demons and assorted serpents. The temple was too small for visitors to enter. One could only admire the statues inside from the street.

"Why does he only have one tusk?" Emily asked.

"Oh, who knows why people imagine him in any particular way?"

Emily looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh, why must you be so persistent, Michi- _chhori_?... Fine, he is the god of obstacles. Perhaps his tusk was an obstacle."

"Is that the best you can do?" Emily replied, with her arms folded.

"Okay, if you must know, my father liked to say he broke it off himself when he needed a pen."

"A pen?"

Emily was hardly satisfied by this account. Mrs. Kansakar shrugged.

"That's the story. He was writing down a poem and his pen broke. He didn't want to miss a single verse, so he broke off the tusk and dipped it in the inkwell."

"Must have been quite a poem."

"I suppose, if you care for that sort of thing. The poem is called the Mahabharata." Emily finally seemed satisfied. "Let's go home, child. We have work to do."

### 4. Meditating with the Monks

Norbu and Pasang were resistant to the idea. Rinpoche insisted on including her in a special meeting... as if she were actually one of the monks, and he expected the senior monks to meditate with her! What could he hope to accomplish?

Late that afternoon, Norbu met her at the gate to the outer courtyard. She arrived dressed like a Newari market woman, in tunic, pants and shawl. At least that was better than the running suit or blue jeans she usually wore. He showed her into the central hall, where Rinpoche and several monks were waiting.

Rinpoche's instructions to the monks: be open to suggestion. To the girl, he said: "Slow your breathing." And then they sat, quietly, eyes closed or unfocused, breathing, all around the room. She sat in one corner, as far away from the rest of them as she could get. Perhaps she sensed their disapproval.

The experience turned out to be quite peculiar, and utterly new. For Norbu, the goal in meditation had always been to leave himself behind, not to carry corporeal images with him, to transcend the usual shapes of sensory experience. But now he noticed the tug of a very particular sensation. Could this be what Rinpoche had in mind?

He felt the sun on his cheek, and then the shade. The clarity of the sensations was startling. Cool, crisp dirt and fallen leaves crinkled under his feet. Water sounded in the distance—a river, or a waterfall?—he followed the path toward a light up ahead. Tall trees arched overhead, forming a canopy at least thirty feet up. Smaller trees, tropical and lush, palm fronds and oversized ferns reached out to him through the leopard shade. The forest thinned out ahead and he saw the gleam of a clearing through the last few branches. Tall grass, with butterflies and other flying things dancing in the sunlight, the invitation was irresistible. He pushed his way out of the shade.

He wasn't alone. He couldn't see the others, but he heard voices murmuring, lots of voices. And then he saw her. She was so bright he didn't exactly know how he recognized her. Looking at her was like looking at the sun, searing and yet somehow not painful. Two dark spots in the center of the fire beckoned to him. Eyes? They glanced to the side. He followed where she led, to a stream along which a footpath meandered back across the meadow to the waterfall that was its source.

He couldn't see the top through the mist that formed naturally around so much falling water. It might as well have been as high as the sky. The vertical river crashed down with a roar. When she stepped behind the curtain of water on one side onto a rocky ledge, he followed. The air behind the falls was cool, humid, dark. He saw her up ahead, glancing back at him meaningfully, before she disappeared into what looked like a hole in the cliff face.

Bright as she was, when he got to the mouth of the cave, no light could be seen. A blast of hot air pushed him back as he tried to enter, but he pressed on through. Perhaps this is what Rinpoche meant. Is he here, too? The floor fell away beneath him with each step, and he began to move faster and faster, until he was running out of control. Soon he was in free fall, hurtling toward what seemed like the bottom of the world.

Dark as coal at first, he noticed a tiny patch of faint lights in the distance. He seemed to be accelerating toward them at great speed. As the cave narrowed, the pressure grew enormously, threatening to crush him. Breathing would require an enormous effort. Better not to breathe at all.

Just as the weight pressing on him threatened to become unbearable, he felt himself propelled out the other end, as if he'd been spit out of the world like a watermelon seed. Hurtling now through endless space, surrounded by a billion lights, as many as the stars in the sky, he no longer felt himself anywhere. The cosmos spread out in all directions and he'd been dissolved into it, along with all the other voices he heard in the meadow. But for the fact that he was now everywhere at once, he'd have felt adrift in the enormity of infinite space.

Eventually, he found that he could see the whole from a single point of view, a cloud among the stars, perhaps a nebula like the one in the belt of Orion. He saw a vast wheel of light, composed of so many smaller lights, turning slowly on its axis. And further in the distance, more wheels turning each in their own time, perhaps as many wheels as there were stars.

The cloud from which he looked out on the cosmos grew brighter and hotter, until it seemed to be gathering itself for some new thing. The brightness all but coalesced into a single point, and then burst from the cloud, moving at tremendous speed in a vast, gradual arc, all the while turning on its own axis. Was that her? Or was it a completely new birth? He watched as she found a place among all the other wheels of light.

Norbu felt the breath move into his lungs, filling him up, expanding his chest, pressing against the edges of the world. As the breath left him, the cloud seemed to dissipate and all the lights rushed away into an even greater distance. Soon it was pitch black, no light at all. The air was cool and quiet. He felt the stone tile of the floor, and heard the breathing of the other monks. When he glanced around the room, he saw the look of astonishment on the faces of the other monks that he assumed must also be scorched into his.

How strange her meditations must be. No transcendence. She doesn't leave the material world behind, but somehow manages to leave herself behind to become one with the whole. Is this what it means to be a _deva_? The power he felt inside her, if that's really where he had been, it was immense, as big as the world itself.

The girl was nowhere to be seen. And Rinpoche was gone, too. He scrambled to his feet.

"Pasang, where are they? Where's Rinpoche?"

The other monks looked around the room nervously. Where had they gone?

"Please, stay here, Rinpoche," Emily said. "Let me go by myself."

"No, Michi- _chhori_. I will come with you."

"We must hurry, please, Rinpoche- _la_ ," Nawang said, with his hands pressed together in front of his face and his voice trembling. "They're gangsters. They might hurt Sonam."

"We shall hire a taxi," Rinpoche said.

"But you don't carry money, Rinpoche," said Nawang. "And I have none."

"I have money," Emily said, now resigned to bringing the Tulku to a meeting whose unknown dangers she would prefer to face by herself. "Let's go."

Taxis were scarce in the early evening in Swayambhu, but Nawang spotted a tiny green Maruti a block away. By the time Rinpoche and Emily caught up, she could see it was too small for all three of them, especially if they meant to bring Sonam back in the same car.

The sight of an ancient monk approaching his taxi made the driver shudder. He jumped out, pressed his hands together and bowed to Rinpoche, the whole time apparently trying to tell him not to get in. The old man waved him off and squeezed himself into the back, while Nawang gave him a destination. Emily understood nothing of what was said, except "eight hundred rupees."

"Who are we going to see, Nawang?" she asked.

"The Manange. They're the one's who took Sonam away. Dangerous people, Michi- _didi_. I should come to make sure nothing happens to Rinpoche- _la_."

"Don't worry. I'll see to that. Is it far?"

"Twenty minutes," the driver interjected.

Emily smiled at that estimate. She learned on her first day in Kathmandu that everything was always twenty minutes away. She turned to the driver.

"Eight hundred rupees. But you wait there. Another thousand rupees to bring us back."

He grinned and nodded as she climbed into the back seat with Rinpoche. The vinyl upholstery was shredded and repaired here and there with what looked like denim iron-on patches. As if to balance out the aesthetics of the interior, the side and rear windows were festooned with lace and images of the Buddha.

"Who are the Manange?" she asked, as they pulled away from the curb.

"Tibetans," the driver called out from the front.

"They are Tamang or Gurung people," Rinpoche corrected him for her benefit. "They came to Lhasa from Burma several generations ago. When the Chinese came, they moved south. Manange is their language. There are very few of them left."

Emily could see by the fading light of the evening that they were entering a scrubbier, less developed part of the Kathmandu valley. Gone were the elegant temples with their high-flying _stupas_. No more of the colorful, almost whimsical ornamentation on the side of every building. The shacks and shanties she saw passing by offered nothing to celebrate in the lives of the people who lived there.

"The Tibetan gangs are all working for the Chinese," the driver barked over his shoulder as if he were a welcome part of their conversation. "Before the end of the monarchy, the Maoists recruited young men from those gangs. Now all the political parties pay them to cause trouble."

"Ignore him," Rinpoche said. "He doesn't know what he's saying."

"What makes you say that?" Emily asked.

"The Manange aren't Tibetan, and they hate the Chinese."

The car bucketed in and out of potholes, swerved around the largest ones, stopped occasionally for livestock wandering in the street, until some forty or so minutes later, the driver pulled to a stop and announced their arrival. It took a moment for Rinpoche to extricate himself from the back seat. Emily handed the driver three hundred rupees.

"Wait here," she said.

The driver looked at the bills in his hand and leaned his head out the window to protest. Emily froze him with a stern look and he sat back with a scowl. It wasn't hard to see the reason for his irritation. Even in the semi-darkness, the neighborhood appeared less than welcoming. Bored young men huddled in a doorway on one side of the street where several buildings leaned against each other for support. Resentful women peered out of doorways and windows. A sturdy, squat cinder block building on the corner seemed to offer the adjacent rickety architecture an anchor to the sidewalk. A sign on the front gave the impression it might be a shop, though Emily could read none of the characters. Limited experience suggested that whatever there was these people needed to get through the day was likely to be found in there.

Crude wooden fencing on the other side of the street hinted at an empty lot, or perhaps some low buildings too decrepit to provide steady shelter.

"They must be in there," Rinpoche said, pointing to the fence.

Emily was unconvinced, though she had no better idea of where to begin looking for the boy. On the off chance he might hear, she called his name over the fence. The air hung still and silent. She called again, louder. Still no response.

"Sonam," she cried out once more.

Muffled noises and the sound of running feet echoed from behind the fence. A door slammed.

"Wait here by the car, Rinpoche," she said.

No gate or entrance, not even a missing plank, was visible in the fence. Between a couple of boards a few feet away, a slight gap and a few protruding nails caught her eye. A ragged edge skinned her knuckle as she tore one of the boards away. Two more came away more easily now that the gap was wide. She stepped through. Several small buildings lay scattered around the yard, as well as a couple of small trucks. In the dim light, she could make out a few figures in the distance, standing in front of the largest of the buildings, a low lying brick and wood structure with no windows on the side facing her. Light escaped through a few cracks in the siding on one edge.

As she walked toward the men, she heard footsteps behind her. When she turned, Rinpoche looked up at her and said, "We will go together, Michi- _chhori_." She reached back to help him over some debris in the yard.

"What a pair we make," she thought. "A wizened old man and a foreign girl who doesn't even speak the language. I'm sure they'll be impressed."

At first, the men at the door to the shack looked like they wanted to shoo them away. But a closer look at the old man seemed to bring a change of heart. They bowed, hands pressed together, and said something to him that she didn't understand. The only word she caught in his reply was "Sonam." They grunted and ushered Rinpoche in through a rough-hewn wooden door. When she moved to follow, the men stepped across to block her, but the expression in her eyes startled them, and they let her push through to the door.

A dozen or so faces looked up at her from around the sparsely furnished room. A bare bulb hanging from the ceiling provided the only light. They were mainly young men, sallow skin still smooth, probably teenagers like her. She detected no authority in their eyes, nothing to indicate aggression either, just the usual adolescent mixture of fear and confidence—and no sign of Sonam anywhere.

Sitting around a makeshift table off to one side, three older men, possibly in their thirties, paid her no mind. Rinpoche spoke a few words to them, but they dismissed him with a wave. Emily cleared her throat to get their attention. In their eyes she saw what she was looking for, the disdain that usually accompanies leadership in a criminal gang.

"I'm here for Sonam," she said. "Where is he?"

"He is not your concern," one of them finally snarled in heavily accented English, after an uncomfortable silence.

"Sonam is coming with me."

Something in her voice, her firmness perhaps, or the intensity of her passion, seemed to catch their attention. The one whose demeanor most commanded deference from the rest stood to face her.

"What is the boy to you?" he asked.

"You should ask him that."

"I am Deepak. What is your name?"

"Tenno Michiko," Emily replied.

"Just because you are Mongol does not make you Manange. Sonam is one of us. His father was my friend. His son belongs to us."

A door across the room opened and a young woman entered holding a groggy Sonam by the hand. He must have been napping. In a single glance, Emily took in the resemblance, the same sallow, oval face and curly black hair, the same brown almond eyes. Sonam was unmistakably one of them. No wonder they want him. The thought flashed across her mind that he might really be better off with his own people.

With a glance at Rinpoche, Emily wondered what she could say that would move them. The old man nodded to her meaningfully.

"His mother left him with Rinpoche," she said. "She wanted a different life for her son."

"What a Sherpa girl might have wanted means nothing to us. The boy is Manange. He will stay with us."

Sonam shook off the last shreds of sleep and recognized her.

"Michi- _didi_ ," he cried out, and ran to her.

Emily bent down and scooped the boy up in her arms. He rubbed his cheek against hers.

"I'm here for you, Sonam," she whispered.

"Are we going home now?"

"If that's what you want," Emily replied, staring intently at Deepak. "I will honor his mother's wishes," she said.

"Are you going to protect him?" Deepak asked. "Do you even know who the boys who bully him at school are?"

She shook her head.

"They are the little brothers of the gangsters who killed his father, Tibetans and Sherpas. The monks didn't tell you that, did they?"

Emily turned a searching glance on Rinpoche.

"It makes no difference, Michi- _chhori_ ," he said. "His mother brought him to us."

"They will never leave him alone," Deepak said. "And when he's old enough, they'll kill him. He is safe with us."

Sonam's little arms clung tightly around her neck. She felt his chest heave with a sob. Somehow she had become the arbiter of his fate, and the puzzle of what to do with him was fast becoming insoluble. Only one place offered her any promise of clarity.

Emily closed her eyes and listened to the air enter her chest and then slowly leak out. In and out, slowly at first, and then even slower, her breath pressed outward against the walls of the room, and then came seeping back to her. She heard the breathing of the others, all of them, some frantic, anxious, worried, one resolute: Deepak. Rinpoche's chest hardly moved at all, as if he were barely even there. Only one chest really mattered, the one pressed against hers.

Sonam's breath was hectic at first, then gradually calmer until he found the rhythm of her breathing. She could feel his heart beating against hers, almost hear the blood sloshing in his veins. The warmth of an innocent heart flooded her body. In that moment, she saw what she must do.

"I am here for Sonam. We will honor his mother's wishes."

"And if the Sherpas take him?"

"Then I will get him back."

"And after you leave, what then?"

"After I go, that duty falls to you, I suppose. But the boy will stay at the monastery."

Deepak stepped forward and stared into Emily's black eyes, thinking perhaps to test the extent of her resolve. What would he find there? Perhaps the same darkness everyone before him had seen, almost palpable, so placid, so clear, and yet at the very bottom so turbulent, a storm of sublime immensity. He stepped back, blinked once or twice, and nodded his acquiescence.

"As you wish, Tenno Michiko. But we will be watching."

Emily turned toward the door and led her little party back out to the taxi on the other side of the fence.

### 5. Yesh and the Mongol Girl

"Have you come to a decision, chhori?" Mrs. Kansakar inquired innocently over breakfast.

Steam from a large pot on the stove filled the kitchen with the smell of curry. Emily had made breakfast all week, but this morning, at least, she saw no raised eyebrow. She'd also heard of no further incidents at Sonam's school. The bullies seemed to have lost interest in him, and perhaps the Sherpa gang had, too. Other than Mrs. Ranjeet trying to fix her up with a grandson named Yesh Malla, no other dangers appeared on the horizon.

"I'm supposed to report in Annapolis at the end of next week," Emily replied.

"Is that what you want?"

"I think it may be for the best."

Mrs. Kansakar clicked her tongue and shook her head.

"What, can't you picture me as an officer?"

"Oh, child, there are so many better things I can picture for someone as pretty as you."

"Yeah, you and Mrs. Ranjeet."

"You could do worse, _chhori_. Yesh will be a good earner, and he's not bad-looking."

In the relative calm of the past couple of weeks—and she would not like to admit this to Mrs. Kansakar, for fear of encouraging the two old ladies—Emily had entertained the prospect of accepting Yesh, whom she had not actually met. So far, he was little more than an abstraction, but still intriguing. What shape might their lives together take? Could she be content as a shopkeeper's wife? Could he stomach the sort of choices she might prefer, left to her own devices?

More importantly, could she safely diffuse the mischief her grandfather (and her mother) may have wrought in her genes among these people dwelling at the top of the world? And if her genetic materials were not sufficiently diluted, if her warrior-spirit were transmitted in its full intensity down the generations, what might her descendants make of such an inheritance? Would they eventually seek dominion over the Earth from this little cul-de-sac in the Himalayas? And what would they be willing to do to achieve it?

A picture of her little ones, hundreds of them, thousands, charging into battle flashed before her mind, still children, armed with toys, and it brought a smile to her face. Their battle cry echoed in her ears: _Jaya_ _Mahakali_ —Glory to Kali. "Yes," she thought. "That's how they'd remember me, as the goddess of death."

The tone of the voices crying out to her changed under her mental gaze, deepening into the full-throated cry of mature young men and women. No longer fighting with toys, the scene in her imagination had become horrendous. A real battle now, not just child's play, fleeting glory to be won as death stalked gigantically among the warriors. They would fight and die, or live, but they'd never know peace. She would not be there to teach them anything about serenity.

A sudden chill shivered her whole body at the path her thoughts had taken. But did she need to pass her spirit on at all? Couldn't she simply arrange to be the last of her line? Perhaps that would be the wisest choice, though something inside her rebelled against it.

Almost against her will, she found herself thinking about Midshipman Hankinson, the young man who first suggested the Naval Academy to her. He planted the seed of an idea that military service might help shape the moods her extraordinary martial discipline tended to produce. He was no more prepared to marry Kali than Yesh could be, than anyone could be. But hadn't he caught a glimpse of what violence truly is, the violence that resides at the bottom of her heart, when he sparred with her? He'd tried to fight back as none of the other midshipmen had. Was there, perhaps, the tiniest spark of some warrior demon in him, something to carry him through the dark times that were sure to come if he allied himself to her?

"Has your family already arranged someone for you, _chhori_?" Mrs. Kansakar asked, after Emily took such a long time to reply.

"Arranged someone? Why would I let anyone arrange something like that?"

"Because your elders might be wiser than you in such things, child."

"I doubt that. Nobody knows my heart better than me."

"Of course not, but the heart is fickle, and marriage depends on other things, too."

How odd that Mrs. Kansakar's explanation of arranged marriage should seem so reasonable to Emily. That it did probably said more about the changing contents of her heart than about any supposed wisdom of the elders of her acquaintance. What did she know about love, after all?

Some of her new clothes had required alterations, and Mrs. Ranjeet sent word for them to come by in the afternoon for a final fitting. It all sounded rather suspicious, but she decided it was simpler just to go along, rather than spoil the old ladies' fun.

On the walk to _Asan Chowk_ , Mrs. Kansakar was slightly more officious than usual. Apparently, even the smallest details of Emily's gait required emendation.

"Don't slouch," she said. "Hold your head up, child. Shoulders back. Why do you place your feet down like that when you walk? Are you trying to sneak up on someone?"

"Just old habits, I guess."

"A woman can be a force in the world, if she simply presents herself in the right way. No slouching, no sneaking. When you're wearing your new clothes, take pride in yourself."

Emily couldn't help smiling at this last piece of advice. Mrs. Kansakar's sense of a woman's place was completely respectable, even admirable. But somehow, Emily couldn't help thinking that a little bit of sneaking might be more suitable to her own personality. She felt forceful enough as it was.

"I still like my old clothes."

"Don't be silly, child. We can give those old things to the poor. There's always a need."

Before Emily could protest, they'd arrived at the front door to the shop. The little bells jingled as they stepped inside. A plump, white-haired lady standing at the back counter haggled over the price of a shawl with Mrs. Ranjeet, who flashed a furtive little smile their way and sought to extricate herself from the negotiations. Try as she might, however, the customer was unmovable. Emily understood nothing of their conversation, but in the end the self-satisfied smile on the customer's face told Emily who had won.

"Come this way," Mrs. Ranjeet said, after all the formalities had been gone through. "I have something for you upstairs. Just let me lock up down here and I'll be right up."

Emily rolled her eyes as they climbed the back staircase. "Let's see who's waiting up here," she thought. A dark landing at the top, Mrs. Kansakar took a moment to find the doorknob. Mrs. Ranjeet's light and airy apartment smelled of cumin and sugar. The front room was sparsely furnished with a few caned chairs lined up neatly along one edge of a low table. Two tufted ottomans on either side of a cushioned armchair filled out the seating options. A short, stout statue of the elephant-headed god watched over the room from the far corner.

"You've been baking, Manisha," Mrs. Kansakar called out.

"Welcome, welcome," a sweet voice chirped from the kitchen. "Please make yourselves comfortable."

"Sabina- _bahini_ ," Mrs. Kansakar replied. "You're back. How is your mother-in-law?"

"Not well, I'm afraid. I'll be returning to her tomorrow. And who have we here?" she asked politely.

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Kansakar said, remembering her manners. "This is my houseguest, Michiko..."

"Please call me Emily. All my friends do."

"And this is Sabina Malla, Mrs. Ranjeet's daughter."

