Assorted Stories

Just a few tales that I haven’t been able to find a home for…
Until now 🙂

Here’s a handy-dandy table of contents to save ya from some scrolling between stories. And, quite possibly help save your sanity, as some of these tales are on the long side.

Thank you for taking the time to read, hope you enjoy!

Just a wee heads-up…this first one’s dark, and gets kinda gruesome…
Folks who are squeamish and/or triggered by violence and incidents of rape/abuse should probably skip this one.
You’ve been warned.
Enjoy! 🙂

In the Shadows, Where We Play

Be careful what you wish, for it may come true. -Anonymous

Dust enveloped Elle as the truck spun out on the soft shoulder of the road, spitting back small pebbles and dirt to pelt her bare shins and arms. The tires chirped and squealed as they found traction on the tarmac sending the backend fishtailing while the engine raced.

“Screw you, asshole!” she screamed, waving her middle finger at the back of the pickup truck. She dropped her backpack in the dirt.

“Or should I say, I wouldn’t screw you for all the money on Wall Street, you redneck piece of white trash shit!” she added after a few moments, her voice increasing an octave with each curse. Her body shook as she watched the receding truck with her switchblade still firmly clutched in her hand. The dust began to settle and she coughed, waving her hand in front of her face to try to get some clean air. Pulling a bandana from her back pocket, she wiped the blood from the thin blade and pressed the button to retract it with a click. She crouched and stashed the knife in her boot.

“Have fun explaining that gash to your sister-wife, scumbag,” she muttered with a smirk. Brushing off her arms, she ruffled out her long blond hair and patted the dust from her clothes. Her nerves still jangled, so she moved farther off the shoulder of the road and sat down lightly on her pack. Closing her eyes, she took a few calming breaths.

That was much closer than I would like, she thought, breathing out a long, shaky sigh.

Sliding the blade from her boot again, Elle clicked it open and turned it over a couple of times in her hands, catching light and shadow on the scuffed mirrored surfaces. It had been a couple of weeks since she’d drawn it, and months since it had been used; guys usually relented once they saw the blade, their passion turned cold by fear.

Since embarking on this trek south, most of the rides she encountered were harmless middle-aged men hoping to fulfill a fantasy on their way to or from work, or a group of young studs out looking for anything to liven up the day after a prowl at the mall. There were also the handful of busy moms looking to protect one of their own, or try satisfying an itch they hadn’t been brave enough to scratch in their youth. A few bad apples like this last guy meant she had to be extra careful.

He seemed nice enough when he picked her up a few miles back, they always did, but his calm façade disappeared quickly when she turned down his advances. She could read men pretty well – she’d learned to play them since she was eleven, in one way or another. Now, at twenty-two, and half a lifetime on the streets of Detroit, she had a pretty good handle on them. Still, sometimes they were better actors than she was a psychic.

The thought of how she wiped the smug look off his face brought a brief smile to her full lips. There were the usual questions when he first pulled over: what’s a pretty girl like you doing hitchhiking alone, where was she going, where was she from. Never one to divulge much information, she smiled and gave vague and general answers. Several minutes into the drive, he reached over and lightly stroked her knee. Very politely, she told him she wasn’t that kind of girl as she gently removed his hand. The next moment – and he was quick – he grabbed a fistful of hair and jerked her across the bench seat. Hard won instinct took over and she let herself go limp. Her quick submission surprised him, giving her the two seconds needed to reach the knife and slice a nasty gash on his forearm.

Snickering growls had emerged from the dark recesses behind the seat, barely a whisper unless you were familiar with the sound. Apparently her companions approved. She retreated from him, jamming her back to the passenger door while holding the knife steady, and told him to pull over. He had no idea how close he came to dying that day.

It would be nice if her friends gave her a heads up about the disposition of potential rides, but they seemed to enjoy the game – and the thrill of a possible meal – more than her safety. Her protectors kept watch from the shadows – were the shadows – and their hunger was palpable when they drew around her in the night. What had been oddly comforting when she was younger was becoming almost too much to bear lately.

He was so mad, she thought. Hopefully he just sucks it up and doesn’t come back with a few of his buddies…or the cops. The thought of the carnage made her shiver in the late morning heat as the thick forest at her back breathed and chittered. She had never actually seen them feed, a blessing for which she often gave thanks to whatever gods may be listening. Maybe they’re gods in their own right, she considered. Standing as witness to the aftermath many times, though, provided ample nightmare material for the first couple of years of their bizarre relationship.

“I’m sorry guys,” she said over her shoulder in a conversational tone, “I don’t think it would have been a good idea to let you have him.” The gloom between the trees roiled and sighed in response.

This morning, she had dressed expecting to be walking for most of the day – tight cutoff jeans and a faded yellow halter top, both purchased at a second-hand store outside of Charleston – chosen for the Georgia heat and to grab attention. Her hiking boots were practical and expensive, and modified to conceal the knife like her friends had taught her back in Detroit. They hadn’t taught her everything, which became evident after the first day on the road with cheap shoes and few rides, blisters the size of quarters making life a living hell. It had been necessary to hole up in a cheap motel just outside the city limits for a few days to allow her feet to heal. The last thing she wanted to do was squander anymore of her hard-earned money on stupid mistakes.

Blessed, or cursed, with a face and body men would kill or die for, it was difficult to blame the guys who picked her up. Physically fit, her long, shapely legs and trim figure gave most men, and quite a few women, pause. At five foot, eight inches tall, she could be formidable or feminine, depending on the situation. This was part of the dangerous game she was playing: look the part of the helpless damsel and you took your chances with the ‘knights’ who stopped to rescue you. Though her friends had never left her entirely to her own devices in all the time they’d been together, the knife was concealed in her boot because her belief in fairytales and the kindness of strangers evaporated long ago.

Elle chose to make this journey on her own, partly to see if she was as clever as she thought, but also to see whether she had as much control over her friends as she hoped. Though she had the money for a car, she never learned to drive – and it would have been difficult to persuade someone she knew to act as chauffer, given the reputation she and her friends had earned over her years on the streets. A bus would certainly have been much quicker than hitchhiking, yet the thought of her friends let loose in a sardine can at night made her inner child shriek.

***

Benny blinked open his eyes to sunlight peering through the trees and immediately regretted opening them. He closed them tight, flinging his arm over his face. The motion caused his stomach to roil, pushing bile up his throat. Rolling on his side, his temples began to throb as he vomited up the remnants of last night’s binge. After retching up the last of the fluids, followed by a couple of minutes of dry heaves, he warily cracked his lids again and looked around the glade where he had passed out hours before.

Tall pines and oaks stood all around, their canopies stretching seventy feet or more to the sky. Stunted birch and hickory along with several other species he couldn’t name filled in some of the gaps between the behemoths, with scrubby bushes and prickers scattered across the forest floor in clumps. The rusting shells of a couple of vehicles peeked through their camouflage in the distance, remnants of failed restorations, and indicators that he wasn’t too far from home.

Groaning, he sat up with black dots swimming in his vision, taking deep, shaky breaths until he could see clearly. He knew his flask couldn’t be far away, so he scanned the forest floor. A glimpse of the burnished metal ten feet from where he sat had him crawling through the grass like a wounded soldier. The top was unscrewed, but it rested against a small branch with the opening pointed up. His hand shook as he grabbed it and heard the sweet sound of liquid slosh in the bottom. Benny grinned wide and brought the flask to his lips, pouring a generous amount of fire down his throat. He coughed and sputtered for a minute, taking panting breaths so he wouldn’t throw up again, and let the world come into focus once more.

“A little hair of th’ dog,” he drawled, hoisting the flask in salute. “Thank ya God fer small favors.”

After a couple of failed attempts, he managed to get himself standing. Leaning against the trunk of a dead hickory tree, the rotted wood creaked as waves of vertigo threatened to toss him back to the ground. Once stabilized, he patted the pockets of his jeans looking for his cigarettes, only now noticing the damp stain around his groin.

“Fuck, I done pissed m’self, again,” he muttered with a sigh.

Benny shook his head while he pulled out a crumpled pack of Winstons and his Zippo lighter. Fishing out a cigarette, he inspected it carefully for breaks then lit up. Inhaling deeply, he held the smoke in his lungs for a beat then closed his eyes as he exhaled, with the plume hanging around his head in the still air. He leaned back against the tree, trying to get his bearings and remember what happened the night before.

Mack, that’s what happened. That’s what always happened.

Mack was Benny’s half-brother, same mother but different fathers. As far as they knew both of their fathers were either dead or in jail. They’d never met them and neither had come calling to try to fulfill some patriarchal duty. Their mother died ten years ago in the little house where the brothers grew up and still lived. The elder by two and a half years, Mack was thirty-four, and big and ornery as a bear that sat on a beehive. Not great, as brothers go, and a worse drunk. Last night he’d been blindly ranting about some slight – real or imagined – and threatening to beat the crap out of Benny. Knowing his brother’s moods well enough to know there was no calming him down – and that he would probably follow through on his threats – Benny had grabbed his flask with the last of his ‘shine stash and slipped out for a walk in the woods.

The insistent honking of a horn some distance behind him slowly crept into Benny’s addled brain. Mack was awake and eager to inflict himself on someone. Benny took a final pull from his cigarette and ground it out with his boot.

“No time like th’ present,” he said to the trees. The rotten trunk at his back broke with the effort of pushing himself upright, sending him sprawling to the ground once again.

***

Elle looked back the way she had come – not a car in sight on this lonely stretch of road. Truth be told, she couldn’t remember seeing another car since they had turned off the main drag. She checked her watch: ten-forty. It seemed the map she got from the fleabag motel would come in handy. She dug it out of a pocket on her pack and tried to get her bearings.