"Please, sit, while I bring the tea," Sabina said with a shake of her head.

When Mrs. Ranjeet finally came up the stairs, her daughter had some hushed words for her in the kitchen. Emily caught only a few bits and pieces that chanced to be in English.

" _Maa_ , this is who you want to introduce him to?" When her mother made no audible reply, Sabina continued. "I thought you wanted a Newar for him. She's not even Aryan. Do you really want your grandson to marry a Mongol?"

"So you don't like Mongols now?" Mrs. Ranjeet asked.

"Don't be ridiculous. You're the one who rejects all the girls he likes, and you know he's attracted to _them_. And she's so tall."

Mrs. Kansakar smiled nervously at Emily and tried to look like she heard nothing. Emily growled out a quiet "hmm" to let her know she wasn't fooled. Meanwhile, Mrs. Ranjeet tried to shush her daughter with a sharp whisper to no avail.

"Yes, she's pretty enough," Sabina hissed. "But aren't you the one who said she had to be Newar? And the blue jeans? You hate those. Don't deny it."

"We'll see to that in a little while."

A moment later, Sabina and her mother came out of the kitchen wearing unconvincingly broad smiles and carrying a large tea set and a tray full of little cakes.

"How delightful," Mrs. Kansakar gushed, trying to turn around an uncomfortable situation. "Here, _chhori_. Have a piece of spice cake."

Emily sipped tea and ate whatever was put in front of her. Gradually, afternoon turned into evening, and tea cakes gave way to more substantial fare. Before she even had time to register what was happening in the kitchen, Sabina brought a tray full of little bowls, some steaming, others cold. Plates of rice were handed around and bowls of a lentil stew called _dal_ , as well as what Emily assumed to be steamed kale. Best of all, she thought, were the spicy pickles Mrs. Kansakar called _aachar_.

"Do you eat meat?" Sabina asked.

When Emily nodded, she passed around a plate of dumplings. _Momo_ s, she called them.

"I thought you didn't eat beef," Emily asked after a bite.

"Don't worry, _chhori_ ," Mrs. Ranjeet said. "It's buff."

"She means it's buffalo meat," Sabina whispered.

Emily _was_ worried, of course, though not about what was in the _momos_. Mrs. Kansakar gave her one word of caution when she first arrived: don't touch food with your left hand. She supposed some important truth hid somewhere in the distinction between hands, though it seemed like an arbitrary abstraction at that precise moment. Still, it took a little bit of attention to avoid any manual inadvertence.

It was dusk before Mrs. Ranjeet remembered the fitting that provided the ostensible reason for this little get-together. It turned out to be nothing more than letting down the hems and taking in seams on a few pairs of pants. Emily was lankier and taller than the women these outfits were originally imagined for. A few chalk marks and some hand sewing later—Sabina turned out to be a speedy seamstress—and Emily had three very form-fitting outfits.

"You're so slender, _chhori_ ," Sabina clucked over her. "Don't you eat?"

"I eat," Emily protested. "You saw."

"She eats," Mrs. Kansakar chimed in. "It's all the running..."

Some rustling at the kitchen door announced the arrival everyone else had been waiting for. Emily heard Mrs. Ranjeet making a fuss in the next room.

" _Hajurama_..." she heard a man's voice call out.

"Oh, my dear boy," Mrs. Ranjeet said loudly. "Use English. We have a guest," she said not quietly enough.

"Again," he moaned. "Who is it this time? Not another market girl, I hope."

"Hush up, silly boy. Come meet her."

Overhearing this exchange didn't enhance anyone's comfort level, and certainly not Emily's. Once he saw her, however, Yesh looked more embarrassed than everyone else put together. After the introductions, and while he still had her hand, he leaned over and whispered: "I'm sorry about this."

Not particularly athletic, but tall and well-built—Emily sized him up. Brown aryan features, dark eyes and a sharp nose, his salient feature was a huge mane of wavy black hair hanging down below his shoulders. He wore it tied loosely behind his neck.

"Yesh," Sabina snarled. "What about that haircut you promised?"

"I'm sorry, Ama," he said to his mother. "There were just so many things to do this week."

"It's always something," Mrs. Ranjeet scolded.

"I like it," Emily said, though as soon as the words left her mouth it felt like she had intruded where she didn't belong. All three women turned to look at her, as if they'd just realized she was there. "It looks good," she added, sheepishly.

"Oh, I like this one," Yesh said. "Where'd you find her, Grandma?"

An hour of stiff conversation followed, in which Emily learned that he was only a year older than her, not yet twenty, taught maths at a nearby high school and awaited an unspecified, life-changing event. She could sympathize.

Yesh insisted on walking them home, once the dark of the evening had overtaken them. It was impossible to get a private moment with Emily in his grandmother's apartment. The dark streets of Bangemudha weren't much better with Mrs. Kansakar in tow, but the old lady was crafty enough to lag a few steps behind the young people, just enough space for them to make a plan.

"I've been visiting Ganesh temples," Emily said.

Have you been to Chobar?" Yesh asked. "It's beautiful, one of the largest temples anywhere, right on the river, just a few miles out of town. We can take a bus in the morning." By this point, he was simply gushing.

"We?"

He blushed, having been caught in his own enthusiasm. She'd go with him, of course, but not without putting him just a little off balance.

### 6. Amaterasu is not so easily evaded

Light and shadow flickered across her face and the cool air of the forest ruffled her hair as she walked along the familiar path. One foot in front of the other, heel aligned with toe, the dirt crinkled as she walked. Water burbled somewhere in the distance, tropical foliage brushed against her as she walked past, pushing forward to the light of a clearing that gleamed through the last few branches up ahead.

She knew this place, her place. Her father's spirit lived here. The meadow beckoned, bright with no light of its own. One step, two, three, and she felt the warmth of the sun shining all around her. But something was different this time. The light was hot, and growing hotter. The voice of the sun shrilled at her.

"The sword of the true master takes life when it is necessary, and gives life when it is good."

Emily recognized the words. They were from another saying of the Japanese monk, Takuan Soho. Her sensei taught it to her a few years earlier, but Rinpoche helped her understand it. She knew what came next: "The true master knows no friendship." Just as she heard herself shrieking out the last few words, the warmth of the sun became unbearably hot. Tears ran down her face.

"Please, Granny. You're hurting me!"

She felt herself being consumed by the fire, her skin boiling, about to be turned to ash. She would scream out in pain if she could, but the stench of burning flesh choked the sound off in her throat. And then it was dark.

She opened her eyes onto a pitch-black room on a moonless night. It was her room and her bed, she realized after a moment.

"What's the matter, child?" Mrs. Kansakar cooed from the door. And then the old woman was at her side, one hand caressing her face. "You must have had a nightmare."

"Yes," she replied in a groggy voice. "It was a bad dream." She turned her face away, uncertain whether Mrs. Kansakar would be able to see in her eyes the turmoil she felt in her heart.

"You gave me quite a fright, crying out like that. It's a good thing there are no other guests, or they'd have been in here, too."

Eventually, fatigue overtook her and she slept soundly until well after dawn. Normally, she hated letting the sun get the drop on her, but today she just couldn't face her right away.

Breakfast put away, and all questions politely deflected, Emily left to meet Yesh at the bus. The ride to Jal Vinayak in Chobar took the proverbial twenty minutes. It turned out to be an impressive temple complex stretched out along the Bagmati river. At seven thirty, they had the place pretty much to themselves, but by ten the tourists began crowding in, along with the many young singles and newlyweds who came to dream of love or children.

The god of obstacles listens to all prayers and is the first god honored in any _puja_ ceremony. Emily was surprised to find that the main image of Ganesh was little more than a natural rock outcropping, framed in a brick shrine off to one side of the complex. The suggestion of two lobes of an elephant's forehead was all it took for the ancient worshippers to discover the presence of the god at this holy site.

By eleven, with the crowds beginning to feel oppressive, Yesh was ready to go back to town. A bus left in ten minutes and there wouldn't be another for an hour. Emily brushed off his impatience and wandered down to the river. A few hundred yards north along the river bed, past a bridge and off to the right in the shade afforded by the woods clinging to one of the few remaining undeveloped hillsides, she found a secluded corner to sit quietly.

"We should get back soon," Yesh called up to her inopportunely. "There's nothing left to see here."

Emily glowered at him, then thought better of it. "Come up here and sit with me," she said.

Of course, he complied. There was no way to resist such an invitation from a pretty girl in a place like this. She had found one of the very few spots where one couldn't see the road or plowed fields, or the nearby cement factory. He picked his way up through some dense underbrush, getting a little scratched up along the way. At one point, his hair caught on a branch and she had to help disentangle him.

"Listen to the water," she said after a moment.

"That's the rapids of the Chobar Gorge," he said. "Legend has it the entire Kathmandu valley was once a vast lake, until the people cut the gorge into the mountain as a channel to let the water drain away."

"That's a nice story. Is it true?"

"Who knows? But people like to imagine that rivers are divine things. I'm sure later today families will cremate their dead at the water's edge just below the temple hoping the river will smooth their passage."

"I like that story better," she said. "And I like this place. Ganesh is such a pure, generous spirit. It's like I can feel him here more than in the city shrines."

"Maybe you're just glad to be away from the noise of the city."

"Close your eyes for a moment and listen to the sound of your own breathing."

"Are you some sort of _bikchuni_ , then?"

"I'm no nun. Just do it, for me."

Yesh tried to sit quietly, even closed his eyes for about half a minute. Another minute and he was fidgeting and squirming like a little boy in church. She turned an irritated glance his way. He drew back when he saw her eyes, as if he were looking into the eyes of a wild animal, or some untamed spirit. Emily caught herself and tried to direct something softer his way.

"Please. This is what I came here to do."

"What, meditate at Jal Vinayak?"

"No. Well, sort of. I came here, you know, to Nepal, to find some respite from my Granny," she said cryptically. "And Ganesh is the only one left who may be able to give it to me."

She gazed directly into his puzzled face, tried to fix his eyes with hers, without freaking him out. She could see he wanted to be patient. But this wasn't his errand, and maybe it was unfair to force it on him. She saw something else as she looked in his eyes. He was beautiful, with his sharp features and his eyes almost as dark as hers. And, of course, that Byronic mane of hair flaring about his head. She felt it just then, a poetic spark in him, something that might one day articulate the divinity of the world, reshaping it in the words he would use to name it. She leaned over and kissed his lips.

"Let's just try to breathe for a few minutes, okay, for me."

Yesh wanted to be all compliance now—that much was written across his face. He nodded vigorously, apparently having lost the power of speech. And he did manage to sit quietly, at least to all outward appearances. But the sound of his heart pounding against his ribs echoed in her ears. Emily tried to breathe past it, to hear the rapids in the gorge, to let herself float away down the river and join the rest of the dead on their way to whatever peace awaited them. After a few more minutes, she saw the futility of her effort. Not now, not here. "Not after I kissed him," she thought. "Brilliant."

"Let's go back," she said, standing over him.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'll try harder. Let's not go yet."

She leaned over him and smiled.

"It's okay. I'm hungry anyway."

It was surprisingly easy to find food outside the temple. Vendors stood ready on both sides of the access road. Emily found a bowl of potato and lentil curry at one stand, while Yesh hunted down a plate of _momos_ and some mangos blended in beaten rice at another, as well as a bag of candied _lapsi_ fruit. He seemed to have quite a sweet tooth. They ran to catch the bus and ate in the back.

"Is this how you usually spend your days," she asked.

"Sadly, no. I work during the week, and then weekends are always filled with family errands. I think it's time to go see the world."

"I may have seen enough of the world," she sighed.

The bus rumbled back around Dakchhinkali Road as it wound its way back into the city. As they broached more urban neighborhoods, traffic thickened and the exhaust fumes of other buses began to infiltrate the cabin. Emily scanned a route map as they approached Ring Road.

"I have to go to Swayambhunath. I'm gonna change buses up ahead."

"What do you want there?" he asked.

"I'm supposed to meet Rinpoche Tashi this afternoon."

"How on earth did you manage that?" he asked. "I didn't think the Tibetan _gompas_ accepted _bikchunis_."

"They don't, but I told you, I'm not a _bikchuni_."

"Then why would the Rinpoche meet with you? They don't usually make time for tourists, you know."

"You don't have to come," she said when he got off the bus with her.

"I'd like to, if you don't mind. I haven't been to that part of town in some time. Don't worry, I'll watch the monkeys while you have your meeting."

Two buses later, they found themselves entering the western end of the Swayambhu temple complex.

Emily spotted him before Yesh did, monk's robes bedraggled from running. He was out of breath by the time he reached them.

"Michi- _didi_ ," he spluttered out.

"Nawang, what is it?" she asked, now beginning to feel the panic inside him.

"It's Sonam, the Sherpas..."

"What's happened?"

"He didn't come back from school. The Sherpas, they took him... Michi- _didi_ , they might..."

"Calm down, Nawang," she said. "Do you know where they took him?"

The young monk bent over to catch his breath.

"What's this all about?" Yesh asked.

"It's a little boy I look after sometimes."

"Sherpas took him? Why? And where?" he asked

Nawang stood upright, breathing a little easier and gave directions to an address just outside Thamel, the tourist district.

"Let's go, Michi- _didi_. We have to hurry," he said.

"You're not going there, are you?" Yesh asked. "What are you supposed to do, negotiate with gangsters?"

Emily ignored him and looked at Nawang. "You stay here. Go, tell Rinpoche where I've gone."

"This is crazy," Yesh exclaimed as she turned to go. "You can't do this."

"Don't worry about me. Wait here."

"Wait. You don't even know the way... Fine. I'll come with you."

"No," she called over her shoulder, already starting to run. "Stay here."

The address Nawang gave her turned out to be just another unprepossessing building, like so many others in Kathmandu. A blank front face, one imposing door, but no first floor windows—an alley way on the left seemed to beckon to her. A few seconds later, Yesh caught her up, chest still heaving from the run.

"Mrs. Kansakar wasn't kidding," he said between breaths. "You do run way too much."

As Emily looked at him, it occurred to her that whatever might happen, it was likely to be much more dangerous than he had bargained for. This was definitely not his errand. "I shouldn't have kissed him," she thought. "Now I'll never be rid of him."

She guided him over to a stoop across the street where he could sit down.

"Wait here."

A slight curve in the alley made it impossible to see the far end from the street. Emily remembered what Rinpoche said about one last lesson Sonam could learn from her. After all her talk about the evils of fighting back against bullies, what could she teach him now, just when unleashing all manner of destruction on his tormentors might turn out to be necessary?

The other end of the alley opened onto a courtyard with three blank, whitewashed walls. A door next to a curtained window on the last wall led into the main building. A dozen or so young men lounged about carelessly, some gambling, one cooking over an open fire, two others engaged in some form of horse play, all of them unaware of the new pair of eyes sizing them up. They seemed older and harder than the teenagers who made up the Manange gang. These were men, stout and sturdy, not callow adolescents. But none of them looked to Emily like a leader.

"I'm here for Sonam," Emily announced in a loud voice from the alleyway, and then took two steps forward.

A few of the men turned to look. None seemed impressed. One walked over and eyed her rudely, sneering in her face.

"We may have a job for you," he said with a suggestive leer.

"Where is Sonam?" she shouted.

"Tenzing," one of them called into the window. "You have a visitor."

The sounds of a scuffle came from the window. A moment later a small man, coarse and scruffy, stepped into the doorway.

"Look who Deepak sends for his boy," he said to his men. "Is he afraid to come himself?"

"Deepak didn't send me. I'm here for Sonam. Where is he?"

"Who's the Newar?" he asked.

Emily turned to see Yesh step out of the alley. "Great. One more person to worry about," she thought. Her angry stare was intended to tell him to go back while he still could, that he shouldn't have followed. He shrugged.

The man in the doorway signaled to his men. The one with the leer grabbed Emily from behind. Two others grabbed Yesh, one yanking him to his knees by the hair. He protested to no avail. Another voice spoke from inside, not Nepali or Hindi. She recognized it as Chinese.

"This is not your lucky day, sister," Tenzing said.

"I'm here for the boy," she replied defiantly.

"He will be the last thing you see. Lobsang, bring the boy."

A large man emerged, struggling to hold a squirming child.

"Michi- _didi_ ," Sonam cried and tried to run to her.

The man holding him squeezed a wrist until he cried out. He pushed the boy to the ground.

"Lobsang, give him the knife," Tenzing ordered, and gestured to what Emily recognized as a _khukuri_ , or Gurkha knife, on a nearby table. At almost eighteen inches long, the heavy, curved blade probably weighed a few pounds. The inner edge was sharpened, while the outer was thick and blunt.

"Hit them in the neck," Lobsang said, placing the knife in Sonam's hand and pointing at Emily and Yesh. "Kill them or we'll kill you. You want to live, don't you?"

He guided Sonam over to Emily. The man holding her twisted one arm behind her back and pushed her shoulder down, forcing her to crouch close to the ground—roughly the height a small boy would prefer for a decapitation. She saw tears in Sonam's eyes when she looked up. He wailed out something incoherent.

"Don't worry," she said to him in a quiet voice. "I'm here for you. Stay close to Yesh."

Her voice seemed to have soothing qualities, because he stopped crying as he looked at her, and then nodded his head. The knife clattered on the ground.

"Fine," Tenzing barked. "Kill all three of them."

Lobsang slapped the boy aside and picked up the knife. Sonam lay on the ground rubbing his face, too terrified even to cry. The man holding her from behind pulled Emily up.

"I'm here for Sonam," Emily announced in a loud voice one more time. "But I am also here for you, Tenzing Sherpa." She paused to let that remark sink in, and then continued. "And for you, Lobsang, and you, too Ming-ma." Turning her head to look at the men on the other side of the courtyard, she went on: "And for you, Dorje, and Pemba, and Rinzen and Sangye. Gyaltsen, Jangbu, Dawa and Tschering, I'm here for all of you, too."

The effect was unnerving. She could see they were all wondering how she knew their names. The man behind her, Ming-ma, tightened his grip on the arm he held twisted up between her shoulder blades. It's a common misconception that this hold gives secure control.

Emily took a deep breath while the men digested her words. She saw how the entire scene would play out as she exhaled. As Ming-ma pushed her head forward, she would lean just a little further, pulling him off-balance. A tiny pivot of her right foot would create just enough space for her to slip a high side-kick under Ming-ma's chin, crushing his windpipe. He'd want to release her wrist to clutch at his throat, but she wouldn't allow it, grabbing under his wrist and twisting him around. He'd crash into Lobsang before he could bring the _khukuri_ around. Releasing Ming-ma, she'd pivot again, bringing her left foot around in a roundhouse kick to the back of Lobsang's elbow, snapping it as she controlled the hand holding the knife.

Dorje would let go of Yesh's hair to lunge at her. With an easy twist she'd wrench the _khukuri_ from Lobsang's now limp hand and strike Dorje across the face with the blunt side, stunning him. A quick crossover step and side-kick to the center of his chest would send him crashing into the wall.

With each breath, the contents of their hearts opened to her, and the sequence of moves and responses expanded until she saw it all. One last breath brought it all to clarity. Once she was done with Lobsang, with the _khukuri_ in her hand, she'd slash through the gang like a spinning saw blade, hacking tendons, slicing throats. Soon enough, they'd want to flee, but it would be too late for the Sherpas, and for the Chinese security agents concealed inside the building.

Tenzing seemed frozen, staring at her this entire time, the time of a few breaths, not more than three or four seconds.

"This is who I am, once again," she thought. "Is this the lesson Rinpoche thinks I have for Sonam? But what else can I do? Surely not let the Sherpas harm him... or Yesh. At least he'll know how ugly the spirit of violence is. And he'll finally know who I really am. This is how he will remember me."

Emily shuddered at the design now fully formed in her heart, both for what it said about her, and for what it would mean as a legacy for Sonam. A sharp word from behind the window curtain broke the spell for Tenzing.

"If Deepak didn't send you, then who are you?" he asked. "Tell me your name before he cuts your head off."

Slowly, deliberately, Emily surveyed the scene. She turned to look at Sonam and Yesh, both of whom were strangely calm at this otherwise terrible moment.

"My name is Tenno Michiko," she said. "My friends call me Em." Then turning back to Tenzing, she continued, "but you may know me as Kali." She smiled as she said this name.

When all was done, the only living things left in the courtyard looked at each other. Sonam cringed to meet her eyes and threw himself into Yesh's arms, and perhaps this was for the best. Surprisingly, Yesh was still able to look at her with affection, not horror. A glimmer in the corner of his eye caught her attention, and his broad smile brought the warmth of human feeling back to her heart. Then she saw it peeking out of one side of his mouth, one of his canine teeth was broken, and she recognized him for who he really is.

Emily whispered a little prayer under her breath: "Thank you, Granny, for sending the god of obstacles to me."

The next morning, she boarded a flight that would return her, after several changes along her complex route, to Annapolis and the Naval Academy, and soon-to-be Ensign Hankinson.

About the Author

_T he High Road to the Mountain Gods_ was originally published under the title _Girl Spins A Blade_ and constitutes a novella-length installment in _The Emily Kane Adventures_. Look for these other full-length titles from the same series:

_Girl Fights Back_

_Girl Punches Out_

_Girl Takes Up Her Sword_

_Girl Takes The Oath_

_Girl Rides The Wind_

The next installment in the series, _Girl Goes To Wudang_ , is due out January of 2017

# Action and Adventure

Adventures promise to enliven and thrill, even as they threaten to carry us to the precipice that awaits us at the end of the road, and those are the moments when we must fight or fly.