The jerk who just sped off had picked her up in Midway. Thoroughfares made it difficult for her friends to feed without drawing unwanted attention, so they had persuaded her to stick to secondary roads. Hitchhikers tended to stand out like a sore thumb, garnering the attention of state police, and charming them was iffy at best. They agreed that local cops would be easier to wile with her feminine graces if the situation arose. It would take longer to get to Miami, but spending a few days in jail would delay her new life even further.

Instead of taking Route 17 straight south, her assailant said he knew a shortcut. Now she found herself in the middle of nowhere. She made a mental note of Barrington Ferry Road as they were driving and located it on the map. There wasn’t a lot in the area, with little in either direction but trees. The quickest way to get back on track was to keep heading south where the road curved almost due east to meet back up with Route 17.

The map highlighted tourist destinations of the area, with one marked very near that junction: The Smallest Church in America. Elle certainly wasn’t religious, but it sounded intriguing. She might lose an hour or so, but she was already behind her schedule, such as it was. Decision made, she refolded the map and tucked it away.

Gently removing her headphones from the pack, she placed them over her ears and arranged the wires so they wouldn’t get crimped by the backpack straps. The mixtape of Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday songs was starting to get worn from all the use and she hoped it would hold out until she reached Florida. With only a couple of tapes to her name, these walks would get very lonely without music – her friends’ breathless chatter notwithstanding. She preferred cassettes to the new Compact Discs that were being force-fed to the public, even though they didn’t last as long. Given the progress of the technology, she had a sneaking suspicion it was only a matter of time until she had no choice but to make the switch.

For now, though, she had all she needed in the world: a sunny day, music, and her constant companions cavorting in the shadows. Pressing play on the Walkman, the scatty strains of Fitzgerald’s silky voice coursed through the tiny speakers, instantly soothing the last of her rattled nerves. She didn’t need to check if her friends followed, as long as there was even a sliver of darkness they kept tabs on her, whispering stories and advice or telling jokes that made little sense to her but sent them into fits of giggles.

It could be worse, she thought,shouldering her pack, I could be their prey. She took one last glance back the way she came and started the hike back to civilization. Inevitably, her mind began to wander after several minutes, reaching into the recesses of the past she longed to forget.

Elle A. Fitzgerald was the latest in a string of aliases, and an homage to the ‘First Lady of Song.’ She was born Sarah Lynn Parks in Grand Rapids, Michigan at the close of the nineteen-sixties, though she left that identity behind many years ago, along with the incumbent pain. Her parents died in a car accident when she was the tender age of eight and by some cruel quirk of fate all of her relatives on both sides were either dead or deemed unfit to serve as guardian for an only child. None of her parents’ few friends would step up to take on her care either, so her case was remanded to the State.

Until that time, she hadn’t even heard of foster care and knew nothing of how the system worked. The second trauma of her short life lay in the fact she wasn’t able to properly mourn her parents’ deaths – courtrooms and caseworker cubicles aren’t great places to come to grips with grief. She was never an outgoing girl, so by the time she was placed with the first long-term foster family she had retreated so far inside herself there was little that could coax her from her shell.

Life hadn’t been sunshine and roses to that point, but she remembered being happy. They weren’t rich, and her parents were reclusive – likely why there were no close ties to aid Elle after their deaths – but they loved her and provided a stable environment. She had been a good student in school with a small circle of friends. Both of those facts quickly changed with her first placement in a different district, making it necessary to change schools. Those first weeks were a blur of emptiness so profound she still quivered internally at the thought. Worse was to come, but most of the particulars were buried deep, along with the little girl she had once been.

The abuse started early with one of her foster brothers, a gangly teen with acne scars and atrocious breath. Years later, in conversations with her shadow friends, she came to realize this was where her trust issues began. For incorporeal beings, they seemed to have a good grasp of the delicate subtleties of the human psyche. A string of homes, and several more abusers later, she reached a point where fight or flight became the only options.

With the aid of Damien, the only decent sibling she had known, they escaped late one night and hid out in abandoned houses, sleeping during the day and running at night until they put enough distance between them and the pain to relax a little and make plans. At her age, Elle was oblivious to the reasons for suburban Detroit’s continuing decline, but the vast number of boarded up homes and sparse population were a Godsend for two preteens looking to lay low. It was in one of those rundown houses where she met her new friends for the first time.

I miss you, Damien, she thought as her long strides ate up the miles. Sweat trickled down her spine and the thin fabric of her shirt clung to her skin. You weren’t perfect – by any stretch of the imagination – but you saved my life.

Thick foliage draped over both sides of the road blocking most of the direct sunlight. Elle couldn’t hear their chittering language with her music playing, but could feel her shadow friends’ presence and see them playing between the trees. To reduce wear on her precious tapes and conserve batteries, she switched off the player every hour or so to talk with them. Damien may have helped save her from abuse in foster care, but the shadows had saved her from herself.

***

“Where th’ fuck you been?” Mack bellowed when Benny stumbled out of the woods. The top half of his body was engulfed under the hood of a rusting Ford pickup, making it look as if he were being devoured by a mechanical beast. The wrench he was using to wrestle loose a stubborn bolt clattered from his hand to the dirt below, and he let loose a stream of curses while trying to shimmy his bulk under the truck.

Prickers and burrs clung to Benny’s clothes and shaggy hair making it appear as if a scarecrow had come to life and only just learned the rudiments of walking. Once on the relatively level ground of their crude dirt driveway, he started picking off the debris and flicking them away.

“Musta fell asleep o’er yonder,” he said, vaguely waving a hand in the direction he had come.

Mack got to his feet, wrench in hand, and curled his stubbled lip in a sneer, exposing a gap where an eyetooth used to be.

“Sounds ‘bout right, dipshit.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I been up a couple hours waitin’ on yer sorry ass, an’ ya jus’ mosey outta th’ woods like a fairy-fuckin’-princess.” Chuckling, he looked his brother up and down, “Looks like ya pissed yerself, dumbass. Best git yerself cleaned up b’fore we head t’ Clint’s place. He said he got that clutch plate fer Barry’s Dodge, an’ I don’t want him sellin’ it t’ no one else.”

Feeling his brother’s eyes following him, Benny muttered under his breath while heading in the direction of the house. Ol’ Bart’s place wasn’t too far from the parts store, so he might be able to persuade Mack to make the detour. Bart’s moonshine was the best kept secret in the county, and since Benny and Mack did all his truck repairs, they got a discount. The flask in his back pocket was empty now, as was their cask, strapped in the bed of the truck.

“Th’ well’s ‘bout dry, we might wanna swing in an’ give Bart a holler,” he said over his shoulder as he reached the porch. Mack grunted in response, whether in the affirmative or not Benny couldn’t say.

There were gaping holes in the screen door and the frame was rotted and swelled at the base so it never closed properly. Ghostly memories beckoned as he let the door sag shut behind him and stepped into the dim interior; the smell of homemade biscuits and sausage gravy wafting from the tiny kitchen to his left; boots clomping down the hall as younger versions of he and Mack ran outside on another adventure in the woods; his mother’s stiffened body slumped in her favorite chair to his right. She had been dead a couple of days by the time Benny and Mack returned from a fishing trip. He sighed and hung his head as he made his way to his room. Her death still stung all these years later.

Their mother was frugal and stretched the limited funds she received from the government as far as she could, providing the boys with a simple but comfortable upbringing. When going through her belongings after the funeral, they found a locked box under her bed. The money inside wasn’t a fortune, but it was enough to make their lives much easier. They figured most of it had to be from one or the other of their fathers – ill-gotten gains from their dealings that landed them in prison, most likely, since it was doubtful their mother could have saved that much.

A portion of the money had gone into purchasing tools and a lift they installed in the barn off to the side of the house. Since they had to have electricity run for the garage, more had gone into adding an indulgence neither of them had growing up: running water and a shower. Mack, as paranoid as he was ornery, had insisted on buying a safe for the remainder, which they buried in a small underground bunker out back.

They told nobody about the money, attributing the expansion of their car repairs to a life insurance policy from their mother and word of mouth about their expertise. Though Mack’s reputation as a hothead and bully was well-known around the area, both he and Benny were gifted mechanics, so no one doubted the latter was the truth. After a few short weeks, their new enterprise was thriving as if it had been part of the town all along. They dealt in cash, which suited their clientele in town just fine. It also allowed them to stay off the grid, even while living a lifestyle that was a bit more indulgent than they had known growing up.

Benny shouldered his bedroom door open and peered through the gloom at the mess strewn about the small room. The mattress where he slept was tucked in the farthest corner and littered with clothing and sheets in various stages of disarray. He picked up a pair of jeans and a rumpled t-shirt, carefully sniffing both for offending odors. Satisfied they weren’t too ripe, he stripped off his soiled clothes and kicked them toward the pile in the corner.

Gonna have t’ hit th’ laundromat soon, he thought as he padded across the rough boards to the shower.

The combination of hot water and vigorous scrubbing bolstered his spirits and drove away most of his hangover. Swiping a hand across the steam on the mirror, he briefly contemplated shaving the several days’ worth of stubble from his face, but decided it gave him a vaguely Miami Vice look. He slicked back his dark hair and gave himself a roguish grin in the mirror instead. Footsteps on the porch interrupted his fantasy of becoming the next Crockett.

“Yo, you fall asleep in there?!” Mack roared through the screen door.

Scowling at his reflection, Benny quickly dressed and headed back out to his room to put on his boots. He had a weird feeling about today, but wasn’t going to let Mack’s sour mood bring him down.