# 14 Holmgang

**B y E.B. Boggs**

* * *

The events in this story take place in Vinland, in the year 1029 and involve the descendants of the original Jomsviking settlers of the New World.

Valdimar was in deep contemplation. He had a decision to make and it was not an easy one. Nothing in his life had ever seemed easy to him. His father had been murdered and when he took revenge, he had become outlawed.

Many people believed in him and had followed him, fought beside him and looked to him for leadership, as they had his father. But the gods were tearing them apart.

Some of the people believed in the nailed god of the Christians. Some worshipped the old Pagan gods of the Norse. The Skraelings, the native people in this new land, held to their own gods.

Two young men, Kolben, a Christian, and Arnulf a Pagan, were constantly baiting each other and fighting. Valdimar had warned them about such activities before, and yet they continued.

Olaf and Hradi had reported the latest event to him. Kolben's father, Hagni, had tried to stop them from fighting and ended up being stabbed to death by Arnulf.

Kolben's family was not interested in wergild for the murder and wanted to start a blood feud. Arnulf and his family were too willing to oblige them.

Valdimar wanted to settle it with as little bloodshed as possible and had talked with both families. He was posing his idea to Olaf.

"So what's your plan then?" he asked.

"Holmgang. It seems to be the only solution. They both have a great hatred for each other."

Olaf looked dubious.

"Arnulf is by far the more experienced fighter. It seems a bit unbalanced," said Olaf.

"I have a plan to even the odds a bit," said Valdimar. They talked for a while longer and while Olaf thought his strategy unusual, he admitted it would be fair. He agreed to share the idea with Hradi and no one else before the day of the holmgang.

"A week from today we'll have it. I'll arrange for the preparations," said Valdimar.

"It should be bloody . . . and brief," said Olaf.

The week passed quickly. Valdimar, Blind Dog and Broddi had imbedded a post on a level bit of ground near the beach during the week. The post was about a foot in diameter. Five smaller logs had been cut to about a ten foot length and laid out around the post forming a rough pentagon.

A crowd had gathered and at mid-day the two combatants and their families appeared. Each was armed with his favored weapon, shield and armor. Valdimar stepped to the post to speak to the crowd. He carried an axe in his hand.

"Here is the reason for, and the rules of, this holmgang: Arnulf killed Hagni, Kolben's father. Both men and their families have agreed to abide by my decision as to the settlement of this feud.

"Both men will strip themselves of weapons and armor, including shields." A murmur ran through the crowd at his words. He looked again at the crowd and continued.

"This axe will be the only weapon allowed," he held it aloft for all to see and then stuck it into the post.

"Since both men favor their right hands for fighting, their right hands will be bound together with rawhide. They must stay within the bounds of the five small logs. Being bound together, they will begin here," he said as he walked to the farthest corner of the five boundary logs.

"The first to secure the axe and kill the other will be declared winner. Whichever one wins, all of Arnulf's and Kolben's goods will be given to Kolben's family."

There was a gasp from the crowd and some of the elders came forward to protest. Valdimar listened to their words. When they were finished he spoke again.

"This is not the traditional duel, I know that. It is not for glory or to prove who is right! Both these men told me they dearly wanted to kill the other, that they would give all they had to do so, isn't that right?"

He looked at the two men waiting for an answer. They glanced at each other briefly and eventually nodded their heads.

"And your families said they would accept my ruling?" Again they agreed to this by a curt nod of their heads.

"Then this is it. Kolben's family was wronged by the death of his father. Arnulf was at fault. No matter who wins, all will lose. Whoever wins, the property of both men will go to Kolben's family. Since the fighting skill of both men varies with their weapon of choice, they will fight for, and with, a single weapon, without a shield, without armor. The axe is razor sharp; I honed it myself this morning.

"If we are going to survive as a tribe in this savage land, we have to stick together! We can't be fighting among ourselves! I urge all of you to keep your religion to yourself or share it with people that believe as you. Trouble no one about their beliefs. Is this really something you want to die for?"

He looked at the crowd who now seemed somewhat subdued. The scene was quiet with only the sound of the wind in the trees and the gentle lapping of the waves hitting the shore.

"Let it begin. Remove their weapons and armor and bind their arms. May the gods you worship give you strength," he said. He walked into the crowd and stood by his wife, Littlefoot.

The silence was deafening.

Once their wrists were bound together they were left alone. Suddenly Kolben, who was a bit larger than Arnulf lunged toward the post. Arnulf grabbed his bound wrist with his free hand and pulled hard against the bigger man's momentum.

Kolben dug in his feet and began dragging Arnulf toward the post. Arnulf gave a quick tug at Kolben, making him stumble. As he fought to continue dragging his opponent, he exerted his leg muscles to the fullest. When Kolben's right leg was fully extended, Arnulf jerked again, causing him to pause momentarily. In that short instant, Arnulf dug in his left foot and, raising his right, gave a vicious kick to Kolben's extended leg. There was a loud snapping sound and a cry of pain from Kolben.

As Kolben collapsed, Arnulf saw his chance and began to run around him in the direction of the post. Kolben grabbed his ankle and tripped him. Their arms were bleeding from the rawhide. Arnulf rose slowly and began dragging Kolben toward the pole. Kolben fought against him and struggled to stand on his left leg.

Arnulf grabbed the axe and turned to face his opponent. Just as he did, Kolben connected with a clenched fist to his jaw. Arnulf fell, dropping the axe, and dragging Kolben down with him. The axe now lay close to one of the boundary logs. As Arnulf rose Kolben grabbed his head and plunged his thumb into his rival's right eye. Arnulf screamed in pain and tried to roll away from Kolben.

The two men grappled with each other and rolled on the ground, eventually getting close to the axe. Arnulf tried to rise again to grab the axe and Kolben strained to drag him away from it. Arnulf aimed a kick at Kolben's head and connected, stunning him for a moment. Arnulf grabbed the axe again and swung it in an overhead arc at his adversary. He was rewarded with a sickening 'thwuck' and a howl of pain from Kolben.

Rolling over he realized he had struck Kolben in his left shoulder. Both men were breathing heavily now and near exhaustion. Neither of them had any feeling in their bound arms.

Arnulf crouched on his haunches and pulled the axe free of the wound. He then pulled his and Kolben's right arms out straight and aimed a furious blow at Kolben's right arm.

Seeing what was coming, Kolben pulled back hard with his arm as the axe fell. Arnulf heard the crunch of bone and the tearing of flesh and his arm pulled free. He then stood and buried the axe into Kolben's grinning face.

The fight was over, Arnulf had won. The crowd was silent. Blind Dog ran to Arnulf with a fire brand.

"Wha . . . what are you doing?" he asked feebly.

"I'm burning your stump so you won't bleed to death when we remove the rawhide," Blind Dog said.

Arnulf looked down to see that in the confusion of the melee, he had cut off his own arm. He swayed momentarily and then passed out.

"Arnulf is the winner," said Valdimar. "Hagni's family has now lost two members and all the property of Arnulf and Kolben will go to them." He paused for a moment looking at the crowd.

"What have we gained from this pointless killing? Our people have lost two men and another has become impoverished, half blind and crippled.

"Arnulf is safe from blood vengeance or wergild, since he now has nothing, except his life. Bury your man," he said to Kolben's family.

"He was a good man who has come to the end of his road and will be missed when we once again do battle with our enemies."

# 15 The Zombie Pestilence

**B y Randall Morris**

* * *

It started with a cold. A little girl in London got the sniffles. When it got worse, her parents took her to the doctor and they sent her home with a prescription for bed rest and chicken noodle soup. This cold, however, was special. It was touched by the hand of Satan. It became something so much worse when the fever hit. The little girl suffered through ridiculous, uncontrollable temperatures until she finally died. That would be a horrible story... if it were the end. That's the beginning of my story.

The little girl came back. Within a few hours of her death, she was up and walking around again. Her parents were overjoyed right up to the moment that she bit them. Mom took a bite to the hip and Dad to the arm when he tried to pull her off. Maybe they would have caught the zombie bug without the bite by just being around their little girl so much but the bite sealed their fate. As with most problems, the apocalypse started out small and governments and doctors only started paying attention when it started to spread.

It's 2023. Over 90% of the Earth's population is dead. I was an exterminator before all of this happened. That doesn't matter anymore. All that matters right now is that I'm alive and so is... most of my family.

My wife and Melody, my sixteen-year-old daughter, went for a food run in the family car one day. It shouldn't have been a problem. Everyone in our family had raided the local stores over and over again. They had guns, ammo, and knives with them in the car. My son and I covered them with rifles as they left.

When they were on their way back, my daughter was playing with her iPhone. She was a sixteen year old girl and that's what girls do, even when they are in the middle of a zombie apocalypse. They play Angry Birds. They text. I'm not sure how in the hell she still knew people to text since just about everyone I knew outside of my family was dead, but she somehow still had people to text. She didn't think it would be a problem because we didn't see any undead around the house.

It caused a serious problem because the phone buzzed and startled her. When she bent down to pick it up, a hand reached out of the bushes and grabbed her arm. I don't know how we missed that zombie in the bushes. Maybe we had gotten lazy patrolling. This was supposed to be a simple food run, but it ended up costing me my wife.

Melissa, my beautiful wife, had the maternal instincts that all great mothers possess. She defended her child at the cost of her own life. I ran out to help, but I was too late. I heard the screams but I never actually saw her get bit. I made it in time to decapitate the son of a bitch that bit my wife, but it didn't matter anymore. My angel would pass through the stages of hell on her way to death and then, eventually, to undeath. I was with her when she died and I told her how much I loved her. When she came back, I held her down as she tried to bite me and muttered a final "I'm sorry." After I had my children leave the room, I put a bullet in Melissa's skull.

That day took the last of my strength. I was pretty much useless for the next few days. I couldn't cope with the fact that I had to shoot the woman I had loved since the moment I saw her. Melody needed a strong father to tell her that it wasn't her fault and help her deal with her pain. My son, Jake, needed someone to show him how a man keeps things together in impossible situations. I failed at both roles. That pretty much brings you up to speed on our situation.

"Dad, I'm making a run. We're low on food."

"Take your sister and make sure you pack enough weapons."

"Melody hasn't said anything since she threw her phone at the wall three days ago. I don't think she'll go on a food run right now. I'll be fine by myself."

"Take Lucian then. He's been getting pretty wound up."

Lucian was the family dog. He was an Australian Shepherd that we got as a puppy from a ranch a few years ago. He was a perfect guard dog because he would bark out warnings if he saw zombies approaching and attack if he saw anything on its way to threaten my family. The dog just got so hyperactive when we had to stay inside for long periods of time. I was tired of him running around the house.

Jake put Lucian on his leash and got in the family's Ford Taurus with a bat, a machete, a Glock, and enough ammo to put down an entire block's worth of zombies. I felt bad sending my son out there alone, but the outside world just hurt too damn much for me to do anything about it. After I heard Jake pull out of the driveway and head towards the local Wal-Mart, I decided it was time to go talk to Melody. I ate a quick lunch and then prepared myself. I didn't expect much; I just hoped I could get her talking again.

"Melody?"

No answer. I opened the door and let myself in. Melody was quietly sobbing on her bed with her arms hugging her knees. I saw her iPhone in several pieces in the corner of the room. It looked like she threw it against the wall and then proceeded to beat the hell out of the thing.

"Mind if I sit down?"

No response. I sat on the end of her bed.

"Look, honey. It wasn't your fault. What happened to your mom is on me. I should have scouted the area better. I'll be more careful in the future and we..."

Words can be such bastards sometimes. Sometimes if you just start talking, emotion will hit you and the words just freeze up. Not this time. I needed to be a father.

"...We won't lose anyone again. I'll keep you and Jake safe even if I have to go down fighting."

I was looking at the floor so I didn't see when she looked up. She put her arms around my neck.

"Dad, I can't lose you too. Not after..."

She broke down and started crying. I returned the hug.

"It's ok sweetie. Everything is going to be..."

My sentence was cut short by a loud barking from outside. Lucian was warning me that something bad was about to happen. I grabbed a baseball bat on the way down the stairs and then ran out the front door. Jake was on the ground next to several bags of spilled groceries. A zombie had grabbed on to his shoes and was trying to reach up for the bite. Jake's frantic kicking kept the gnashing mouth at bay, but his gun was a few inches out of the reach of his hand. I ran to him and kicked the zombie square in the jaw and followed it up with a crushing blow from the baseball bat. Brains splattered everywhere and the zombie finally loosened his grip on my son's shoes.

"Jake, are you alright? Did he bite you?"

"No. I'm fine, Dad. He just... caught me off guard. It won't happen again."

I saw that the zombies had heard the noise we made in the streets and they were all slowly making their way towards us.

"Get the groceries and get in the house."

Jake looked at me like I was insane.

"You're coming too, right?"

It was time to be a father.

"Do what I said. Get in the house and lock the door. I'm going to clean up this mess."

"Dad, you're being insane. You're an exterminator, not a ninja."

I grinned at him.

"Well I don't really care at this point. Pests. Pestilence. What's the difference really?"

Jake gathered up the groceries and, for once in his life, did what I asked. Shortly after he made it inside, I saw my sniper rifle peek out of a gap in the boards on the front window. Jake was going to have my back and, from the noise I heard coming from my dog, so was Lucian. I had just been promoted to zombie exterminator and it was time to punch in. I could already feel my adrenaline pumping.

The first zombie to make it to our driveway was our old mailman. He was still in uniform and everything. A machete stab through his face was my way of saying "Return to Sender." The next one to make it to my yard was my old neighbor, Bill. Before all of this, we constantly fought over the property line. I guess nothing had really changed because he was still willing to kill me in my front yard. Lucian bit his leg. I sheathed my machete in my belt and took a wild swing with the baseball bat at this head. I hate to admit it, but the crunching noise was pretty satisfying. I followed it up with a powerful swing that sent his head sailing into the air.

I pulled the Glock from my belt and started firing off rounds into the approaching horde. Neighbors, acquaintances, and people I had never met before. All went down with a bullet to the brain. Jake shot a few of the stragglers as I dealt with the approaching main group. Once we had thinned out the herd, I grabbed my machete and went in swinging and chopping like a maniac.

After about half an hour, the street went silent. I had won. I had reclaimed my neighborhood for my family. I turned and waved at the window with a triumphant grin. It was then that I felt teeth tearing into my ankle. I let out a horrible scream and tried to grab for my gun, but I couldn't function under the pain. The zombie followed it up with a second bite to my calf. I was ready to give up and die but the zombie fell over on the ground and started leaking blood through a hole that appeared right between his eyes. The door flew open and Jake and Melody ran to me. Melody was crying hysterically.

"That was some nice shooting, Jake."

"We need to chop off your leg, Dad. Now. We can still get you through this."

"Couple of problems with that, son. We only have machetes and they won't get through the bone. If you did, somehow, get my leg off in time, I would die from the blood loss."

"What do I do then?"

Jake was trying his best to hold back his tears. My son, an eighteen-year old kid trying to be a man for his dad and his sister. I can't even begin to describe how proud I was that he was my son.

"Well maybe you could help me figure something out."

"What's that?"

"I know it wasn't a home run, but did Bill's head fly far enough for at least a ground rule double?"

Jake smirked and tried to hold back his laughter. Melody's eyebrows arched down in a frown.

"Baseball jokes, Dad? Not funny. We need to figure out how to make you better."

"Jake needs to shoot me in the head."

"Not gonna happen, Dad."

"It's the only option at this point. I can feel the disease spreading up my leg. It won't be long. I have some things to say to both of you before all that though."

Jake looked like he had wanted this talk from me for a long time. He was ready to step up and be the man. Melody still looked pissed off, but watching her be angry at me was so much easier than watching her cry.

"Jake, your shooting just now was amazing. Some of the best sniping I've ever seen. You took out dozens of zombies. I need you to keep Lucian with you whenever you make runs. He's the most useful dog this apocalypse has ever seen. Keep your sister safe."

I thought for a moment longer while Jake gave me a serious nod.

"One more thing, Jake. That shot that took down the..."

The pain was horrible. How I was able to finish talking to my children is beyond me. It must have been all the adrenaline still pumping through my veins. I could feel the sickness had made it up to my stomach.

"That shot that took down the zombie that bit me was the best shot I've ever seen in my life. Right between the eyes on a moving target. Amazing."

"That last one wasn't me."

Tears started rolling down Melody's cheeks again. I looked at her and realized that she also had one of my rifles in her hands.

"I did it, Dad. I wasn't going to let them take you like I let them take our mom."

"Come here, Melody."

I mustered the strength to reach up and hug her as she sobbed.

"Baby that was amazing. Your mom would be so proud of you. _I'm_ so proud of you. You gave me the greatest gift any parent can receive from their child, a chance to say goodbye at the end of the road."

She pulled away from the hug and looked at me very seriously.

"Dad, I need you to know something."

"What's that?"

"I love you."

"I love you too, Melody. I love you both... more than I can say."

"Can you do something for me?"

"Yes."

"When you get to heaven, please tell mom that I love her too."

Jake put his hands on Melody's shoulder and she backed away. He took careful aim and put a bullet right between my eyes. The last thing I saw in this life was my two kids... and I couldn't have wished for a better way to leave.

For more works by Randall Morris, please visit:

<https://www.facebook.com/RandyMorrisAuthor>

# Science Fiction

Who knows what sort of future the march of science will bring us... perhaps relief from our present woes, though the cost may be high, even so high as to transform us unawares into something unexpected... and in that future, when science runs out of solutions, salvation may come from the most unexpected — and unscientific — corner.

# 16 Joint Venture

**B y L. S. Burton**

* * *

_L et there be light._

Every forty-five minutes the Earth was reborn. With a hint of azure blue — a curved crack in the perfect black of space — splashing across a mystery continent, a brilliant flare wrapped white arms of light around the egg of the Earth and gently coaxed it out of shadow.

Specialist Riley's stomach flip-flopped. One moment he was floating peacefully in the black cradle of space, the next his legs suddenly felt heavy and he was teetering two hundred miles up in the air with nothing beneath his feet. The ISA hadn't simulated _that_ sensation for him during his sessions in the water tank — that practical dread screaming from his hindbrain to _flail! Grasp something!_

Gripping his toolbox tighter he put one hand to the side of the station to steady himself, a bulge forming in his throat, sweat melting onto his forehead as the sun raised the temperature against his suit by nearly four hundred degrees.

"Don't look at it too long," said his fellow astronaut, Yuri, with his nearly-perfect English, not looking away from the open panel of the shuttle. "You don't want to be throwing up in your suit. We have yet two more wires to replace, and I need you. No good to be the first man to drown in space, no?

Riley heard Yuri chuckle over the com but Riley was busy focusing on the lines on the back of his gloves and didn't find the idea funny. This was his first EVA, and absolutely everyone, _everyone_ , had told him it would be spectacular — to the extent that he'd mentally start a countdown after a handshake — but words could barely begin to describe the majesty and the panic of actually being there.

Nicolas, the other Russian on their rotation, had tapped him with a grin inside the station while he was going through his pre-breathe routine to say, " _You'll be the monkey hanging from the tallest tree_." Nobody back in Florida had put it quite that way, but, as it turned out, that was a pretty good way to put it.

_But again... not funny_.

Riley swallowed hard. He'd waited his whole life for this moment, and even though he wanted to enjoy the bauble of the Earth slipping by at five miles a second beneath him, it wasn't a good idea, and he focused on the side of Yuri's helmet instead.

Yuri was quiet for the moment. Doing delicate work inside a suit was difficult. The fingers of the gloves were thick and spring-loaded. Simply clenching your fists a few times would make your tendons ache. Little wires were practically impossible to pinch, and you needed to stretch your fingers to rest them every few seconds.

Luckily, the blown motors that rotated their solar panels weren't vital to their immediate survival; they had time to address the problem properly. Space was hard on equipment. Too often the shuttle crews were little more than astro-repairmen, and Riley was anxious to get this done and get back to his experiments with tomato growth in zero-g. He wasn't sure he trusted Nicolas to follow his watering protocols properly while he was out.

Yuri leaned back from the panel, shook his head, then leaned in again. Riley readied to pass him whatever tool he'd need, but a minute later Yuri leaned back and twisted his shoulders violently, which caused his whole body to pivot.

"Riley," said Yuri over the com. "Grab my helmet."

Riley hesitated, unsure if this were another of Yuri's little jokes. If it were, it would be rather unprofessional. Of all the deadpan Russian scientists Riley had met over the years, he had to land a rotation with the only two comedians....

"Riley, my helmet, please," Yuri repeated.

Nicolas' voice then sounded over the com. "What's the problem, Yuri?"

"Just do it, Riley. It is making me crazy."

Riley was sure Nicolas was holding back laughter. "Having difficulties, Comrade Golgin?"

Yuri rattled off a string of excited Russian. Riley's command of the language was rather good but he couldn't catch half of what Yuri was saying; almost certainly most of it was swears, in particular at Nicolas' use of "comrade."

Carefully, Riley let the tethered toolbox float next to him on its umbilical and grabbed Yuri by the helmet. It felt weird to be doing, almost taboo. Yuri's head jerked briefly, then a sigh of relief fuzzed the com with static. "Oh, that's better. Thank you, Riley."

"What the heck was that all about?"

On the com it sounded like Nicolas was breaking himself apart with laughter.

"Nicolas," said Yuri, "he's done this twice before. He moved the nose scratcher piece inside my helmet just a few centimeters... just out of reach. That _durak._ The worst part, once I realize, that's when the itch is like fire."

Thirty minutes later the Earth slimmed down to a sliver, then a line in space, then _blip_ , it vanished into the deepest black imaginable. Without dust or the moon to reflect light, Riley's arm ended at the elbow in the shadow of the toolkit he was carrying; every so often he'd wiggle his fingers inside the gloves to make sure they were still there.

Forty five minute's rotation later, with a flash of light the Earth returned, crashing through space beneath him. _Oh God don't look down._ Riley resisted pulling his feet up higher, and another forty-five minutes saw the light zipped up and peace returned. They floated in the womb of the universe again.

Closing the second of three panels, feeling tired, they swapped out each other's carbon dioxide scrubbers for another five hours of air, and moved on to the final repairs.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" said Yuri, opening the panel. "I try not to look, but it slaps you in the face, no?"

Riley couldn't think of any better way to put it.

"From up here," said Yuri, "it's not simply pieces of land. This land, that land, your land, my land, it's more than that... it's the sweet _mamochka_ , the mother of us all. Every time she comes round I give her a big kiss on her wide cheeks and wish to never leave home again."

Riley smiled at the thought. It was only after a few moments had passed that he realized he hadn't spoken. "Wide cheeks is right," he said.

Though his part of the EVA was mostly to float next to Yuri for a few hours, his muscles ached and he was feeling the limpness of dehydration fatigue. The suit was hot, and hard on a body. He felt like he'd just swam across the English channel.

_Except that would be cold. How about... swam across the English channel if it were hot like a cup of tea._ Everybody seemed to have these wonderful comparisons. That would be his.

But the more he thought about it, the more he saw it wasn't actually very good.

"You know," said Yuri, cutting into his reverie. "I've been thinking of coming to your piece of our _mamochka_. I hear you have many very beautiful places."

"That's right," said Riley, spooling up the inner tour guide, "we have the Grand Canyon, we have... um—"

"No, no," said Yuri calmly, still focused on the task at hand, "I don't want to see your biggest hole in the ground. I want to see the interesting things. I want to see the world's biggest ball of hair in your Indiana. I want to see the biggest bird feeder in Maine. New Jersey has the world's biggest tooth. Have you been to the biggest bottle of hair tonic in Tulsa? It is huge, the size of a rocket. I have always wondered: is Tulsa near Indiana? Near the biggest ball of hair? Is that why they have the biggest ball of hair, because of the biggest bottle of tonic?"

Riley smiled, pretty sure Yuri was having fun with him again, but not quite confident enough to laugh. That, probably, was the real joke.

"I don't know," he said, "but there are many nice things to see. My parents took me to Yellowstone Park once. We saw Old Faithful."

"There are many water spouts," said Yuri seriously, "but in the world only one very big ceramic snowman who is fishing, in California...."

Riley shrugged inside his suit. "Yuri," he said, "Sometimes I don't know if you're just fooling with me or not. I'll figure you out eventually. I have four months, I guess."

"Everything I say is true," said Yuri, happily. Mouths don't make words foolish; words are made foolish by the ears."

Yuri had a point, though Riley didn't think a tour of the States was a good idea at the moment. Tensions had been high between their countries ever since Insula Nova, as the island had been dubbed, had risen from the Pacific near the Bering Strait. But he supposed he shouldn't condemn too quickly. If those Russian fishermen hadn't gotten drunk and announced they were going to sail out and plant their own version of the red, white, and blue, it might have been years before he got into space.

One overzealous Alaskan coast guard captain had taken it upon himself to stop them. "For liberty," the man had said. Somehow, shots had been fired; one Russian sailor was dead — drowned by most accounts, having fallen overboard — and Riley had been moved up in the schedule to coincide with the Russians as a minor gesture of goodwill. A French anthropologist had been slotted to be where he was right now, studying the effects of weightlessness on the lattices of bone formation.

And all because of a steaming hunk of barren rock no larger than a football field.

He hoped his presence would help, but didn't harbor any illusion that the International Space Agency had any real international pull. Meanwhile, it had worked out great for him. He would get results on his research years ahead of schedule.

In the darkness of the Earth's shadow, a light flickering on Yuri's helmet caught Riley's eye. A reflection. He looked down to where he knew the Earth floated somewhere below and saw a tiny red blossom moving against the black, growing steadily larger and slipping slowly away as the planet rotated in the opposite direction. A second red flower soon unfolded near it, and another. In an instant, red blossoms of flame were flaring across a wide swath of the darkness like sunlight prickling on the surface of a lake.

"Yuri," he said, without thinking, needing someone else to see it. "Yuri, look."

Riley knew that Yuri had turned when he heard a string of Russian swears. In there somewhere he heard _mamochka._

So it was true, not just phosphenes in his eyes, not a strange borealis. He knew what horror he was seeing but didn't want to speak the word aloud and make it real.

"Missiles," said Yuri. "Nuclear...."

As if Yuri had called them into existence, the next instant a second wave of red blossoms sparked below, more than he could count; the darkness bloomed with them as if a veil had been whisked away. These were quickly swept away in the current of the Earth's motion the same as the first, following the curve of night until, after a few minutes, only the blackness remained, unmarred; the Earth had vanished and they were alone in the infinity of the ether again, only the shush of their breathing to comfort them.

"Nicolas," said Yuri, "Nicolas, confirm. Are you seeing this?"

"No," said Nicolas, "No—"

"Nicolas, ra—"

"No contact with mission control," interrupted Nicolas in a ghostly voice. "I have tried four times."

All three coms were left open and their breathing became as loud as the wind.

None of them had to speak, thinking of people they knew and the lives they had led. Even if those people were alive, they might not see them again. Mission Control was their umbilical to Earth, and if Mission Control were gone, they no longer had a ride home.

Riley began, "How do we..." but he never finished the thought, and knew it wasn't necessary.

Yuri sounded resolute, "Doesn't matter," he said, as if each word were an effort. "We have work to do."

Nicolas was desperate. He had little control over the tremolo in his voice. "Yuri—"

"We finish! It will take twenty minutes to complete the last panel. We have one hundred twenty minutes remaining on our scrubbers...."

_And it takes thirty minutes for a missile to fly from the U.S. to Russia and vice versa_ , thought Riley. _About thirty-seven minutes 'til sunrise again. And if that was Russia firing east... about sixty-six minutes until we're over the east coast of the States._

The war would be ended by the time the Earth rose again — _Hell, it's over now_ — the station would probably be above Europe or the Atlantic. They would have to wait to inspect... they would have to wait and see.

Riley had no wife, no girlfriend, few friends. His parents had died within a few months of each other only a few years before, and since then he'd regretted that he hadn't got into space earlier, while they were still alive. All those years he'd trained to be selected for a mission... he should have worked harder.

"We finish the panel," he agreed. "That's our job." He'd let go of the umbilical for his toolkit and tugged it to bring it back to him, then he and Yuri helped each other move back to the open final panel, and tried to concentrate on the task at hand.

On the com, Nicolas was making no effort to stifle his sobs.

_L et there be light._

Even under the threat of such... even under such threat, Earthrise was beautiful. Photos couldn't capture the orange of the deserts, the red and yellow and green of the forests, or the kaleidoscope of scars that man had left on the planet, not all at once. The iridescent mines, the brown drained lakes, even those were stunning when seen from above.

Sunlight splashed across Europe and Yuri swore into the com, getting an idea of how long they would still have to wait. Clouds, quite ordinary ones, were covering the coast of Spain and Portugal and the bulk of the Atlantic. Riley wished he could sweep them away and peer beneath.

The further west they traveled, the darker the clouds became, until they were impenetrable. Five minutes later, when the coast of North America should have been swinging into view, they could see nothing of it, but that in itself was telltale; they knew what that meant.

Dust was blackening the sky beneath them. Whole forests were burning, sending tons of ash into the air. The oil sands of Alberta and half of Lone Star Texas would be ablaze with furious geysers of flame, no one left alive nearby to concern themselves with pollution, smog, the price of gas. Already the jet stream was carrying the immense ash cloud towards the United Kingdom and northern France.

In silence, they hoped for a break in the cloud cover, until Riley knew they had to be nearing the Pacific. For a moment they could see the blue of the water and the spatter of the Hawaii islands, but soon the sky darkened there too, fingers of dust and ash reaching out over the water from the north, looming over China, already grasping for Japan.

Both sides had won. Or lost. It was all the same. _Both sides got what they wanted._ A thumbed nose to their counterparts.

At least Korea looked okay, as did Thailand, Singapore. It wasn't like the worst days of the cold war, when annihilation had been assured. In this very small way they had matured. Bomb yields had been dialed back, thousands of missiles had been decommissioned. Where once seventy thousand nuclear warheads had been the gun pointing indiscriminately at the rest of the world, only a few thousand were now... only a few thousand had been... in active service.

Destruction was no longer assured for _all_ , but reserved _primarily_ for themselves.

The Middle East seemed unscathed, Africa was orange and idyllic under a cloudless sky. People would survive. The Earth would turn. Life would go on. But it would go on without _their_ peoples.

The com had been quiet for twenty minutes while they observed every mound and crevice over the face of the land. Nicolas' voice had vanished. Soon the Earth would slide back into shadow. Nick checked the time. They had little less than an hour on their carbon dioxide scrubbers. They would soon have to head back inside.

"Riley," said Yuri, softly. Then he said it again when Riley couldn't make words to answer. "Riley? This is your first mission, _nyet?_ "

Riley nodded, and forced himself to speak. "Yeah," he said. "My first." His words broke to pieces.

"Come with me," said Yuri, pulling himself back towards the airlock by his umbilical.

Riley hesitated. Technically, Yuri was now his enemy.

"Come," said Yuri, turning back. "I have something to show you."

Riley followed, expecting they would cycle the airlock and go inside, but Yuri pushed past the airlock and away from the station towards the emptiness of space. Reluctantly, Riley did the same, until he and Yuri were side by side at the end of their tethers. Riley took one last look at the Earth, now behind them, diminishing.

"I do this every time I come out here," said Yuri. "Because each time I come... I do not know if it will be my last... and it is beautiful, you will see. I had planned on showing you because it was your first time. I don't see why I should not. Now watch," he said, indicating toward the stars.

The last of the light lining the Earth narrowed to a point, and again in its shadow they became nothing, facing the immensity of the galaxy.

"Look at it," said Yuri. "Take it in you."

At first Riley wasn't sure what he meant, but soon he felt the great silence of the universe washing over him, winds of it around his face and his fingers. Briefly he wondered if his eyes were closed, but then the stars stood out brightly against the black, defiant in the silence, his breath sympathizing with their light.

"Relax," said Yuri sleepily.

And Riley relaxed in his muscles, tense and tired, and from the shimmering lament in his soul, facing the void of creation. A tumult from afar still looks like peace. He looked back to where the Earth would be and put his arm on Yuri's shoulder. Yuri's eyes were closed, content in the cradle. Riley then braced, and disconnected Yuri's umbilical.

L.S. Burton lives in St. John's, Newfoundland, where he works as a writer and freelance editor. Though his stories are diverse, they all revel in the music and harmony of words, and celebrate imagination. In 2011, Burton was awarded the Percy Janes Award for Best Unpublished First Novel in the Newfoundland and Labrador Arts and Letters Competition for his novel Raw Flesh in the Rising.

To learn more about L.S. Burton, please visit his home page.

# 17 Sherdan's Road

**B y Jess Mountifield**

* * *

A smile crept across Sherdan's face, adding some life to the haggard look that had plagued it for the last few months. Elizabeth waved at him from outside and then went back to playing tag with Alice.

Her resilience surprised him. Less than a day after being back in her normal home and she was rushing around and playing as if she hadn't spent over eight weeks shut up with him and his small security team in their bunker.

He rubbed his hands over his eyes. The sunlight made them hurt.

After watching the two girls play a little longer he went back to his work. Ever since they'd got out he'd been busy with security concerns. Now that he was alone he had time to plan for the future again.

He went over to his desk and re-positioned his chair so he could glance through the window to the kids whenever he needed to. The paper sitting there had a small list on it of the things he needed to get to restock the supplies in the underground bunker. So far it was only the obvious things like water and canned food but the list would grow much longer.

"Tag, you're it!"

Alice squealed and switched direction to chase after Elizabeth as she ran off. They raced around the apple tree a couple of times before Elizabeth darted off towards the road, past the rusting, burnt out car.

When both of them grew too puffed out and tired to continue they fell into a heap of giggles on the picnic blanket Alice's father had laid out for them earlier. In the corner of the blanket sat their two patchwork dolls, with plastic teacups, a teapot, and little plates with plastic sandwiches.

The dolls had seen better days; one's button eyes were missing, replaced with stitched crosses and Elizabeth had spilt jam on hers a few days ago. The stain could still be seen on its floral dress. Neither girl seemed to mind.

"We have to ration the tea," Elizabeth said as she wrinkled up her button nose. "Daddy says there has to be enough to last."

"Can they have one small cup now? We don't want them to get thirsty."

Elizabeth nodded and picked up the teapot. She held it over each cup and paused for a few seconds. When each cup was full they lifted them to their dolls mouths and poured. They then repeated the action for themselves.

As soon as everyone had drunk they got up again and went over to the rubble of what once was the garden wall. Elizabeth directed them both as they piled the chunks of sandstone up into new shapes.

They alternated between this task and feeding their dolls their rations of imaginary tea for several minutes. Just as they were putting the final stone in place in their new structure Elizabeth stopped and stared down the cracked street towards the barricade at the end.

"Someone's coming," she said as she grabbed Alice's hand. She concentrated all her effort on her ability, just as her father had taught her and the two girls disappeared.

"Who is it?" Alice whispered a moment later

"I don't know. They're using an ability though. Let's go see."

"What if we get told off?"

"It's okay, no one will see us. It will be an adventure."

"Like your mummy's on?"

"Just like mummy's on."

Elizabeth led her friend towards the person she sensed, right up until they got to the giant barriers at the end of the road.

"They're not far on the other side," Elizabeth said as quietly as she could. They snuck around the barrier, going slower now and still holding hands. Picking carefully through the debris they went towards the tumbled down house building. Daddy said it was an old University where he worked before people got abilities and the war started. He'd told her no one was meant to be in it anymore and that it wasn't safe. Whoever was inside would need warning.

Alice tugged on her hand as she went to push through the front door, but it didn't stop her going through and Alice knew better than to let go of her and lose the safety of Elizabeth's ability.

The inside of the building was gloomy and the smell made Elizabeth wrinkle her nose. She led them off towards the left, unsure exactly where the other people were in the maze of corridors and rooms.

When they reached a doorway they peered inside. The room was even darker than the corridor and some part of it had collapsed, strewing rubble and bits of metal all over the floor. They moved on without exploring further.

They passed by a few more doorways and stopped to peak into each one, but they were all similar, empty and dark or buried under the debris from the collapsed floors above. Right at the end of the corridor one of the green wooden doors still hung on its hinges, ajar and obscuring the inside of the room.

As Elizabeth went to push the door Alice tugged on her hand again.

"Are they in there?" Alice whispered.

"No, they're not that close. We're exploring."

"Is this what your mummy does?"

"Don't know. Daddy just said she'd gone off on an adventure and we'd all get to see her soon. Maybe she'll be back by the time we've finished." Elizabeth rubbed her eyes with her sleeve. Adventuring was fun, but she missed her mum lots. She knew daddy did too.

The wooden door scraped the floor as Elizabeth tugged on it, so she only opened it far enough for the two of them to squeeze inside. Very little light made its way into the room from the corridor outside but they could see the outline of a desk and some bulky objects behind that.

Once inside and away from any possible prying eyes Elizabeth let them go back to being visible and gave her ability a rest. Mummy had warned her that it would only last so long.

They shuffled up to the desk and peered over the edge to see if anything had been left on top. Alice reached up and touched the side of a plastic telephone, activating one of her abilities as she did. Her finger cleared away the layer of dust and dirt and glowed to light a small area around it.

If Alice activated her ability fully it would be enough to light the whole room but she had restrained it and only made enough light to see that the plastic casing on the telephone had once been a deep blue.

Elizabeth walked over to the other side of the desk to see what else there was and Alice followed, bringing her little light with her. A big metal cupboard stood across almost the entire back wall with three sliding doors.

She reached out a hand and pushed the nearest door over towards the middle. It squealed in protest, having rusted and warped since it was last used.

When the door was almost opened the contents came rushing forward, falling on both of them. They screamed and tried to rush back towards the desk, but got tangled and fell backwards. Elizabeth landed on her bottom and the pain sent the air in her lungs out, rushing through her gritted teeth with a whistle.

Alice's light had gone out in the commotion but she reactivated it again and both girls burst into giggles. A rubber skeleton of an adult lay jumbled in a heap over their feet. Elizabeth stood up and lifted the skull to stretch it out.

Before Alice could join her she dropped it again.

"They're coming," she said and grabbed Alice's hand. Less than a second later the pair were invisible again and plunged back into darkness. Elizabeth led them back out into the corridor and they hurried away from the people she could sense, further into the building.

With a sigh of relief Sherdan put his pen back down. The list was complete and wasn't as long as he'd expected it to be. He glanced up at the window as he had been doing every few minutes and had to glance again. The two kids were gone.

He scrambled up and rushed over to the window, glancing as far down the street as he could each way. Still no sight of them.

He tried not to think about what might have happened as he ran from his study through to the front of the house and out the door. He went over to the blanket and their dolls, picking both the abandoned toys up and pulling them tight against his chest.

As his heart raced he spun on the spot, trying to see where they'd gone before he thought to try and sense Elizabeth or Alice using their abilities. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind, no way near as good at this as his daughter.

He almost screamed his frustration as it didn't work. Too many thoughts and feelings were crashing around inside him to allow clear thinking. Every person and organisation who might have a reason to snatch the girls flew through his thoughts, let alone the fall out from the natural disasters lately. Anything could have happened.

Not knowing what else to do he started running towards the end of the road. As he reached the barrier he felt a flicker of someone using an ability nearby but it was just a fleeting sensation. Before he could pinpoint the location it was gone again.

He jumped the metal obstruction and scanned down the next road for signs of the kids. There were only more battered houses and abandoned cars.

"Elizabeth! Alice!" he yelled. If anyone else was out there, he needed to find the girls before they did and he didn't have time to be cautious.

Realising he'd left his hand gun in the desk drawer he started running down the road, calling their names every minute or so.

Suddenly he ground to a halt, his ability finally picking up something definite back in the old university area of the compound. With his heart pounding he sprinted towards the building.

The two girls had relaxed since their scare and started chatting about their adventure again as they walked along the deserted hallways.

"Sshhh," Elizabeth said. "I heard something."

Down a corridor to the right came the noise of footsteps. Both girls froze to the spot, allowing the intruder to move towards them.

"Daddy! Mummy!" Alice yanked herself out of Elizabeth's grasp, making herself visible, and went charging towards the two people who came around a corner and finally showed themselves. Elizabeth laughed and deactivated her invisibility as well.

Nathan, the burly security guard swept Alice up into his arms while his wife, Julie, came towards Elizabeth and took hold of her hand.

"What are you two doing down here?" Nathan said into her head. Something she was very used to by now.

"I felt you using your ability. We came to have an adventure too," she thought and grinned at him.

"An adventure? Well I'm afraid today's adventure is over. Let's go back to the house."

Elizabeth allowed herself to be led back the way they'd come, chattering to Julie the whole way and telling her what they had got up to. As they reached the entrance Sherdan came rushing up to them and scooped Elizabeth into his arms, handing her the doll at the same time.

"Where have you been?" he said, as she wrapped her skinny arms around his neck.

"They were having an _adventure_ ," Nathan said out loud.

"I wanted to go on one like mummy is."

"Sweetheart, now's not the time for adventures, and what did I say when you asked me if you could play outside?"

"Put my shoes on?"

"Not to go past the end of the road," Alice chimed in from her father's arms.

"Exactly. When you play outside you can't go any further than the barrier, there, at the end of the road."

For more information about Jess Mountifield and her books check out her website.

# 18 The End of the Road

**B y Saxon Andrew**

* * *

Eric waited for a good moment to make his break. He hid behind a huge shelf that had been blown over in the blasted supermarket for a flash to light up the street; he needed to get a good bearing for his sprint. He pulled the black ski mask over his face and threw the backpack over his shoulder. He put the Glock in its holster and glanced at the body lying at the end of the long shelf and shook his head. The simpleton should have just let him come in; fill his back pack with canned goods, and leave. But no...he had to defend his territory against all comers. He should have known that anyone who had made it this far was prepared for any eventuality. Now he was just another dead body stinking up the landscape.

He watched and waited. It shouldn't be long; the aliens were somewhat prolific in using their blasters. He watched the street closely and slowly shook his head and waited. Humanity was just so stupid. It sent messages out into space assuming that some peaceful species out in the stars would one day hear them and decide to come and throw flowers out to their new friends. At the same time wars raged everywhere on Earth. We were just so arrogant and stupid. Stephen Hawking was right. Any alien species that was traveling the universe were doing it for a reason. The most likely reason was real estate. Habitable planets were rare and it all boiled down to location, location, location. Now humanity was being systematically removed as blight on the neighborhood. This was urban renewal on a massive scale.