“I’m comin,’ hold yer horses,” he said, walking casually down the hall.

Mack’s bulk blocked most of the daylight, and it appeared as if a bear peered inside. As Benny got closer, his brother’s grin came into focus, off-white contrasted with shadow, like in a cartoon he’d seen when they were boys. Making a pitstop in the kitchen, he grabbed a slice of cold pizza from the takeout box on the counter, folding it and inhaling half in one bite. Chewing contentedly, he checked the fridge for beer. There were five left in the twelve-pack, just enough to get the day started right. Kicking the door shut, he held out his prize for his brother to see.

“Road beers,” he mumbled through half chewed pizza.

“Ha!” Mack laughed, opening the screen for his brother. “Ya ain’t totally useless, after all!”

***

The morning ticked away and Elle still hadn’t seen a car or any signs of civilization other than power lines and a couple of dirt tracks that led off into the woods. She stopped to rest a couple of times and munch on some provisions she packed before heading out on the road. Her friends kept her company, telling stories of the critters that lived in the woods while she ate and stretched her legs. The tales rambled and twisted in the telling, the susurrating voices seeming to come from multiple mouths at once, echoing and overlapping each other.

It had taken several months for her to fully grasp their peculiar speech and quell the unease their voices naturally inspired. Elle had been both terrified and awed the first time she saw them, watching them morph and weave around Damien like ethereal interpretive dancers. He couldn’t see or hear them, but she could tell he felt their presence by the furtive glances over his shoulders. The look he gave her – as if a third eye had grown on her forehead whenever she mentioned them – made her learn to keep their relationship a secret.

Damien shared his plans before reaching the city, which largely included peddling her youth in the seamier areas of Detroit. He knew some people who could take them in and provide the bare necessities for their survival. His rationale seemed sound at the time – they were both much too young to enter the legitimate workforce, and their only other alternative was to return to the system they had just escaped. She reluctantly agreed, after much wailing and dissent.

Over time, through coaxing or threats by Damien and their handlers, she came to see this was only marginally worse than what she left behind but at least gave the illusion of control over her own life. Damien had miscalculated his part of the bargain, thinking he would have a managing role, not realizing that his own youth fetched a hefty price from those with varying tastes and appetites.

In the months to come, she took comfort in the shadows, allowing them to soothe her wounds – both physical and emotional. Through their advice and teaching, she grew stronger and more resilient. Through the means of her suffering, they fed. During the ensuing investigations into the disappearances of random clients, they hid her from the authorities, giving her an almost mythic reputation amongst her new peers. Most of those that went missing would not be missed by society at large, so the police investigations were usually quickly wrapped up. In time, Elle began to understand the symbiosis of their relationship; by her mid-teens, she learned to use it to both their advantage.

Most often, she had little say in her friends’ feeding habits. However, she did manage to save the odd client from time to time, making mental notes of the situations when her cajoling seemed to hold sway. Sometimes tears worked, either hers or the client; on rare occasions, appeals to logic. Threats just sent them into tittering fits of giggles before they engulfed their prey, hauling them into another realm to consume the flesh, then spitting out bizarre fetishes they sculpted with the remains in the nether regions. The rhymes and reasons varied and no discernable pattern emerged; they were always hungry, so Fate or happenstance appeared to drive their whims.

This new relationship made it difficult for her to make friends or get close to anyone. Even Damien distanced himself after a few months, though in retrospect that may have been due to battling his own demons. His health deteriorated and he turned to drugs as a means of escape. Elle watched his steady decline, helpless to intervene, though she kept trying until the day he just disappeared completely, without even a goodbye.

Losing the only friend she had known since embarking on this twisted journey made her withdraw even further from other folks. She spent the deepest hours of the nights building her bond with the shadows and slept through the morning hours, when everyone else was hustling or jockeying for position within the loose organization.

When Elle reached eighteen years old, she finally extricated herself from her human handlers by hinting at the possible ramifications if they didn’t allow her to leave. They were well aware that something otherworldly hung around her like a stain, so only offered token resistance to her departure, considering themselves lucky for emerging from the deal with their skin intact.

Elle’s protectors were good teachers and she was an apt pupil. They steered her toward a relatively safe position as an exotic dancer. In time, she learned the trade, and eventually gentlemen’s clubs in the city practically fought each other to have her as an attraction. Within a year, she was allowed to choose her own hours and keep the vast majority of the money she made, which was substantial. Her nest egg grew quickly and the newfound freedom got her dreaming of a better life in a warmer climate. A couple of dancers from out of town put the idea of Miami in her head where it grew deep roots and took on a life of its own.

The shadows offered a trophy from the forest, breaking her reverie. Pieces of innocent critters were melded together to form a ghastly totem, with twisted limbs fanned around glassy, lifeless eyes in an intricate sunburst array. These sculptures, if they could be called that, hinted at an artful desire she couldn’t even begin to interpret. Having seen much worse, Elle was mostly unaffected, though the queasiness at the sights and smells never truly abated. For her part in their relationship, she had learned to be thankful for their lessons and protection, even if that meant burying her conscience and gag reflex beneath layers of polite smiles and compliments.