Suddenly, darkness was lit up with a flash that turned night into day. Eric saw the overturned tanker and sprinted out of the store and slid under the tractor. He crawled quickly over to the far side of the huge truck and crouched beside it counting mentally. They always fired a second shot to make sure. It should be just about...now! Another flash lit up the night and he sprinted into the alley fifteen yards beyond the truck and pressed himself against the wall. He slid along the wall toward the far end of the alley and waited for another flash.

The alien's eyesight did not recover as quickly as human's eyes and there was a brief three second period where movement was possible before they were able to see again. He looked out at the skyline of Washington and saw that most of it was gone. The Washington Monument was nothing more than a stump sticking out of the ground and the Lincoln Memorial was flattened. What amazed him was the building was gone but Honest Abe still sat in his chair out in the open. How it survived the blast that blew away the building was a mystery.

He waited and thought about the aliens arriving in orbit two months earlier and flashing the planet with blue beams that neutralized every nuclear weapon on the planet. Humanity's most powerful weapons were taken off the board before the first hostilities kicked off. Once they were gone, the end was a foregone conclusion. Even F 22 Raptors were no match for attack craft that could fly at double their speed and stop on a dime. It only took a week before the Air Force stopped sending jets at them. Most of the military forces on the planet were hit from space and then the real fun began with the aliens landing millions of ground troops that began systematically killing every human on the planet. Humanity was being exterminated and the end of the road was not far away. Eric shook his head and rushed across the street as another flash lit up the night. He arrived at another alley next to a building and ducked under a blown out wall as he took off his ski mask and walked down a corridor to his apartment.

Eric was a lawyer working in the Dept. of Justice prior to the alien's arrival. He no longer had a job. He was home when the beams hit the Capital Building and White House; the crater could now be seen from space. He always hated that long commute in to work but it ended up saving his life. He was far enough away to survive the shockwave. He opened the door and saw Julie huddling in the corner holding her knees to her chest as she rocked back and forth. "I've got enough to feed us for a week."

Julie shook her head, "They're a block away."

Eric jerked his head up to the television screen on the wall and saw images of the aliens moving up the street next to his apartment and knew they would arrive shortly. Eric was shocked that his apartment still had power. The building had been built with emergency generators in the basement and they still functioned. He had tuned the television to the weather channel which had solar powered cameras around the city showing weather conditions. It allowed him to watch the systematic destruction of the city. Now he saw death approaching and knew there wasn't enough time to even cook a can of beans.

He went over to Julie and put his arms around her. They had married a month before the aliens arrived and he knew he wouldn't have enough time to show her just how much he loved her. He hated the aliens for that more than anything else. He lifted her from the floor and hugged her tightly. She started crying and he felt her shaking in his embrace. He felt the huge explosion at the end of his block before the flash strobed behind it. The picture window looking out on the street was sucked out of its frame into the center of the thoroughfare.

He turned and went over to the stereo system he had purchased for ten thousand dollars and powered it. Julie had given him so much grief for buying it... but now that was no longer an issue. He pulled a cd out and put it in. He almost turned the volume low but decided that if he was going to die, it was going to be using his white elephant stereo system at high volume. He started the music, turned the volume up halfway, and played their favorite song. He held out his hand to Julie and she came into his arms and they started dancing. The music blared out at an incredible volume as he held Julie tight and listened to the lyrics.

This is the end, feel the earth move, my heart is now beating only for you.

There is no present, there is no past, there's only you to make my joy last.

Feel the love blow through my soul, your love is all I want to know...

Eric and Julie had their eyes closed and danced to the music that took their minds away from the coming horror. All the blasts and white flashes disappeared in the loud music. All they could feel was each other. The song ended and Eric kissed Julie tenderly. The kiss lasted a long time and finally Julie broke the kiss and looked up at Eric. He knew they should be dead by now. He turned and looked out of the shattered picture window and saw ten aliens looking in on them with raised blasters. The tall brown creatures were not moving. His heart went into his throat as the number of aliens outside his apartment was growing by the second. The alien in front was staring at them and it said, "We want to hear it again."

Eric looked at Julie and didn't know what to say. She ran from his arms, hit replay, and turned up the volume to full. The song began again echoing out into the buildings around the small apartment. The aliens began swaying side to side as Eric noticed that the one in front that had spoken lowered its blaster and after a moment, it fell to the ground. Julie watched them and set the song to replay automatically. After an hour they went outside as the explosions ripping through the city had stopped. Every alien in the city was standing in the streets frozen in place. Julie picked up a blaster, walked away from a group of ten aliens, and shot them. None of the others moved. Eric picked up another blaster and they walked out into the blasted city killing aliens. Eric used his Glock inside their aircraft that had landed. Soon they were joined by more survivors.

Eric discovered a week later that the aliens had inadvertently fed the music into their communications system and every alien on the planet as well as the ones on their ships in orbit was frozen. The music became instantly addictive to them and stopping it even for a moment caused them to go into hysterics until it was restarted. The surviving military scientists managed to separate several of the aliens and use music deprivation to get them to teach how to use their technology.

Three years later, Eric was on one of the alien's ships that arrived in orbit above the alien's home world and played music to the planet's communication's center. The last alien on the planet died of starvation two months later. Sometimes, the end of the road isn't what it appears to be. Then again, sometimes it is.

# Crime Fiction

Criminal transgressions have a way of driving people to the end of the road, often, but not always, under their own steam. We are as fascinated by the mind of the criminal as by that of the victim., especially when these turn out to be the same person.

# 19 A Touch of Cold

**B y Robert Thomas**

* * *

The sun streaks through the dirty pane as the new day finally starts. The light exposes the blue and white cigarette smoke hanging in the stale air. I rub my eyes as the light intrudes. The four walls are beginning to close in on me. I've been here too long.

I reach for another 'Lucky', the pack lying in the glass tray on my desk within easy reach. I twirl it in my hand wondering if I really want another. What the hell, I thought. I swipe the match across the well-worn spot on my desk as the head flares to life and lights the end. The smoke slides into my mouth easily. I pull it down into my lungs and let it slip out through my nose. It feels good, my nose open again as my head cold had finally passed.

I lean back, my old wooden chair creaking beneath me. The wooden slats dig into my button-down in the same place they always have. Twenty years I've spent sitting in this rickety old thing. I'm not sure why it never has crashed beneath my fat butt. As I lay my arms down, the leather armrests hit in just the right spot. That's why I love this chair so much. I spin and look through the streaky grime on the glass and out into the new day. All I can see is the last two floors of the brick building across the street. That, and another gray sky in this crappy town. It doesn't feel like the first day of spring in Chicago. Too cold.

I blow another cloud into the room, the smoke lingering with nowhere to go. At least in the summer I can switch on an oscillating fan. I look at the old black one sitting off in the corner, the dust and cobwebs thick on its porcelain coating. I could get up and turn it on, but that would require effort, something I clearly don't seem to have today.

Perhaps a drink would make me feel better and soothe the scratch still lingering in my throat. A shot of bourbon at 7:42 in the morning. Nothing like the life of a single man; an old single man. Old at the age of forty-two it seems. I turn back around in my seat and lean forward, pulling the lower drawer straight out. I hear the bottle roll in the bottom and note a hollow tap of glass against the wood. I suppose most would keep files in this drawer but the only files I need have Beam written on the label. I sigh as I feel the weight of the bottle in my hand and as it clears the drawer my eye confirms what I suspect; nearly, but not quite empty. Just enough for a few good shots or a highball. That should do the trick. A highball wouldn't burn so much.

I shuffle through my drawers for a mixer; nothin'. I'm about to give up until I see a half-empty bottle of club soda sitting on the hulking bureau across my office. I roll another cloud into the air knowing the mix is what I really want. Without another thought I push my bulky frame off my chair and hear it roll into the wall. There's been a lot of damage to that plaster over the years. I grab the soda after just a few quick steps. The bottle's cool, just like the temperature in my office. As I straighten I can see down the dingy hallway all the way to the front doors.

As I look around the corner I see Doris' seat empty. Another thirty before she comes in, I imagine. She's a sweetheart, that one. Too bad her husband is a mook. I'd sooner jump in front of a street car than loan him a dollar. Treats her like dirt. If times were different I'd show her the high life, and put his feet in a nice pair of cement shoes. I can smell her perfume from here. What I wouldn't give to take that dame out for a spin.

Looking around my sparse office I chuckle at the notion. I barely have two nickels to rub together and pay her a paltry sum to boot. They'd have a right nice place if that lug could hold a job. Imagine, in the middle of a world war the man can't hold a job in the civilian world. Most guys are fightin' and dyin' half a world away and he's living the easy life.

The front door opens and the cold wind enters along with Doris, the flurries lingering a moment before she can get the door shut. She turns, stomping her feet on the rug to get winter's crust off her shoes, her coat flapping as she begins to walk down the hall to shake off the snow, she smiles that big smile that melts my heart as her eyes lift to meet mine.

"Morning. Didn't expect to see you here this early." I look away and down at the floor. Sometimes I think she can see my heart and into my soul. I must keep that door shut. "Coffee?"

"You're not making coffee with that soda bottle in your hand," she says, shooting a knowing look my way.

"Hey, a guy can change." The smirk that washes across her face lifts my heart and I lay the club soda on the desk behind me. The new electric coffee pot is soon bubbling away and the smell fills our small office.

"Best thing I've seen invented in years," I say as I turn the corner back into her small space. I nearly drop my cup as I see her bent over at the waist showing those long gams. The hot java slips into my mouth and I feel the warmth in my chest. "No more tin pots on a stove." I turn around quickly, not wanting to stare. "I'll be in my office."

The morning drags on with nothing new. Even the news in the paper is the same old thing. Stories about the war in Europe where they don't really tell you anything take up the first five pages. The next two about the Pacific. Again, heavily censored. Even the big city of Chicago is quiet.

"Where are you going?"

"Out to lunch, doll." I spin and give a weak smile. "Pick you up anything?"

"No. I'll only be here another couple of hours."

"Not stayin' the whole day?"

"No. I have a doctor's visit, remember?"

She looks down at her desk and I can see her shy side, and it is beautiful. I'm fairly certain the rabbit is going to die for this visit. Pity.

My lunch takes longer than I expect as O'Malley's is open early. My favorite bar stool near the heater leans just to the right, which is good because when I drink, I lean to the left. It's a perfect balance. As I swing the front door open those long legs are coming down the hall at me. I smile and she smiles back.

"I'll be in at the usual time tomorrow." She rests her hand on my arm to steady me, leans in and gives me a gentle peck on the cheek. "Try and stay out of trouble till then, please?" Her smile warms me more than the bourbon I have waiting back in my desk drawer. "Need help back to your desk?"

I nod politely and smile as her hand brushes my shoulder. She's out the door quickly, her red hair disappearing behind the frosted glass. The hallway light is barely enough to reflect off the paint. The shallow globes above haven't been cleaned in years. I stagger toward my door at the end of the hall and stop, looking at the glass framed into the dark oak door. I can barely read the words etched into its surface, but I don't need to. I know what it says. Twenty years of my name scratched into that door and what do I have to show for it? Nothing. Bobby Hale, Private Investigator, schlep!

I awake as a bright moon beams through my grimy window adding its light to my dim office. I look down and see my Luckies staring back at me. The craving hits and hits hard. Alcohol goes hand in hand with smokes. It's a funny thing. One feeds off the other. It's a vicious circle. I rub my eyes with my fists then reach down and tap a slim out and it quickly finds my lips. The moon's light now brightens the pale smoke as its brother did twelve hours ago. My throat is still raw from the whiskey at O'Malley's. I guess a hair of the dog is what's needed.

I hear a low thud, the sort of sound one notices when all else is quiet. Its vibration carries down the hall and into my office. I know that noise; the bottom of the front door sticking against the floor as it opens. That's not something I normally hear this late at night.

The thought of a smooth shot of bourbon quickly slips from my mind. I lean back in my chair scanning for the holster taped beneath the right side of the desk. It's empty, my .38 nowhere to be found. I blink and am immediately as sober as I've been all day. I squirm as an uneasiness settles over me. This doesn't feel right. I rifle through the drawers, pulling them in and out as fast as I can. It's gotta' be here somewhere. Nothin'. The blue haze of smoke parts as my door creaks open slowly and I hear the telltale sound of a gun's hammer locking in place.

"Good evening, Mr. Hale." I look up at the sound of the voice, its owner silhouetted against the dull light of the hallway. "Nice to see you again."

"Do I know you?" I lean back in my chair hearing the spring squeak. It does little to mask my heart pounding in my chest. I can feel the beads of sweat building on my forehead.

"You should, Mr. Hale. You should." The tall figure slips in closing the door halfway behind him.

"Can't say that I do." I lean back in the chair trying to seem relaxed. "I do recognize your friend there. Colt, I believe is his name."

"Very funny Mr. Hale. You always had a keen sense of humor."

"Care to meet mine?" I lean forward grabbing the near-empty bottle still on the desk from the morning. "Mr. Beam." I hoist the bottle and shrug, setting it back down. I sure would hate to lose the last drink to this mook. "Care for a swig?"

"Thank you, no."

"Suit yourself. I prefer to drink alone anyway." I reach for the top drawer and immediately see the Colt raised a little higher in my direction. I nod, pulling the drawer out and setting it on the desk. "Just my favorite glass for two fingers." I lift the glass out, placing it next to the bottle and slide the drawer back into its hole.

"You don't remember me? Really?"

I hear the snide attitude in his remark as I shake my head no and he lowers his enforcer. My jitters remain but begin to subside at the thought of a shot sliding into my gut. I swirl the glass and watch my brown friend coat the sides. I peer over the edge and study his face. Something about him is familiar; something from the past.

"You cost me a lot of money five years ago Mr. Hale."

"How's that?" I lay the glass down on the desk without it kissing my lips. I've got to keep a level head as my options look to be few.

"Do you remember a two-bit hood named Jacques Bourget?"

"Name rings a bell. It's been some time though." My mind begins to race as I try to think of some way out of this. "Somewhere near the river he met his maker. Yes, from a bridge. A nasty fall."

"Yes, nasty indeed."

"What's that got to do with me?"

"Jacques Bourget was my brother, Mr. Hale. And you killed him."

"I did what?" His words not only caught my attention, they almost sober me up. "I wasn't anywhere near him."

"Perhaps not, but you killed him as sure as I'm gonna' kill you here tonight."

"Just how did I kill your brother, seeing as I wasn't even there?"

"Your cop friend, Randy DeLarose knows. He was there. He killed my brother."

"What the hell does that have to do with me?"

"You gave that weasel the goods on Jacques." His voice gets angrier and he raises his colt again, pressing it toward me. "Jacques found a way into the bank on Canal Street. He worked for weeks burrowing to just beneath the floor."

"And as I remember he almost got away with it."

"He did get away with it Mr. Hale. He got away with over fifty-thousand dollars. It was perfect. Didn't you ever wonder why he never made it to court, Mr. Hale? It was DeLarose what tossed him in the drink, right after Jacques gave up where he hid the money."

I look down the hall just as the door begins to open, the streetlight flooding into the building. I see a familiar shapely figure shake her coat and begin her sultry walk down the dim hallway. I feel the lump in my throat grow as Mr. Lucky here slides down beside the bureau and backs into the darkened corner. His eyes narrow as he lowers his voice.

"Get rid of her or yours won't be the only head with a hole in it tonight."

I begin to rise slowly but he waves me back down with the gun. I get the point. I gotta get her out of here. She stops just at the edge of the door and peaks in.

"Still here, Bobby?"

"Just cleaning up a few last minute details." I clear my throat as I lean back in the chair. "What are you doing here? How'd the visit go?

"I won't know anything for a few days." She sounds dejected, her tone not her normal self. "I'll just be a minute."

I hear her rummaging around in the outer office. It is the longest minute of my entire life as my new friend just stands in the corner with his colt trained on my head. My insides still shaking I fire up another Lucky as another light blue cloud finds the moonlight.

"Don't stay too late, Bobby," I hear her say as those long legs slide down the hallway. If I'm lucky I'll see those gams again tomorrow. If not, well, I hope things don't go that way.

"Very good, Mr. Hale. There's no need for three to die tonight."

"Three? Who's the other unlucky stiff?"

"Why, your good friend detective Delarose of course." He steps back into the dim light showing his muscle. "Haven't you wondered why I chose tonight to visit you?"

"That had crossed my mind."

"You see, our good friend the detective met the fishes tonight and I have my money back. In a fitting tribute I tucked a single dollar into his pocket before he had his swim. I stashed the rest in my car and I'll be leaving the city in a few minutes."

"Then why off me, pally? You've got what you always wanted."

"Just to end things on a proper note, Mr. Hale. I do like things tidy, you know."

The colt rises before me in the dim light of a cold moonlit night. I stare down the barrel, shaking like never before as a peculiar thought crosses my mind. I have always been told you never hear the one that sends you to your maker. A click and a muffled pop echoes as the door explodes filling my lap with shards of frosted glass. My eyes wide with fright, my vision locked on, nothing.

I blink, wondering if this is what heaven feels like. I feel a heightened chill across my skin when the pale light of the hallway filters into the blue, smoke-filled room as a small puddle grows between my legs. I see my heaven-sent angel through the haze standing before me, her hands wrapped around my .38. Her soft red hair leans into the office through the missing glass in the door staring at the bloody lump on the floor in front of my desk.

"My, my, Bobby. Such nasty friends you have." She saunters in and lowers her hands onto the glass-filled desk. "I'll be leaving now, with the fifty-gees." She lays the .38 on the desk and turns, "You coming?"

The End

Official website of author Robert Thomas

# 20 The Last Hours of Brandon Kratz

**B y James Rozoff**

* * *

The trail of corpses will lead them here. They'll find their killer, they always do. But the reign of terror made it worthwhile, a few days of carnage that had the entire country glued to their television sets wondering how long it would last. And though it will all end at the cabin up ahead, the world will not soon forget the name of Brandon Kratz.

The cabin cannot be too far now, I know these woods too well to be mistaken.

They will find their man, but they'll never find the answers they're looking for. They'll never understand how a seemingly loving family man could have killed his wife and children and fed them to the neighbor's dogs. They'll never understand how a person who looked so normal could be capable of such evil. Sure, there's the rambling manifesto they found on Facebook, but that will serve more to disturb than enlighten. They'll talk to the neighbors and relatives, who will tell them what a friendly and helpful person Brandon Kratz had always been. But these answers are not the ones that will help them sleep soundly at night. These are answers that only serve the festering doubt and fear that will linger in their minds and hearts.

What they want is to think that there is something that separates unfeeling, uncaring killers from the rest of society, some distinction that they can make and so separate the horror from their own lives. But they will find no answers because there are none, at least not the kind that bring comfort. Many murderers have given their explanations for what they have done, but the average person is unwilling to accept the truth of such explanations. They want rational reasons and are unwilling to cross into the territory of insanity, which is where all the real answers lie. They like to believe in a rational world, but they are too cowardly to embrace the truth that the world is the better part irrational.

I continue on my way towards my final destination, keeping to the woods and shadows in case the helicopters come. There is a determination in my stride, and I will myself to confidence regarding the direction I take. There really is no point in doubting myself now.

Would you like my truth? I have done what I did because I am God to myself. Perhaps you feel the same way too: frankly, I don't care. I only know that there is no reason not to take what I want, do what I want. I see no reason to care about a world that is outside of myself. What good is it if it is not there for my pleasure? I don't care about you, nor would I ask you to care about me.

Ah, but you do care, don't you? You and everybody in Southern California are very concerned about me, concerned that I am out there, somewhere, unchained by the laws of society. You will not rest soundly until Brandon Kratz is captured or dead. Have no fear, you will get your wish soon enough.

I estimate I have about a fifteen minute walk yet. The going is slower than I anticipated. But I cannot come up short now, not when I am so close to the end.

The life of a serial killer is brief but thrilling. I am like a force of nature that tears through a neighborhood, a city, the countryside. Like an approaching tornado, a community forgets about their normal lives and activities. I am the one concern. I am the center of the universe, mine and theirs. And for a brief time, I am the only thing that exists, the only thing that matters. Ayn Rand grasped merely a portion of the truth. If self-interest is the highest good, why stop at pursuing my own ends, why not bend all others to my own desires? Why not have the universe exist for me?

And so it began. If one starts out quietly, there is a lot of time to commit the initial murders before talk of a serial killer begins. I disposed of the wife and children first. I then quietly dispensed with the elderly woman across the street. With her blood I left a note on her wall in order to alert the authorities as to whom they were dealing with—the name Brandon Kratz was written in letters five feet tall, with every drop the old woman had in her. It took her lazy son two days to get around to paying her a visit, even after he must have heard about the murders in her neighborhood.

I guess I'm fortunate that I don't look like a killer. People seem to trust me, maybe because I'm good at appearing caring. Even more important than not appearing threatening, I believe my features are generic enough to allow me to blend in with a crowd. If you saw me walking down the street, chances are you wouldn't even notice me. Try it the next time you're in a busy restaurant or a crowded mall. Take a look around you and see if you can spot the next Brandon Kratz that's about to go off the deep end. See if you can spot the one carrying a weapon, see if you can catch a glimpse of murder in a stranger's eye.

The temperature is warm and I am dressed for protection rather than comfort. The sweat makes my clothing cling to my body, making every movement an exertion. It occurs to me that I haven't slept since this all started, more than three days now. I have been living on adrenaline, but that can only take you so far. I am tired. I'm glad that I am almost at the end of my journey. I think back on what a journey it has been.

There've been a lot of mass murders in the L.A. area recently. There's been such a rash of murders that people are wondering if there is something in the air or in the water. There is a lot of talk and—typically—nothing will ever come of it. But even in this place and time, the name of Brandon Kratz will stand out. More than Billy Moreau's four murders, more than Eric Cooper's five. Even Ryan Kennedy's seven murders don't add up to Brandon Kratz's total. I've been on quite a roll. Let's see, now, Stefani Kratz, and Codi Kratz, and little Amber. Old lady Weathers. That hitchhiker, Chad, I think his name was. And then there was the mall shooting. I only killed two there, but I escaped, which was the important thing. I don't think anybody even saw me there, although I'm sure I must be on some security camera somewhere wearing my trench coat and black military helmet. Kind of stupid of me, doing that at a crowded mall. Too easy to get caught. They could have got me alive, which would have been horrible. They would have stuck me under a microscope and viewed me like I was a bug. Much better this way, where they are searching for me with satellites.

Sorry, where was I? Six—no, seven, I'm forgetting Chad again. And then there were the two sheriff's deputies that pulled me over. That was well done, they were armed and dangerous. But it cost me; I had to leave my car in the process and I'm pretty sure the cops will know where I am and that I'm on foot. I'm in the woods so they'll be able to limit their search to a relatively small area. The road's coming to an end for Brandon Kratz, but it will be the ending that I design. All I have to do is make it to the cabin.

It won't be far now. I'd love to get rid of this riot facemask, but it's part of the plan. There's really no path anymore, just trees and undergrowth. Still, I know it can't be far. I feel it in my bones.

I approach the cabin. It does not belong to me, but I know about it, planned to make it the end of my road. I open up the door and the terrified pleas begin.

"Where's my family? Did you do something to them? Are they okay? Why are you doing this? Please, please don't hurt them."

"Now, Mr. Kratz," I say "I've explained this to you before. There's been a lot of killing and someone is going to have to take the blame for all the damage done."

What society really wants is to get a hold of the psychopath and make him pay for what he's done. But they rarely get the chance. Too often, the murderer kills himself rather than being taken alive. Such will be the case today.

"The people will need some kind of closure, no matter how unfulfilling," I continue. "A corpse is better than nothing. At least that way they'll be able to sleep tonight.

"Now if you'll agree to open your mouth for me, I can promise to make your end short and painless. But it won't look like suicide through clenched teeth. Are you going to cooperate?"

He looks at me with a clenched jaw and a look of defiance, as though anything he did mattered to me.

"No? Well, your loss. This might take a while longer, but the result will be the same."

I place the gun to the side of Brandon Kratz's head, wait for him to stop his futile head movements. I'm tempted to make the shot a poor one, make him suffer for his insolence. But I know I can only use one shot if it's going to look like it is self-inflicted. I have to make it a good one. When I know I have a good shot, I pull the trigger. It's a full cascade of blood, brain and bone that comes out the other side of his head, and Kratz quickly slumps in his chair. I untie my victim and allow him to drop to the floor. He's lying in his ever-increasing pool of blood, his tongue hanging from his mouth as though he were a gibbering idiot. "It's a pity they never count my final victim," I think to myself. I always feel cheated by that.

According to news coverage, Brandon Kratz's body was found in a cabin in the mountains last evening. He had shot himself in the head, it was reported, his suicide bringing to an end the latest and deadliest in a recent spate of killings. As for me, I'm busy clipping newspaper articles at the moment. After a little time off to rest up, I'll be searching once again for another Brandon Kratz, the normal kind of person that no one would ever suspect could commit the horrible crimes he'll be accused of.

The next time you're in a busy restaurant or a crowded mall, take a look around, see if you can spot the next Brandon Kratz. Is it the tired-looking waitress that's pouring your coffee, the man sitting next to you with his wife and kids, or the older gentleman at the bookstore who looks incapable of harming a fly? It could be anybody. It might even be you.

* * *

For more information on James Rozoff and his writing:

Within The Mind of James Rozoff

# 21 Because I Love You

**B y Michael Meyer**

* * *

She minced no words when she finally spoke. "We both know that this is the end of the road."

For several awful seconds, silence was king, reigning with an omnipotence that frightened him more intensely than he had ever been scared before.. "But why?"

"You know why."

"But I love you."

"And I love you. I always have and always will. You know that."

He knew that she would soon be ending his life, and he was outraged by his predicament and bewildered by her words. "I do not. I know no such thing."

"Yes, you do." Her eyes held steady, the firmness of her tone reflected by the narrowing of her eyes.

He wanted to reach out to her, but he knew that that was impossible. He was held securely to the earth, and there was absolutely nothing that he could do about it. It was a hopeless situation. It had all happened so fast, and yet it had been such a slow process. How he had ended up like this was a question that tortured his brain. There were so many ways to answer, but did any of them really fit? He had always been a cautious sort, and yet this time, the one time in his life that it really mattered, he had been caught completely off guard, not fully comprehending the deadly seriousness of the situation until it was too late.

_Was_ it too late?

He tried to think. He _had_ to think. But everything was coming up so blurry. The silence that had suddenly come between them spoke loudly, but it only screamed in vain since there was no one near enough to hear or to see. She had obviously planned carefully. There would be no witnesses.

She bent down and gently kissed his cheek. Then she slowly caressed his face.

Even now, constrained as he was, he couldn't help the flutter of excitement he felt from her lips and fingers against his skin.

"Then why this?" he said. The roses all around were in full bloom. The rainbow of colors in the field were as beautiful as anything he had ever seen, and he had seen plenty in his life. The lush fragrances added to the serenity of the death scene. Everything was so juxtaposed, the world—his world—turned completely upside down. It just didn't make any sense.

Or did it?

"How can you be doing this to me if you love me?" he asked, his voice fighting to prevent the panic he felt from coming between them. He well knew that this was a life and death situation, and it was his imminent death that was at stake. He had to remain cool, calm, and collected. It was his only hope. He had to make her see.

But see what? It was all so confusing.

She smiled down at him. She had such white teeth. Her smile was as lovely as the colorful roses surrounding her kneeling frame, as feminine and delicate as the pink dress she wore. "It's because I love you that I have to do this." She touched him gently, her fingers softly rubbing his arm in the way she used to do as they snuggled in bed, cuddling before their daily lovemaking, when the world had been so grand, so wonderful, as if they were living a dream come true.

Maybe _this_ was a dream, but her sudden laughter told him otherwise. This was real, not some awful figment of his imagination.

"I adore you," she said. "I will miss you terribly."

His eyes, the only part of his body that had any way to move, looked into hers, and he could see that her words were heartfelt.

"You're crazy," he said. "I think you know that."

She laughed again, the cheerful laughter of the little girl that still resided somewhere within her. "I know I'm crazy about you," she said. "I always have been, since the very first day I met you." She smiled down at him, her lips as lovely as the blooming spring. "And I will continue to do so for the rest of my life."

_The rest of my life!_ The words were so terrifying to hear. Even though she had been referring to her own life, it was his that was about to come to an abrupt end.

He tried to turn towards her, but it was useless. She had done a real job on him, his body clamped to the ground under the tight canvas, the ropes and stakes firmly pressing his limbs into the grassy field. His head faced the open sky, as blue as her eyes, the weather as warm as her touch, the scene for as far as the human eye could see as silent as the windless day, and as devoid of any possibility of help nearby. He was on his own. There would be no rescue. If he were to survive, it would have to be entirely of his own doing.

His only hope was to remain calm, and to try to reason with her. Physically, he could do nothing to prevent her ending his life, but mentally he had a chance, slight as it might be. He fought to keep any trace of the anxiety he felt from finding a home in his tone. "That's a laugh," he said, which he immediately regretted having said, even though he had gotten the knife in, so to speak.

She laughed...and laughed.

Then suddenly she stopped. She began caressing his cheeks again, gently, softly, and lovingly. "Let's just be still for a while, okay? Please."

He started to say something, but then stopped.

She smiled. He had to admit that she had the most gorgeous smile he had ever seen. She was stunningly beautiful.

"There, that's so much better. Don't you agree?" She kissed the end of her finger and pressed it against his nose. "So much better. Yes, it is. Let's just sit here for a while and savor the moment. After all, it will be last we will ever spend together."

"But--"

She was quick to cut him off. "But nothing, my darling. Let's not waste the precious little time we have to ourselves on meaningless words."

He kept his mouth shut. He had no idea how to respond. What _could_ he __ say? He needed to use the time available to him to think. Just to think.

He tried to formulate a plan, but his mind wandered back to the first time he had seen her. It had been at the local gym. He couldn't keep his eyes off of her. She had walked in as if she owned the place, and, with all the stares in her direction, she very well could have. She was certainly the center of everyone's attention. When she entered a room, people stopped to have a look, a good look. It was very difficult to pull one's eyes from her. She was a magical figure. It was if she were a magnet, capturing one's eyes and holding them in place.

And the greatest thing about her was that she was so down to earth, so unassuming, so easygoing and friendly, full of laughter and gaiety.

What a time they had had together. The time spent with her had been dreamlike. It had been—

"So are you ready?" he suddenly heard her say.

"Ready for what?"

"You know," she said, and she smiled sweetly at him, her face as pretty as anything he had ever seen.

"Why are you doing this?" He knew that fear had penetrated his tone. He just couldn't help himself any longer.

"You know very well why I have to do this." She stroked his cheek, then kissed it for the very last time. "Goodbye, my dear."

Wait!"

A hawk could be seen in the distance.

"You know full well why I must do this," she said. "It is because I love you so much."

"We've been through this before," he said. "I did not do it. I swear."

But she said nothing.

"I swear on everything that is holy that I did not do it," he said. He knew he was pleading, but what else was there for him to do? He _had_ to get her ear before it was too late.

"I am so sorry, my darling, but it is way too late for that, and you know it."

"I know no such thing!" He was shouting. Why wouldn't she listen? And that's when he heard it. "What's that you're doing?' he asked her.

"Don't worry, my darling. I promise you that it will not hurt for long."

Then he knew. She slowly poured the gasoline all over the canvas, saving his head for last. She was meticulous. She did not miss a thing.

It stank.

And then out came the match.

It wasn't for another week that she discovered the truth. She had been poking through the papers in his desk when she came upon it. At first she was shocked. Then she became scared by what she had done, but this quickly turned to anger—directed at him. It was _his_ fault. He had no one else to blame but himself. He just had not been persuasive. If he had been much more forceful and forthcoming in his denials, then all of this would never have taken place. They would still be together, as happy as can be, living life to the fullest.

She sat down, her head in her hands, but she did not sob. She worked her brain until she made things right. The stiff drink she had helped. She felt much better now. She could live with this. She was not to blame in the least for what had happened. Life would go on. Happy memories would sustain her. She would find someone new. She would be happily married once again. Yes, she would. She was determined.

She smiled at the thought. Life was good again, just as it was supposed to be. At least they had loved each other "until death do us part," and, in this day and age, there was a lot to be said for that.

* * *

THE END

About The Author

I have resided in and have visited many places in the world, all of which have contributed in some way to my own published writing. I have literally traveled throughout the world, on numerous occasions. I have lived in Finland, Germany, Thailand, Saudi Arabia (where COVERT DREAMS is set), and the U.S. Virgin Islands (where DEADLY EYES is set). I gained the wanderlust to see the world, to experience other cultures, at an early age, and this desire has never left me. If anything, it has only gained in intensity as I have aged. I try to travel internationally at least once a year. In the interim, I spend lots of time traveling around both my home state of California and other nearby states.

I spent my early years in the small town of Lone Pine, California, the home of almost every western movie, in addition to a wide variety of other genres, made in the 30's, 40's, 50's, and 60's. In fact, Hollywood still films parts of big-time movies there today. My dad, the town's lifeguard at the time, personally knew John Wayne, Lloyd Bridges, and Lee Marvin, all of whom came to the town's pool, the Memorial Plunge, at times to cool off after a hectic day of working in the sun. I was even an extra in a movie filmed there in 1957, MONOLITH MONSTERS, a B-cult favorite even today. I was ten years old at the time. Even though I resided in a small town hours from the big city, I was exposed to the excitement of action and heroes at a formative age, and, thus, my interest in writing novels of suspense such as COVERT DREAMS and DEADLY EYES was born. I am particularly proud of the fact that these two international suspense thrillers are rated #1 and #2 on the Goodreads Recommended Thriller/Suspense list.

As a recent retiree from a forty-year career as a professor of writing, I now live in Southern California wine country with my wife, Kitty, and our two adorable rescue cats.

SPECIAL NOTE: COVERT DREAMS has recently received a Compulsion Reads endorsement. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Compulsion Reads, this company specializes in reviewing and endorsing those novels that meet its quality standards based on the fundamental qualities of good storytelling. Many books that the company reviews don't earn their endorsement, so this is a pretty big deal.

# Horror Stories

The fearsome, the terrifying, that which challenges our sense of where the natural limits are, or ought to be, always dwells in the vicinity of the end of the road. All that remains to be determined is whether it lies on this side... or the other. And as readers, we are often dying to find out.

# 22 The Sinkhole

**B y Scott Langrel**

* * *

The sinkhole sat in the woods near the end of the gravel road which wound lazily in front of my house and disappeared into the pine thickets at the base of Drover Mountain. Ol' Hank, when he was feeling talkative (a condition usually brought on by finding the bottom of a liquor bottle), would spin a morbid tale about the old homestead which once sat on that spot, and of the woman who dwelt within the house.

"A witch," he would say with simple and absolute conviction, though the events that had supposedly taken place there had transpired way before his time. The graveness of his tone never failed to amuse me; however, Hank would not speak of the thing unless the sun was bright overhead, and even then only when alcohol had loosened his lips.

In truth, I never considered the story to be anything other than an old wives' tale, something constructed to send children (as well as adults of questionable intelligence) racing to their bedrooms to hunker under their covers until sleep or dawn found them. Modern thinking and logic demanded no less; these were not, after all, the ages of the witch trials in Salem. Yet, though I fancied myself a man of reason since returning from the university, I was still a child of the Appalachian hills in which I had been raised. In some instances, ingrained superstition refuses to be swayed by a fancy degree.

I tell you this in preface so that you might understand my frame of mind during the events which occurred in the spring of 1936. The area had received a copious amount of snowfall during the previous winter season, and the spring had arrived wet and chilly. Having finished my studies nearly six months prior, I had returned home to Shallow Springs and promptly hung out my shingle in the town proper. Being the only lawyer within fifty miles guaranteed me a limited number of clients, though even then it was apparent that I would have to move elsewhere to find more than a meager income.

It began with a knock upon my door on a rainy evening in April. I was still a bachelor in those days, and given to working late into the night, so the knocking did not rouse me from slumber. I was, however, immersed in my work and was thus a trifle annoyed at the interruption, especially when I opened the door and discovered that the source of the knocking was none other than William Bennet, my direct neighbor to the north. Mr. Bennet and I had recently exchanged heated words over a property boundary, and I had no desire to resume the conversation at such an hour. I strove to remain cordial, though, and inquired as to his business.

"Cow's been poisoned," he said. "I mean to file a complaint."

"Poisoned?" I asked, uncertain as to whether he was accusing me or asking me to act on his behalf. "How can you be sure? Is the animal dead?"

"No, it's the calf. Come take a look."

"Mr. Bennet, I am an attorney. If you suspect that a crime has been committed, you need to contact the sheriff."

"Come take a look," he repeated, and after a pause added, "please?"

It was then that I noticed that his demeanor, which I had at first taken to be disgruntlement, was more fearful than contrary. Though I was loath to leave my warm and dry house, my curiosity began to get the better of me, and I consented to accompany him.

After taking the time to get my coat and hat, I followed him to his pickup. The distance from my house to Bennet's farm was less than a quarter mile, but the rain and darkness conspired to make the trip longer than it should have taken otherwise. After a time, however, Bennet's farmhouse appeared in the yellowish glow of the truck's headlamps.

Bennet pulled in front of the house, yet seemed reluctant to leave the confines of the vehicle. Though the night was tinged by a definite chill, sweat had nonetheless formed on his forehead. I thought to inquire as to the nature of his apparent unease, but then he shut off the engine and exited the vehicle, motioning for me to follow.

We proceeded not toward the darkened house, but instead to the large barn which sat at the rear of a fenced-in lot and bordered the pasture field. As we stepped out of the rain into the structure, I was hard pressed to see anything past the length of my outstretched arm. I heard Bennet fumbling with something, and suddenly the interior of the barn was cast into a bright light. Squinting against the glare, I saw that he had lit an oil lamp.

"It's back here," he said, and advanced deeper into the black void. I followed quickly behind him, suddenly having no desire to linger in the inky shadows, though I had no tangible reason for my sudden unease. The smell of damp hay and manure was nearly insufferable, but I steeled my senses as we hastened to one of the stalls near the back of the barn. Here Bennet paused, either unwilling or unable to cross the threshold. Though still ill at ease, my curiosity was piqued. I strained to peer into the dark stall.

"The calf is in there?" I asked, anxious to get this business over with and return to my warm house.

Bennet nodded and licked his lips, a nervous gesture. He said nothing, but offered me the lantern. I took it from him impatiently. I had seen dead animals before, and nothing I had heard or seen up till then had led me to believe that I would see anything different here.

"Mind the cow," Bennet whispered harshly. "She's plenty spooked."

I studied him for a moment before nodding, then turned my attention to the stall's interior. The first thing that caught my attention was the cow. She was pressing heavily against the side of the stall, as if attempting to break through the wooden boards and escape beyond the confinement of the small room. Her large eyes were wide and fixated upon something on the floor, which I was as yet unable to see due to the mounds of hay and shadows.

Cautiously, I stepped further into the stall, all the while being mindful of the cow, which looked to be ready to bolt at any given moment. A shrill noise stung my ears, a sound somewhere between the cry of a newborn baby and the screech of an attacking bird of prey. I swung around in an attempt to identify the source of this wretched sound and my gaze fell upon a sight which has haunted my nightmares to this very day.

The thing that lay on the floor of the stall, thrashing weakly in the scattered hay, was nothing short of an abomination. That I did not drop the lamp and run blindly from the barn is something that I still marvel at. Surely any reasonable man would have done as much. Yet I believe now that only sheer terror held me rooted to the spot, though I would like to think that morbid curiosity kept me from fleeing into the rainy night.

To call the thing a calf required a colossal stretch of the imagination. Only the color of the thing—and the fact that it had four legs—even remotely resembled a young bovine. The head was large and misshapen, in which were set a pair of eyes more closely akin to those of a reptile. A black tongue of improbable length and width lolled from the creature's mouth, which was also unproportionally large. Forcing myself to inspect the thing more closely, I saw that the mouth contained teeth—not the rounded molars of a herbivore, but the saber-like teeth of a gar fish. The thing's body was serpentine and lacked real substance, and the frail, spindly legs seemed to have been added merely as an afterthought.

"Dear God," I breathed, and turned to look at Bennet. He still stood outside the stall, his eyes averted downward. Whether it was from shame for not entering the stall with me or from no desire to look upon the pitiful creature again, I do not know.

"Some kind of poison, wouldn't you think?" he asked, still regarding the earthen floor. "I mean, it would have to be, to cause something like... that."

"I have no idea," I replied truthfully. "I have never before seen anything like it." I shuddered involuntarily. "What do you mean to do with it?"

He shrugged. "It won't live for long. Can't. The mother'll have nothing to do with it."

I couldn't properly say that I blamed the cow. Yet the thought of leaving one of God's creatures, even one so horribly disfigured, to starve to death did not sit well with me. I figured it would be more humane to end the beast's suffering, and said as much.

"Do as you like," Bennet said. "I ain't touching the thing."

I started to point out that it was, after all, his property, and that it was only fitting that he should assist me, but I wished to take my leave as soon as possible, and I didn't see the need for argument. I inquired if he might have a shovel handy, and he went to fetch one.

The few moments that Bennet was gone were some of the longest of my life. Though reason told me I had nothing to fear from the misshapen mass on the floor behind me, the mountain boy within me wanted desperately to flee. That part of me had no truck with poisons or freaks of nature. To that superstitious part of my mind, the reason behind the deformed calf was obvious.

_Witchcraft_.

I shook my head vigorously, determined not to fall victim to hysteria. Events such as this were not uncommon; most travelling carnivals had their share of such oddities stored in large glass jars filled with formaldehyde. It was an unfortunate event, yes, but there was nothing supernatural about it. The weather and lateness of the hour simply combined to make it seem so.

Bennet returned with the shovel, and I gave an involuntary sigh of relief. Steeling my resolve, I took the shovel from him and turned back to the pitiful creature. I took no pleasure in dispatching the beast, yet I would be lying if I said that I did not feel somehow better when it had taken its last breath. I do not say this to seem cruel. It was as if some small part of the world had been returned to normal. Even the cow seemed to sense it, and relaxed somewhat.

I helped Bennet wrangle the carcass into a burlap sack, after which we hastily buried the thing behind the barn. As we walked back to the pickup, I couldn't help but notice a change in him. The relief on his face was palpable. We spoke little on the drive back to my house, but as I was readying to get out of the truck, he put a hand on my shoulder.

"I want to thank you," he said. "As for that business with the property line, I want to apologize."

"There's no need," I assured him. "Bygones are bygones, as far as I'm concerned."

"Even so, I feel bad for the way I acted." His face brightened somewhat. "Why don't you come over for dinner Friday? I haven't had much company since the Missus passed away."

I started to beg off, but felt instantly ashamed. What would it hurt?