Why couldn’t my life be normal? she wondered for the thousandth time.

Midday was fast approaching when she reached the slow curve that would lead her to the main road. Reaching the crossroad at Route 17 just after one in the afternoon, the tree-cover thinned and the sun was high in the sky, bearing down like a weight after the almost constant shade of her morning walk. The humidity had been ramping up all morning as well, making the hike feel like wading through a steam room.

Shading her eyes, she looked for the church in the direction the map indicated. There was a sign with a large arrow pointing into the shade of a stand of willows a short distance away on the other side of the road.

Elle hadn’t bothered to mention this pitstop to her friends. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway; they could read her mind whenever they wanted. Regardless, they had no fear of religion – they’d eaten several clergymen who had essentially raped her – and would be perfectly at ease wherever the darkness found a home. With a quick glance in either direction, she trotted across the road and made the short hike to the church.

***

As usual, Mack drove them into town. This used to upset Benny and they’d had many fights over the years about who was going to drive. Now, he was content to swig his beer in the passenger seat of the pickup and watch the familiar scenery coast by, riding the air currents with his hand out the window.

They stopped at their local convenience store to get more beer, smokes, and ice for the cooler that sat snuggly on the floorboard between his legs. The shop was run by the same husband and wife since they were kids, where they used to steal penny candy and run giggling out the door. Benny felt badly about their childish antics and tried making up for it now by buying a couple of extra small items or donating to whatever charity they had a can for on the counter. Today’s prize was a small plush toy, Ringo the Raccoon, which he set on the dashboard to keep watch on the road ahead.

“What th’ fuck did ya get that fer?” Mack growled, eyeing the toy with distain. Being the elder, he had taken on the mantle of father figure from the time they were kids. He had beaten the tar out of a couple of kids who bullied Benny in school, though looking at the stuffed doll made him wonder if he should have let his brother fight his own battles and grow a pair.

“Said on th’ news they might be worth some money,” Benny replied. “Beanie Babies, er some shit. Real hot ticket now.” He thought they were cute, but would never admit as much to his brother.

Mack grumbled, but didn’t chuck it out the window while he pulled out of the parking lot, as Benny feared might happen. Feeling the bravery of the couple of beers already in his system, he decided to broach the subject from earlier today.

“Wonder if Clint’s got them plugs ol’ Bart wanted fer his gen’rator?” About as subtle as a kick in the teeth, but Benny felt like the planets were somehow aligned for him today – another facet of his personality that he would never share with Mack.

“Ya got a hankerin’ for some ‘shine, don’t ya?” Mack chuckled with a smirk. “Jus’ don’t go pissin’ yerself again when we git it.”

They made it over to Clint’s parts store a little before noon and hung around shooting the breeze with some of the local boys. Benny hid a smile when Mack asked about the spark plugs for Bart’s generator, and a little thrill of excitement fluttered in his belly when Clint dropped them on the counter. His flask would be filled before the day was done.

Making their farewells, they gathered their parts and headed to the diner for lunch and a few more beers. The waitress, Pam, was an old flame of Benny in school, a fact Mack was well aware. He spent the next half hour relentlessly teasing the two of them, much to the chagrin of her husband, Dale, the owner of the diner. Benny and Pam were used to the ribbing by now and pasted on smiles to hide their embarrassment rather than provoke Mack’s temper. Dale spent the whole time casting baleful glances their way at every opportunity.

With their meal done, and spirits lifted by more alcohol, they headed north on Route 17 toward the dirt track leading to up to Bart’s place in the hills. The old man led a solitary life deep in the woods, only entertaining when his regulars dropped by to sample the latest batch and refill their own supply. Mack was getting a good buzz going and looked forward to seeing his old friend. The truck wandered over the centerline several times while his mind replayed conversations they had in the past, making Benny a little skittish. He knew better than to bring it up, though, it would only sour Mack’s mood. These days the good moods were few and far between.

Benny’s increasingly bleary gaze lit on the sign for the tiny church. He had never been inside, though he lived here all his life. Even as a kid, he’d shunned it like a haunted relic of a distant past he would never know. It was a place that only appealed to some folks, and he wasn’t one of them. As they drew closer, he caught a glimpse of a backpack carried by long, tanned legs, just passing under the willows.

The young woman’s blond head turned at the roar of the truck and their eyes met for a fraction of a second. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen – there one second, then the truck sped past, leaving her image to burn in his fevered brain. It took several moments for him to realize he was still craning his head backward, hoping for another taste of her raw beauty.

Finally, shaking his head, his fuzzy mind pondered why it looked like a vast cape of darkness had been spread around her tantalizing figure. For one very brief moment he thought about asking Mack to turn around, just so he could confirm or deny the sight. Looking over at his brother, that thought immediately fled. Nothing good could come from such an encounter.