"That would be nice. Thank you." I again started to exit the pickup, but a question suddenly popped into my mind, and I turned back to him before I could think about it.

"You haven't been up to the sinkhole lately, have you?"

"I was up that way last week, hunting. Why?"

"Just wondering if it was still there," I lied. "Haven't been there since I was a boy."

"Hasn't changed a bit," he said. "Nothing much around these parts does."

I nodded. "Well, good evening. I'll see you Friday." I alit from the truck and shut the door behind me.

I stood in the rain and I watched his taillights until they faded from view, and then I turned and walked to my house, shivering not from the night's damp chill, but from a premonition of things to come.

The familiar drudgery of work served to soothe my nerves over the next several days, and by the time Friday came, logic and reason once again ruled my mind. Though the frightful image of the deformed calf had not diminished in my memory, I now attributed it no more superstition than the sight of a black cat or the accidental spilling of salt at the dinner table. It was fodder for the uneducated, and nothing more.

The day was still bright and warm when I arrived home, though the shadows were beginning to lengthen. I hastened inside, resolved to forego any work, and went about preparing myself for the evening. I had even undergone a change of attitude and was actually looking forward to dinner with Bennet, having decided that it would serve me well to be on good terms with my closest neighbor.

The sun had just settled on the mountaintop when I emerged from my house and walked to my car. The air had taken on the hint of a chill, but the coming evening held the promise of clear skies and no rain. Spring had indeed arrived, and with it the anticipation of a world reborn. I whistled a tune as I started the engine and pulled the car out into the lane.

By the time I arrived at Bennet's house, the hollow was cast in deep shadow. A warm light shone from the windows of the farmhouse, beckoning with the enticement of good food and fellowship. I got out of the car and was preparing to take the walkway which led to the front porch when a scream from the barn froze me in my tracks.

There followed the sound of quite a ruckus, and my first thought was that Bennet was being trampled by some of his livestock. I darted toward the structure, my mind already trying to judge the length of time it would take me to get him to the doctor in the event he was badly injured. I nearly slipped in the mud more than once, managing to retain my balance only through sheer luck.

I arrived at the entrance to the barn only to be greeted by darkness and silence. Was I already too late? With fumbling and shaky hands, I groped for the oil lamp Bennet had used several days before. Eventually, my fingers settled on the object, and I grasped it with one hand while digging for my matches with the other. The first match slipped from my numb fingers, but I was able to steady myself enough to light the second. I touched the flame to the oil lamp's wick and adjusted the flame.

Earlier in the week, on my previous trip to the barn, I had witnessed a sight so disturbing that I'd been certain that it would haunt my dreams forever. But the scene that the light from the oil lamp revealed to my beleaguered eyes assaulted my senses by tenfold.

The thing was the size of an adult horse, its stature made seemingly larger due to the fact that it was standing on its hind legs. Its elongated, serpentine body was covered with bristles of grayish-black hair, though that was the limit to any resemblance to a mammal. The shape of the head was that of a large viper, and the burning eyes set on either side featured the vertical pupils of a poisonous snake. The mouth was elongated, and the lower jaw was unhinged to such a degree as to allow for the consumption of its prey as a whole.

The upper part of Bennet's lifeless body, from the chest up, protruded from the thing's horrible maw.

I screamed, uncaring that I drew the creature's attention. It whirled upon me, its body seeming to coil like a cobra preparing to strike. Upon recognizing my presence, the monster hurriedly sucked down the last of its meal. With a dreadful slurping sound, Bennet was no more.

By divine grace, my rational mind was somehow able to regain control of my paralyzed body. As the thing before me drew back in preparation to attack, I slung the oil lamp with all the strength I could muster. The lamp hit the creature mid body and broke apart, dousing the fiendish beast with flaming oil. Droplets of burning liquid splattered onto the hay-covered floor, producing an instant inferno.

The monstrosity drew back upon itself and emitted an ear-piercing cry. It began to thrash about in a futile effort to rid its body of the burning oil. I gazed upon the grotesque sight for a few brief moments, then hurried across the threshold and barred the heavy wooden doors behind me. No sooner had I retreated several steps away when the doors shook from a violent impact.

The thing was attempting to break free.

I turned and ran to my car, not daring even the slightest glance back at the burning barn. Smoke from the engulfed building descended upon me as I reached the vehicle, burning my eyes and lungs. I started the car, put the transmission into reverse, and backed out of the drive with such reckless abandon that I plowed Bennet's mailbox down in the process.

As I pointed the car towards home, I paused for the briefest moment to look upon the burning mass which had once been Bennet's barn. Through the swirling clouds of thick smoke, the light of the fire showed me the one thing I wanted to see.

The doors still held.

I tore away at a breakneck pace, slowing only when the outline of my own house appeared in the glow of the headlamps.

That was over seven years ago. I moved almost immediately thereafter, away from the shadow of Drover Mountain and that cursed sinkhole. I now reside near the other end of the county, in a fine house on the shore of Clairbourne Lake. I have married, and my wife has given me a son. He's a fine lad of two years, already strapping and hale at such a young age.

I have never returned to Bennet's place—in any event, there would be precious little to return to. The farmhouse caught as the barn burned, and by dawn all of the structures on the farm had been reduced to nothing but glowing cinders. Of Bennet himself, no trace was ever found, and there were no stories of anything out of the ordinary being found in the ashes.

I tell myself that the unholy creature met its demise in the fire that night, and I really want to believe that.

But earlier in the evening, while stacking firewood, I heard something in the woods down by the water's edge. Something that sounded like the cross of a baby's cry and the shriek of an eagle.

I look in on my wife and son, both abed and sleeping peacefully. I could never let anything hurt them, and I know what I must do.

I am taking my shotgun, and I'm going down to the lake. I will leave this written account where it can be found in the event that I do not return.

For, God forgive me, I fear that I may not.

Alvin Theodore McCoy, Esq.

November 20, 1943

# 23 Natural Selection

**B y J R C Salter**

* * *

Ira felt his legs break as he landed on the concrete pavement. He looked up and saw the Immortal staring down at him through the tenth floor window. That bastard had stabbed him with a picture frame. A _picture frame_! After everything Haagenti had done to increase his speed, his strength, his ability to resist light, his regenerative capabilities, Ira was to die from a splinter.

Ira felt his bones knit back together and he stumbled to his feet, holding to the wound in his back. He could feel the taint of wood flowing through his veins. He didn't have long. Perhaps he should feed, drain his blood of the poison and replace it with fresh. He sighed. He didn't have the strength for that; he could barely walk.

He looked back to the window. The Immortal was no longer there, and he heard no sounds of fighting, but the faint words of the demon reached his ears. Haagenti said nothing he hadn't heard before.

'Quit eavesdropping,' Ira said to himself, 'You've got more important things to worry about.'

Now the reality hit him. He had lived through almost two centuries, and in all that time he had met two, maybe three other vampires. None of them male.

He mentioned it to Frances once or twice; even suggesting that they try to repopulate the vampiric species. Of course this was back when he thought he still had another century or so before he died, so he didn't push it, thinking he had time.

She seemed disgusted at the notion. How could she be so selfish? Their race was dying out, and every attempt throughout history to procreate with humans ended with stillborn or sterile children. And it wasn't as if _she_ was his ideal mate either; she was too tall, and too female. He laughed bitterly at the irony. But she wanted none of it; all too concerned with her apotheosis to give any thought to their kind.

He reached the end of the street and held onto the corner of the building. Looking up, he saw a cathedral and smiled. Surely he can find someone to help him there. He staggered along the green and pushed the doors open. A silent, cavernous hall greeted him. A few burning candles hung from the vaults, giving the sanctuary an eerie yellow glow.

Ira walked down the aisle, holding to the pews for support. He looked up at the large crucifix hanging above the altar. He wondered, yet again, why such a pacifist religion would have such a gruesome image for a symbol. The effigy was incredibly detailed; blood dripped from Jesus' forehead where the crown of thorns pricked him; his muscles strained at the weight of his body being held by the two nails rammed through his palms; a gash across half his waist poured blood staining his loincloth. But above all, the man's face seemed to be in agony.

'It's to remind people that he suffered for the sins of humanity.' Ira turned to the voice, the cathedral was empty two seconds ago. He saw a beautiful young man sitting in the nearest pew. Shoulder length, straight brown hair fell across his white shirt and his blue eyes gazed into Ira's soul. He held his hands crossed in his lap, but moved one to offer Ira a seat.

'Where did you come from?' Ira said as he sat. He winced as his wound opened a little.

'Let me take care of that.' the man said. He reached behind Ira and touched the wound.

He felt a cold tingling sensation and then ... nothing. Quickly, he reached behind himself and felt dried blood covering new skin instead of the injury. He looked at the man, 'You're an angel.'

The other man nodded, 'My name is Sarakiel.'

Ira's eyes widened, an angel of death, 'Have you come to take me?'

'After just healing you? I'd consider that a waste.'

'Then what are you here for?'

'To appeal to your better nature.'

'Others have tried to convince me to defect. Yahweh is a monster.' Ira stood and began to walk out.

'And you're not?' Ira stopped, 'You drink the blood of your fellow man.'

'I don't commit genocide.'

'Neither did He.'

'No. A few people survived, but he killed enough of them. More than I have. And I do it to survive.'

'But you don't need to. You can live off animal blood.'

'Tried it. It didn't agree with me.' Ira walked down the aisle towards the doors.

'I'm giving you a new lease of life; don't let Satan take your soul.'

The angel's voice echoed through the chamber as Ira left. He needed to feed. And soon. The healing didn't seem to make him stronger, though he no longer felt he was dying. As soon as he left the cathedral and entered the cold air outside, the thirst filled him more than he had ever felt. He was suddenly aware of all the beating hearts in the city; every one of them pumping thick warm life through humans as they slept. He would need to break into a house, but that was dangerous; last time he did that, he nearly had a baseball bat embedded in his skull. Picking off stragglers, or people walking alone was the best strategy. Especially when weak. Women were easier. And children the simplest, though neither yielded as much blood as men.

He took a few steps along the green, then his legs lost all strength and he fell to his hands and knees.

'Hey, friend, are you okay?' came a voice from behind him. Ira looked up and licked his lips. He smelled the coppery aroma of fresh blood pumping through the veins of a large man. He turned around and saw his prey. He was young, about to hit his prime, and well muscled. It could be difficult, but if he acted quickly, the man would be dead in seconds.

The man bent down and offered Ira a hand. Ira looked at it and saw pulsing blue veins branching across his wrist. He took the hand, feeling the warmth of his flesh, and the man pulled him to his feet. He looked into the man's eyes, blue and dilated in the darkness, they glistened with the life he was about to extinguish.

Without making a sound, Ira bent the man's head to the side and clamped his sharp teeth on his throat. The blood poured out filling his mouth with the sweet thick fluid. He swallowed in great gulps as the man struggled against his assailant. Ira felt the man's arms beat against his body as they fell to the ground. The blood escaped his lips for a second, spilling some to the ground and over his clothes. It was a waste, but he didn't care, the thirst was incredible. He nearly choked as he gulped another mouthful, and the man beat his back, the blows becoming weaker and weaker as the life left him.

Then suddenly he felt the other man's jaws around his own neck. The pain of blunt teeth ripping through his flesh made him pause in shock. But only for a second; he carried on; he needed to kill this man before the man killed him. They were locked there, mouths biting each others' throats, and Ira felt his own body growing weaker, but it still had to be stronger than his.

Slowly, the realisation came to him that the other man was feeding on him rather than merely defending himself. The man's arms clamped around Ira and rolled over to dominate the vampire.

Ira couldn't understand it. Losing blood made a man weaker. This wasn't another vampire, Ira wasn't foolish enough to make that mistake. What was happening? He let go of the man's neck and tried to push him away, but the man's hold was too strong. He struggled and writhed beneath the heavy muscles of the large man, helpless as the world began to go black.

As Ira fell limp, the man stopped and stood up, blood smearing his mouth and chin. He looked into his eyes, now yellow and reflecting the light from a distant streetlamp.

'W-what are you?' Ira said, the words coming in a feeble whisper.

The man felt his neck and looked at his hand, wet with blood, 'I ... I don't know. But I feel strong. And thirsty. For blood.'

'You're ... you're not human?'

'I was, but now I'm one of you.'

Ira shook his head with all the force his frail body could muster, 'That's not how it works.'

'It is now.'

Ira lay there, his life slipping from him, as he watched this new creation walk into the night.

# 24 Downfall #1

**B y Thomas Jenner and Angeline Perkins**

### One

I remember the day I died. Most of it, anyway. It was my last day as Brandon Williams, the 18-year-old minimum wage construction worker. I used to think Tuesday was the ultimate boring day; I think this would have been a little more ironic if it'd happened on a Monday.

My enthusiasm for work waned every day. Maybe it was because it was a ridiculously humid summer, or maybe my boss just signed onto crappy jobs, I could never figure it out. Dallas was no stranger to heat, especially in July, but this summer seemed worse than previous years.

It was Day Two of the never-ending room addition, yet another job from hell. This California-blonde trophy wife apparently demanded of her grandfather-aged husband that she wanted another room and, according to my boss, he just signed the contract with barely a glance at the title. One thing after another was going wrong: the first guy out there didn't get the right measurements, she bitched at us when we moved her patio furniture out of the way, her dumb little yip dogs almost got ran over by our truck because she let them run around out front, she kept trying to change where we were going to lay everything out, and that morning we found out there was a ton of rock under the ground where we were supposed to lay the foundation. We needed a jackhammer for it, and we already knew she was going to flip out. My partner Jason started counting down on his clock as soon as the boss' truck pulled up with it.

Then the bitch walked up, holding one of her miniature yapping furballs. "How much longer is this going to take?" she groaned. "We signed this contract a week ago, and you've hardly done anything!"

I barely glanced at her. "As long as it takes to get it done." I already hated her.

Jason ran down to the truck to get the jackhammer and in pure overdramatic fashion, she dropped her dog and started grabbing her hair in panic at the sight of the tool. I tried not to laugh.

"What the hell is that thing?!" she cried. "You're going to destroy my home!"

I forgot to mention my suspicion that she didn't know a damned thing about construction. Hopelessly, I tried to dumb it down. "It's rock down there, we have to dig it out so we will be able to put your room in." I wasn't getting paid to chat, so I removed a chalk line from my tool belt and started marking the border of where we would be digging.

"This wasn't part of the original plan," she hissed, pacing around the backyard. Her 'dog' yipped again.

"Neither was digging into all this rock," I repeated, watching Jason walk up with the jackhammer and my boss drive away. "I'm just doing what the contractor told me to do."

"My husband will hear about this," she snarled, pulling her cell phone from her purse and walking back into the house.

"Hope he can hear her over this thing," Jason chuckled, gesturing toward the jackhammer. He cleared his throat and brought it near the center of the stone slab where we were working in the back yard.

I finally smiled, feeling a little more normal. I wasn't generally this depressing; to this day I still blame the heat, combined with the stupidity of the situation. I was usually the one cracking the jokes and putting on a show for the guys. I've been through enough in my life to learn to get over things quickly and keep life from getting dull. If I were in a better mood I'd have been mocking the wife behind her back to get a laugh out of Jason. I don't shy away from sarcasm, and I pride myself on being well armed with snappy comebacks and goofy expressions. This day just sucked.

To get my mind off things, I took a moment to look over the home; admittedly I was a little jealous, as it was by far the best and most expensive looking house on that street. It stood three stories up with a slate colored shingle roof, a stone grey exterior with white accents, an ornate wrought-iron fence and perfectly manicured lawn, complete with rose bushes by the front door. I wondered to whom the husband sold his soul to in order to get his hands on this place.

The only thing killing this Kodak moment was the incessant wailing of sirens in the distance. I'd been hearing them all day, but I didn't pay it much thought at the time.

It was a far cry from my living situation. I lived with my 13-year-old sister Danielle halfway across town, in a tiny one-bedroom home where I barely made the rent every month and struggled to keep the power on. My personal belongings didn't expand much beyond a limited wardrobe and some hand-me-down furniture. We had a TV, but it was more effective as a coffee table since I didn't really watch anything and, well, Danielle had been deaf since birth.

She was old enough to stay home alone, but the thought always bothered me. Granted, she was smart enough to handle herself, but sometimes I'd slip it by her that I could get a babysitter to keep her company. She'd get pissed at me and assert her independence, ending off the argument by flipping the bird in my face. I would have liked to put her in school, but I had to keep her out of the system until she was grown up.

It had been seven years since I took her away from our foster home. Our parents died in a car accident when Danielle was 6 and I was 11, and we were sent to foster homes. When I turned 13 I was told that we would be separated and sent to different families; I wasn't going to allow that. I packed up our things and snuck us out overnight. For a while we lived on the street, then I made a few friends and we were able to crash there for a night or two at a time. When I was 14 I took small day jobs, I even earned a lucrative gig as a McDonalds window jockey for a while. When I was 16 I landed a steady job with a general contractor, and I convinced a shady landlord to let us live in one of the small beat-up homes he owned. Not that I'm bragging or anything.

"Dude, you okay?" Jason asked me, waving his hand in front of my face.

I snapped out of it, blinked a few times and adjusted my tool belt before grabbing a push broom to clear the debris from the foundation.

Jason sniffed a little as he moved the jackhammer into place.

"You all right?" I asked with a smirk, "you're not getting all sad because Her Royal Bitchness left, are you?"

"Oh yeah, totally," Jason said, wiping his nose with his shoulder. "I'm starting to think I caught that flu going around."

"What? I thought you got a shot for that already," I reminded him as I swept. I noticed he looked a little clammier than usual.

Jason nodded, "I did, I got it yesterday. I just think I got it too late. You ought to get them for you and Dani, don't want you guys getting sick too."

"We may do that this weekend," I said.

Then it happened - the gunshots. Three of them. They were the warning cries of what was to come.

"What the fuck was that?!" I yelled in surprise, moving toward the front yard where I heard it come from. Jason dropped the jackhammer and followed me out, and we both looked up and down the street. We didn't see anything unusual, but I know a gun when I hear it and I didn't want to take the chance. I grabbed my phone from my pocket and dialed 9-1-1, keeping my voice collected. I didn't get the chance to explain because all I got was a busy signal. Confused, I tried again, and this time I heard in the pleasantly automated voice, "The number you are calling cannot be completed as dialed."

"Jason, you try to call," I offered, hanging up my phone. He did as I asked, but reported the same thing.

A shriek pierced my eardrums. I looked at Jason, this time actually feeling worried; we both ran out toward the front of the house, looking around the street. There was another scream; across the street and up the block a ways, there was a woman running in our direction with a man chasing close behind. Within seconds the bastard had tackled her to the ground.

Jason stepped up behind me, appearing more tired than usual. "What the hell's going on?"

I didn't answer; I ran to help the woman. The attacker grabbed at her violently, and her screaming became more high-pitched and frantic.

"Get off her, fucker!" I yelled, and as I got closer I became less furious and more horrified: the guy sank his teeth into the woman's face and neck, and he clenched into her torso, pulling on her flesh until the blood spilled.

It felt like a dream. Maybe the heat really was getting to me. I couldn't even comprehend what I just witnessed, but I knew I was running out of time if I wanted to save this lady's life. __ I ran as fast as I could, then launched forward and slammed into the man, knocking him off of her. We toppled over each other a few times, rolling away from the woman whose screams had died down to throaty gasps. I silently hoped that I wasn't too late. In my peripheral vision I spotted Jason approaching, though he seemed unusually slow considering the situation. I planned on ripping him a new one as soon as I was done with this creep in front of me.

I gained the upper hand and pinned down the attacker, who had grown increasingly aggressive. Then I realized that the man was already covered in large amounts of blood, more than what he just drew from the poor woman. He was missing a piece of his neck, and had a few scratches on his face, and he wasn't talking. No matter what I shouted at him, he only responded in grunts and growls, which made his voice sound like it had been grated up.

But then I saw the eyes. Not only did they rival the rage of a feral animal, the whites of the eyes were clouded over in a sickly black, and the irises glowed a bright crimson. This thing was a goddamn monster.

I glanced up for a moment and saw Jason standing over the body of the woman, but he wasn't moving. My confusion shifted back to the immediate danger; I braced one hand on the... thing's neck and swung my other fist into its face. I landed a few punches before the freak reared his upper body upward and sent me to the ground. I had no idea why this thing was as strong as it was - it looked pretty sick, to be honest. My head hit the concrete, knocking me dizzy for a moment; in that time the crazy man regained himself and leaped on top of me. Instinctively I raised my hands up in defense, and then the lunatic grabbed my left hand and bit down sharply on the outer side.

I felt the muscles in my hand tearing and I roared in more pain than I ever recall being in before. I pulled back but the thing kept its grip on me. With my free hand, and without thinking, I grabbed the hammer still attached to my tool belt and smashed it into the man's temple. The impact knocked him down long enough for me to get back up; I kicked the attacker in the ribs, but he jumped right back up again and knocked me down again. A small part of me wondered if this thing would ever go down, but I quickly resigned myself to the fact that this thing was out for blood.

I yanked him to the side with enough momentum to roll him over and pinned him down; I took the opportunity to swing the hammer again. Part of the man's skull caved on impact, but he was still alive. The adrenaline inside me was pulsing, and I knew I had to take this guy out. I finally turned the hammer to the claw end and sunk it into the forehead; after seizing for a few seconds it finally died, the blood pooling quickly around what remained of its head.