The vision haunted him, though, and he shuddered involuntarily; intimidated by the passion and dread the image aroused. Benny kept his innermost thoughts from his brother, tucked away like curios in the cabinet of his mind. He had been aspiring to something more lately and longed to break the shackles tying him to Mack. They were adults, and a dim recess of his mind knew there was more to this life than being a drunk mechanic in a hick town. There were plenty of places to go, and much more beauty to behold.

***

Nestled beneath weeping willows, the church was set back from the road, lending it a sense of isolation and tranquility. A truck growled past while Elle wandered along the lane, breaking the spell of the serenity. She turned in time to catch the eye of a vaguely attractive man staring at her from the passenger window. Though the eye contact was barely a second, a chill coursed along her arms and spine as if stepping through the ethereal substance of a specter.

The shadows swirled in the hedgerows lining the gravel path, giggling at the sensed emotions. Suppressing a shudder, Elle turned away and continued up the lane. The connection she shared with her friends was intrusive, at best, and a one-way street. They could often read her like a magazine, carelessly flipping through her fears and passions, while she still had to guess at their motivations after all these years.

Crunching over the gravel, she approached the building. It was indeed small, looking more like the potting shed in her backyard when she was a young girl. The cross jutting from the peak of the roof and the narrow, stunted bell tower to one side were the only features setting it apart from the mundane. Willow branches draped to block most of the direct sunlight, creating an oasis of shade around the building and an alabaster statue of Jesus that stood vigil several yards from the entrance. Even with the shade providing ample spaces to roam, her friends stayed close to the areas around the trees and statue, investigating the somber likeness with misty tendrils. Their usual chatter was reduced to subdued sighs, almost respectful.

I’ve never seen them like this, Elle thought, watching immaterial fingers caress the stone idol. It made her wonder, not for the first time, how old they were and how much of history they had seen. They were oddly reticent when she asked about their origins, deflecting the questions, or outright ignoring them with practiced ease. She had no doubt they had chosen to show themselves to her, to protect and teach, but they were equally elusive when asked why. There were thousands of kids like her, what drew them to her like a moth to a flame? She had never been given a straight answer. This fact and their incessant, twisted games were beginning to fuel her desire to be free. How she may sever those ties was another question entirely.

Two thin trellises thick with vines anchored the portico on either side of the entrance. Three narrow, arched windows allowed a peek at the interior through the dark mahogany door. Elle couldn’t help feeling like an intruder as she turned the brass knob and creaked open the door. A narrow aisle separating two short rows of chairs on each side led to the pulpit, adorned on the front with a carved wooden cross. A three-globed chandelier hung from the exposed beams overhead to spread light over the room. Framed psalms and newspaper clippings surrounded small stained-glass windows set in the side walls. The air was still and cool, much cooler than she would have expected given the heat of the day.

By a clever trick of symmetry, the exposed roof beams made the room appear larger and drew the eyes to the image of Christ immortalized in stained-glass behind the pulpit. Statuettes and figurines of his likeness were clustered on shelves behind the podium and anywhere else space allowed. Elle removed her backpack and tucked it against the inside wall, then sat in the chair closest to the door. Her friends had plenty of pockets of dark to play in but they remained sedate, chittering in hushed tones, their normally manic patterns reduced to near-static undulations.

“Why are you guys so quiet?” she asked, not really expecting a response, but her curiosity demanded the query. Their voices went silent and she thought they would ignore the question, like so many others in the past. Instead, after a long pause, a single, clear whisper emanated from a recess close to her ear.

He was kind.

The hair on the nape of Elle’s neck stood on end. It was the first response she received in all these years that even hinted at their past. Emboldened, she pressed for more information. The lights flickered and then went out, a trick she hadn’t known they possessed. Darkness drew around her like a cloak, blotting the ambient light from the windows. Exhilaration and fear flooded her body, making her limbs tremble in anticipation.

The lone voice whispered stories of ancient times and people, telling of their part in the making of histories. She listened intently, trying to absorb the information and asking questions. It told her of the beginnings of civilization, then the forming of the world. When the stories turned to their own creation eons prior to the molding of the universe, Elle’s terrestrial perception of time became irrelevant. Her head swam with knowledge she was sure only a privileged few were privy to, most of which she only vaguely understood. After a couple of hours, it was too much; her mind overloaded and went fuzzy. Much as she wanted to take advantage of this boon, she drifted helplessly into a fitful sleep.

Sighing, the shadows stretched to drape over her silent form like a blanket. There would be more opportunities to share. Elle had been tugging at her leash lately, as all these beings did when they began to mature. Perhaps it was rash to give her so much information at once, but she was special and they didn’t want to lose this rare gift. So pliable, so easily molded, like the artwork they crafted. Smoky tendrils oozed through the hair of her head that they stroked so lovingly, delving into her brain matter to plant seeds and sway thoughts. They were patient. They had high hopes for this one.