I blinked a few times, still trying to fully register what had just occurred – I couldn't tell if I killed a person or a monster. Regardless, the fact was I had smashed its brains in. The pain re-surged in my left hand; grunting through my teeth, I pulled my t-shirt off and wrapped my hand up. The bite tore deep, but thankfully my hand was still in one piece.

Part of me still thought this was a dream, and I started convincing myself to wake up. I looked ahead of me and saw Jason knelt over the woman, who hadn't moved from her spot since the attack started. I started to realize that she wouldn't make it. As I got closer, I noticed how still Jason was. I had no idea what was going through his head, why he was acting like... nothing.

"What the fuck, man?!" I spat. "I was practically getting my ass kicked and you're just standing there like an idiot!"

Jason barely acknowledged me - instead he reached his hand out and touched the woman's head. She showed no sign of life as the blood emptied from the wounds on her face and side of her abdomen. Jason, with some hesitation, pressed two fingers against the gash on her cheek.

I didn't think it was possible for me to be even more creeped out. "Uh, Jason, what are you doing..." There was no logical answer that I could come up with to explain the sudden change in my friend, and it was freaking me out more than what I just experienced minutes earlier. I heard the police and ambulance sirens getting closer and more frequent - no doubt someone had called the police after witnessing this massacre. Then again if I was getting a busy signal, others may have, too. It was beginning to sink in that something was wrong.

During that time Jason retracted his hand, the blood now on his fingers. He brought them up to his face; after examining them for a moment, he licked the blood off of them.

My jaw dropped and I closed my eyes in a tight squint, my face curling into intense disgust. I had no words or thoughts at that moment; I could only sputter, "What the holy fuck is wrong with you!?"

Jason looked up almost innocently. "I don't know man... I'm just... really hungry."

It was at that point I decided, "screw it." I backed away slowly, and then I heard more gunfire. I didn't know what kind of riot this was, but I didn't want to stick around any longer to find out. Only one thing came back to my mind at that moment: Danielle.

"Jason, we need to get out of here now!" I demanded.

Jason remained almost motionless, his voice turning raspy as he spoke slowly. "I don't know what's wrong... I feel... sick..."

The sounds of chaos grew louder around us, and finally I said, "You know what? You're on your own, man." I'd given up on trying to get my friend to come to his senses.

I ran back to my truck and peeled out of the driveway, speeding through the neighborhood.

### Two

I started feeling a little dizzy; I glimpsed at my hand and noticed it was bleeding through my makeshift bandage. Who knows how much blood I lost. As I drove, I saw repeats of what I had just experienced; every so often crazed, bloody people ran up and down the streets and attacked anyone in their path, including a dog in someone's front yard which made my gut churn and my head pound.

There were still some miles to travel before getting home, and it was all I could do not to slam into other vehicles that seemed to increase in numbers around me. All over there were crashed cars and bodies strewn in the streets. I had a hard time focusing, but I kept my thoughts on my sister; if I'd believed in God I'd have been praying at that moment. Instead I kept willing myself to wake up from the insanity.

I continued swerving around the wreckage while trying to maintain speed. Then more of those crazies appeared and swarmed my car, pounding and scratching on the windows. Some of these things were more grotesque than what I faced: missing eyes, chewed off jaws, all of them looking as if they'd been shredded up by wild animals.

Frantically, I rolled up the windows to keep them out, but it didn't make any difference as they clawed and growled at my truck. As the minutes dragged on, I felt increasingly sick to my stomach, along with some sudden muscle cramping.

Then without warning I felt a huge surge of pain in my chest, as if it were both caving in and burning up at the same time. It amplified at an astronomical rate, my veins pounded underneath my skin, and the pain radiated out to my limbs. My breathing got shorter and more agonized with each second, and the dizziness got so bad it made my vision blurry. Within seconds I felt a heavy impact from the front of the vehicle, and the sound of grinding metal and shattered glass scraped my ears.

I don't know how long I was out, maybe a few seconds, possibly minutes. All I know is I awoke to the sound of my truck windows shattering, and the fuzzy view of the crazies clamoring their way inside. I was still weak, but I managed to put my boot into a few of their heads before climbing out of the car and falling to the concrete.

As soon as I managed to stand up I realized I was surrounded by total chaos. Cars were smashed into each other, some were even on fire, bodies littered the ground, and some of them even got back up after appearing to be dead. Choppers flew overhead and I heard some gunfire in the distance. It couldn't have been more than a few hours since I left for work this morning; granted there was a traffic jam, and I wondered if this may have been part of the reason for it.

The dizziness and the pain continued to escalate, and I found it harder to concentrate as I attempted to navigate through the back streets. All I could think about was my sister, so I pressed onward. I knew those streets pretty well, so I ducked into some alleyways to avoid attention. I was able to avoid a lot of the commotion for a while, stumbling between buildings and sneaking through back parking lots. I made a wrong turn somewhere down the line, as I found myself at a dead end. My disorientation kept getting worse and the weakness was getting the better of me... or so I thought. As much pain as I was experiencing, I could still move relatively quick.

Then I heard it, the growls of those things behind me. I felt a rush of pain as my heart beat faster. I turned around and saw two of the crazies making a disorganized beeline for me, their red eyes blazing even in the broad daylight. The blood pulsed inside, and I got a surge of energy out of nowhere. I'd been weakening quickly up to that point, but as soon as I saw them heading for me I just... snapped. As the first one closed in, I braced myself and grabbed its arm and swung it into a nearby parked car. It looked like it was out of commission for the moment, but I wasn't fast enough as the second one leaped on top of me from behind. I tried to stand back up, but its weight kept me off-balance.

I thought I had the upper hand when I reached behind me to grab onto the freak, but I only grabbed its shirt; it slipped out of my grasp. I turned to look - it was female, or it used to be, and she had these claw-like fingernails that were snapped off at the edges. She swung her outstretched hand at me. I tried to dodge, but I wasn't fast enough and her nails dug into and across my face, from one side to the other. I reeled from the impact and fell backward, fearing that she'd caught my eye in the swipe.

Then the fear suddenly dissipated. It felt like I lost all my thoughts, my emotions, even the pain I was experiencing earlier. I was overcome by something, probably adrenaline, as I had this massive surge of energy. When those things came after me again, I unloaded everything I had into them. I swung at them repeatedly, each blow disintegrating their faces a little more. The male lunged at me and I swung him around into the wall, smashing its head into it until its blood painted the bricks. I barely felt the other biting into the back of my shoulder as I continued to turn the first's head into a bag of crushed bones. He fell down into a pile on himself, twitching a little.

Meanwhile the female's teeth were firmly attached to my shoulder, and I yanked on her hair and slammed her to the ground face-first; before she could get up I stepped on the back of her neck with all the strength I could, only satisfied when I heard a deep _snap_. I still felt the rush, and in a way I actually felt... good. Like I'd satisfied some primal urge.

I looked around to see if there were any others nearby, but the only thing I saw was my reflection in one of the windows. But what I saw wasn't me. I looked no better than the monsters ravaging downtown Dallas. I was covered in blood, a chunk of skin missing from the back of my shoulder where the crazy bitch had bitten me, and I saw where she had sliced into my face. The gash ran deep; it trailed from the middle of my right check, up across the bridge of my nose, barely missing my left eye, and ending just above the left eyebrow. The wound was pouring blood, some of it dripping into my eye, but most of it down my nose and cheeks.

That didn't even bother me as much as the smile. To this day I can't figure it out. I had this strange grin on my face, as my blood seeped into the corners of my mouth and stained my teeth. I looked like a goddamned homicidal maniac, like I'd gotten off on killing those things. The sight scared me almost as much as everything combined over those last few hours, or however long it was.

The rush lowered in intensity, and I felt the pain from the shoulder bite building up quickly. I knew I couldn't have been too far from home, and I kept hoping that Danielle was safe.

I kept getting more and more dizzy as I got closer to home. Truthfully I don't completely remember the trip, all I know is that the torturous pangs in my body were getting worse and it made it near impossible to concentrate. Call it instinct, intuition or whatever you want; I still ended up on the right path. It took a lot of effort for me to recognize where I was going – I guess that fight messed me up worse than I was aware of. It didn't matter, nothing did. It didn't help that I was also starving; the only thing I ate that morning was a bowl of cheap cereal, and it had been hours since then.

I had to keep dodging the craziness that was breaking out around me. There was no way to know when the freaks would show up around a corner, or come out of a building in a swarm; there was just no way to predict what they would do. Animals are a hell of a lot more predictable than these bloodthirsty things. A few scratched at me as I ran, and I slammed into another one while maneuvering around cars and other bodies.

I felt like I was heartless at times; I lost count of how often I spotted an innocent person being chased, attacked and killed at the hands of the red-eyed crazies. There was too much going on, and not enough time to do anything. Maybe I was being selfish, since the only life I cared about saving was my sister's. Then again, I'm sure a lot of other people were thinking the same thing.

All the crap that happened earlier – the woman being attacked, Jason acting like a nutjob, the entire city going psychotic, being nearly killed a dozen times that whole trip, getting my face disfigured – I realized none of it mattered... as long as Danielle was safe.

Finally... the entrance to my neighborhood. The decrepit project section on the outskirts of Dallas never felt more welcoming, despite the creeps that lived there. I sighed in partial relief, though the heavy breath made my chest ache again. By that point I was dripping in my own blood and caked in dirt and sweat. My throat was parched, my head felt like it was caving in, my feet were throbbing and my stomach was screaming. The street itself was relatively quiet, if you could ignore the sirens, screams and chaos of the miles I'd just traveled. My vision blurred even more and I couldn't focus more than a few feet in front of me.

With the heat still bearing down, I tried running down the street to the next crosswalk where I had to turn left, and from there it was only a few houses up. It was more of a stagger than a run; the little energy I had left was bleeding out along with the rest of my body.

There it was – the crappy house I had to practically crawl on my knees to get. The fact that I made it gave me enough strength to clamor up the two steps, unhook the keys from my belt and unlock the door.

...Then the pain surged unimaginably. My chest practically imploded, my heart pounded uncontrollably, faster and stronger than it ever had, and my arms and legs numbed. I screamed out, convinced it was a heart attack. As I collapsed, I began convulsing – it seemed that pulses of lighting were coursing through me, immobilizing me.

### Three

It was painful to open my eyes, the light burned my vision. The haze over them soon cleared as I rolled over facing away from the sun. The door was open, and there was the faint odor of something sweet emanating from inside, and a slight breeze of lowered temperature. My stomach cramped as I felt jolts of adrenaline stabbing me. I struggled to push my body up, my breath ragged and shallow. As soon as I reached my feet, the blood rush hit my head, dizzying me for a minute. I regained myself and I felt even more cramping – I was starving. The smell hit me again, drifting hypnotically through the air.

I stepped inside, kicking over the keys that had fallen from my grasp. I didn't think to close the door; I was barely aware of the door. The interior was darker and cooler than the outside, the blinds were drawn and the buzz of the window air conditioner droned in my ears.

Silhouetted against the kitchen light was the outline of a young girl. She sat with her back turned toward me, perched motionless on the sofa.

The hunger became intoxicating as I moved toward her. The odor was much stronger now, with a slight acidic undertone. I felt my foot kick against something on the floor but she showed no reaction to it.

I made no effort to be silent. I lunged forward with ease and grabbed a handful of her hair, which made her shriek in fear. I stopped for a moment, startled by her outburst. She panicked and flailed against my grip, screaming something incoherent. She turned her face toward mine, and the look of fear turned to surprise; her eyes glossed over and a whimper escaped her throat. Shakily she extended one of her hands, her thumb curled into the palm and all four fingers pressed together, and pressed it against her forehead first, then her chest, then to her other hand closed into a fist.

I somewhat recognized the sign, and I held still trying to process what occurred. There was something in the back of my mind, clawing to get out. A frightened voice not unlike my own urged me to let go of the girl. I didn't understand the words, only the feeling behind them.

Then it disappeared, and I was hungry again.

### Four

I woke up much later, feeling like I had suffered a massive case of hangover. I was weak, dehydrated, dazed and my head throbbed. A bright light seared my eyes, piercing into the already existing headache. The light moved away suddenly, and I made out a few shadows behind the background light of wherever I was. There was a faint rhythmic beep in the distance.

A few voices trickled through, muffled at first but then they formed into words, most of them too big for me to understand. I felt a gloved hand against my forehead, and in my stupor I jerked away from the touch, only to aggravate the pounding even more.

A picture appeared in my head of me struggling to reach the door of my house, seeing my clothes covered in blood – it hit so fast it almost physically hurt me to think about. I winced, the aching in my body becoming much more pronounced, and I became intensely aware of the fact that there were wires connected to various parts of me.

The hand returned, followed by an older man's voice. "It's all right, son. You're safe. Nod your head if you understand me."

Though I was still confused, I did in fact understand him. I think it was just the uncertainty of what was going on, but I didn't exactly feel like I was in danger. I gave a small nod.

"Good," he said. "Now I'm going to raise up part of the bed so you can sit up."

The light hum of a machine started, and I felt my head and back being bent upward slowly. I was still extremely dizzy, and I realized how much my throat was hurting.

Nearby I heard a woman talking: "His vitals look good, Doctor."

"Excellent," the man responded. "We'll do a few more tests to make sure everything checks out, but so far he's looking good."

I didn't know what kind of tests they were talking about. I vaguely spied the doctor scribbling something on a piece of paper on a small table next to me. I didn't feel like moving, but when I looked down, I noticed my wrists were bound with heavy straps. I tried to yell for help, but all that game out was a raspy grunt, causing my throat to hurt more.

"Take it easy," the doctor said calmly. "It's been a while since you've been normal, you need to rest for a bit longer. My name is Dr. Scott, and this is Gracie." He pointed at the nurse.

I barely glanced at them; I wasn't sure what he meant by "normal," but I willed myself to stay calm. My mind raced; I had the words, but there was difficulty saying them. It was as if I'd forgotten how to physically talk. I tried anyway, speaking slowly. "Why... am I... tied down...?" My voice sounded as if it had gone through a paper shredder – I almost jumped hearing it. The aching began to fade, and the beeping of what I assumed was a heart monitor slowed to a steadier pace.

"When you were waking up, you were seizing," Dr. Scott explained, removing the latex gloves and disposing of them. "In fact, it was the fourth episode. To be frank, we didn't think you would survive the process."

I was as confused as ever. "What... process...?"

The pictures returned again in pieces. The mass of chaos, the red-eyed freaks that were terrorizing the people, my witnessing the possible downfall of the city... Danielle. "Where... where is my... sister? Her name is... Danielle. She's 13, long brown hair, brown eyes... deaf."

Both of their heads sank a little.

"We don't know," Gracie sighed. "You were found alone."

I felt my eyes watering, confronted with the possibility that she was hurt too. Then again, maybe she was still alive, if I could get back home somehow and check on her.

Dr. Scott approached me and I managed to focus on him, but I was once again shocked as my attention focused on his eyes. The whites weren't white, but a clouded dark gray, just like the lunatics, and the irises glowed brightly – except they weren't red, they were sky blue.

I think he picked up that I was looking at him funny. "I understand," he assured me, "everything will be explained to you once you're rested and recovering." He undid my wrist restraints, followed by the feet, while Gracie took off the wires from my head and chest. He looked up and gave me an odd look, like he was both relieved and concerned at the same time, which doesn't seem possible.

"Gracie will help you to your bed, and I will come check on you in a bit," he said.

She helped me turn to the side and sit up. When I looked at her, she had the same weird eyes that Dr. Scott did.

"I promise you will know everything that's going on," Dr. Scott repeated. "Welcome back to humanity."

* * *

*****

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_Coming Soon:_

Downfall #2

Kellie's Diary: Book 4

# 25 The Velociraptor at the End of the Road

**B y Vel R.**

* * *

**O ne**

"Hey George, what the hell is _that_?"

"What?"

"Down there, at the end of the road. That thing standing in the moonlight. It looks like a big lizard."

"Wow. I think that's a... velociraptor."

"What, like a model or something? I don't think so. Its tail is swishing around."

"I think it's alive, John."

"Don't be stupid. Dinosaurs have been extinct for millions of years. Maybe it's animatronic."

"No. Look how that thing's moving. That's not a robot. That thing is alive."

"I think it's watching us."

"Okay, it's time to go. Just start walking backwards, _very_ slowly."

"Are you nuts? We're looking at a damn velociraptor! If we can catch that thing, we'll be so rich, people will complain that we're part of the point-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-one percent."

"Not likely. I mean, it's not like that thing just happened naturally. Clearly, someone made it in a lab or something."

"That's not possible. You can't get dinosaur DNA."

"Sure it is. It was in that movie about that park."

"Don't be stupid, man. That was a movie."

"It was based on a book."

"A _fiction_ book!"

"Yeah, but the method the author used to get dino-DNA seemed pretty realistic. Maybe somebody actually did it."

"What the hell is wrong with you? The method they used to get dino-DNA was completely unrealistic. It was just presented in a really realistic way."

"You know, you don't have to be such a jerk about it."

"Well, stop being stupid. Sheesh."

"I'm not being stupid! Clearly, someone figured out how to make a damn velociraptor! You need proof? Look up ahead! And there's no way we're the first people to see it, so we'll gain nothing by trying to catch it. We need to get the hell out of here."

"You need to stop screaming. You're going to get its attention or make it mad or something."

"Then stop being an asshole."

"Maybe it came through some kind of _time-rift_. If that's the case, we _are_ the first people to see it."

"There's no such thing as time-rifts."

"There's also no such thing as velociraptors walking around in the twenty-first century, but there it is."

"Good point."

"I told you we should've taken guns on this trip. You can't hike across the country without some kind of protection. Especially on old wooded roads like this."

"Have you forgotten what happened at the shooting range? If you need a reminder, just count your toes again, Niner."

"That was a freak accident."

"It was enough to convince me you shouldn't be carrying a gun."

"I think we have bigger things to discuss right now. Like what to do about that velociraptor at the end of the road."

"Okay, I have a plan. I'll get a stick and hide in the bushes. Then you make a bunch of noise. When it comes to get you, I'll jump out and knock it unconscious. Then we can call the news and start our journey to fame and riches."

"That's a load of crap."

"I think it's a viable plan."

"For _you_! I'll probably end up as velociraptor food."

"I would gladly be the bait, but it just makes more sense if I'm the ambusher."

"Why the hell do you think that makes more sense?"

"I have all ten of my toes. That means I have better balance."

"I lost a damn pinky toe! I think I'll be alright."

"Okay, good. So you're the bait."

"I did not say that!"

"You said you'll be alright."

"I meant as the ambusher, idiot."

"Look, do you want to get rich or not? It'll be easy if we just stick to the plan."

"Can I at least have a stick too?"

"Sure."

"Okay then. But if this doesn't work, I'm blaming you."

"If this doesn't work, you'll be dead."

"What?"

"I said if this doesn't work, we'll be dead."

"Oh. Yeah. Good point. Well, in the two seconds before we die, I'll blame you."

"Fair enough."

"You ready to do this?"

"I'm ready. You in position?"

"Yep. Yell away."

"Okay... here goes... HEY VELOCIRAPTOR! OVER HERE! YEAH, I'M OVER HERE! FREE FOOD! COME AND GET IT!"

"We're gonna' be so rich from this..."

### Two

"Okay, Doctor, this had better be good. I've given this lab a lot of money."

"It's good, Russell. You're about to become ten times richer than you already are."

"I like the sound of that. What have you done here?"

"I was going to surprise you, but I can't hold it in. We cloned a velociraptor!"

"Not possible."

"I assure you, it is possible and we have done it."

"How? How'd you get dinosaur DNA."

"We used the same technique from that movie about the park."

"Really? That worked?"

"Yep."

"Amazing."

"Yeah. We named the raptor Bobbi."

"Doctor Traci, you're a genius."

"I know, I know. Her cage is just around this corner."

"Everybody here is gonna' be so rich, we'll all make the one percent look poor."

"Uh oh."

"What? Wait, is that her cage? Why is it empty? And why is that window broken... oh."

"This is bad. Very bad."

"Why the hell did you have a window in its cage?"

"We wanted to let her see the woods. You know, for comfort."

"Then why the hell didn't you put _bars_ on the window?"

"We didn't think she could fit through! Apparently velociraptors are more nimble than we thought."

"This is bad, Doctor."

"Now calm down. It's not as bad as you think. We have tranquilizer guns. We just have to go find her. It's not the end of the road for this project."

"If that animal harms anybody in those woods, we're in deep trouble."

"She won't hurt anybody. We keep her well-fed. Predators don't hunt when they're not hungry. As long as nobody antagonizes her, she'll leave people alone. And really, who's stupid enough to see a velociraptor in the woods and _not_ run?"

"That's true, I suppose. Okay, let's not waste any more time."

"I'll inform my people to organize a hunt. Don't worry, Russell. This time tomorrow, Bobbi will be in a new cage. A cage without windows."

"Just out of curiosity, what if someone _does_ antagonize it?"

"She'll kill them. Those things are fast. A mean when provoked."

"Let's just hope we can catch her before that happens."

"I'm not worried about that. Like I said, only an idiot would see a velociraptor in the woods and decide the best course of action is to antagonize it."

"Yeah. Someone like that probably deserves to be eaten by a velociraptor."

"Funny. And true. Luckily, nobody is that stupid."

"Okay, I feel better. You ready to organize that search team?"

"Yeah. The day isn't getting any longer. Let's go catch our velociraptor..."