***

The truck jounced over ruts in the dirt track, the large, knobby tires digging for purchase, climbing deeper into the forest. Branches smacked the windshield and screeched along the side of the truck. Beer swilled in Benny’s gut and bladder. He hadn’t thought ahead to relieve himself before they left the diner, and now mentally kicked his own ass for not asking Mack to make a pitstop before embarking on this leg of the journey.

Pissing himself was becoming too common an occurrence lately, and Mack was nearing the tipping point from happy drunk to asshole very quickly. Only the thought of a fresh supply of ‘shine was enough to bolster Benny’s mood at that moment. Lately, it was the only escape he had from his brother’s callous moods. Cinching his legs tighter together, knowing they would come to the clearing and Bart’s shack very soon, he prayed he could hold on for a couple more minutes.

The engine roared as they mounted the final hill and the truck skidded to a stop just beyond the tree line. Bart squinted at them from the porch of his shack, his long white beard draped over the shotgun pointed in their direction. He had to move his still a few times in his younger days, but said he was too old now and would be damned if the Feds would scare him away again; he’d go down with guns blazing, and maybe take a couple of the bastards with him. Once he recognized the truck, he relaxed and lowered the gun, spitting a stream of tobacco juice beside the warped step leading down from the porch.

Benny scampered from the truck, unzipping his fly as he stumbled toward the bushes lining the clearing. Urine sprayed back onto his pantlegs from the force of the stream ricocheting off the leaves, but at least it was on the outside this time. He breathed out a long, happy sigh as his bladder emptied, while Mack and Bart chortled behind him. Benny didn’t care, his mind went blank reveling in the relief.

After taking some ribbing from the pair, he joined them on the porch, pulling up a crate to use as a seat. They hadn’t been around for about a month – Bart’s truck was running like a top, thanks to Benny and Mack, and their supply of moonshine usually lasted at least that long.

While they filled Bart in on the latest news from around town, Benny noticed the old man seemed out of sorts, fidgety and agitated.

“You ok, Bart?” he asked at a lull in the conversation. “Yer lookin’ like ya seen a ghost.”

The old man grimaced and stroked his beard. One leg jittered up and down as his rocking chair creaked to and fro.

“Ya ain’t as dumb as ya look,” Bart drawled, smiling a gap-toothed grin to soften the words. He had a soft spot for the younger of the pair, and fond recollections of their mother. His bushy eyebrows cinched together as he scowled, “Jus’ that there’s some weird vibes hangin’ ‘round since this mornin.’ I ain’t never felt nuthin’ like it. Gets right inta my bones.”

A carved bone pendant hung around his neck, a simple effigy of a man, gifted by a shaman in New Orleans during his stint with the navy. His shipmates had cajoled him into the fortune teller’s shop, laughing and hooting. It wasn’t something he had ever thought to do, and certainly not the sort of thing he wanted to waste his precious shore leave on, but he took the ribbing and stumbled inside the dim shop, if only to shut them up so they could continue their carousing on Bourbon Street afterward.

If he had even an inkling of what she was to tell him, he would have turned tail and gone directly back to the ship. Or gone AWOL to try and find some safe place where demons and Gods let mortals be. Not that there was anywhere to hide. He knew that now; safety was an illusion to fool the mind into thinking there was such a thing as control. He was thankful that his time on this Earth was nearing an end. Some things a man just shouldn’t know.

Stroking the amulet, he gestured to the surrounding woods, “Th’ birds ‘n critter’s feel it too…” Bart’s words trailed off, and Benny realized there was no bird song from the trees, or even so much as a squirrel chittering and making a nuisance of itself, like usual. A chill ran down his spine despite the heat of the day.

“Could be the heat’s keepin’ ‘em quiet,” he said into the silence, not really believing the words as he spoke. There was a sense of foreboding in the air, like the surreal hush of sitting in the eye of a hurricane.

Mack looked back and forth between the two of them with a smirk creasing his face and a feral gleam in his glassy eyes, “Y’all need t’ lighten th’ fuck up! Yer getting’ spooked cuz there ain’t no birds ‘round?” He shook his head in amazement, “I’m thinkin’ ya need t’ break out that new batch, old man, an’ we can howl at the fuckin’ sky when we drink our fill!”

Bart gave him a stern look then shook his head as a sad smile slowly curled his lips. He picked up a stoneware jug from beside his chair and handed it to Mack, “This lot goes down rough, but it kicks like a mule.”

Taking the proffered jug, Mack flipped it onto his forearm and tilted back for a deep draw. Seconds later his face screwed up as if he had just inhaled fire.

“Whoo!” he shouted. “That shit’d take th’ paint an’ primer offa my truck!” He coughed and panted as he handed the jug to Benny. “Jeezus H. Christ, Bart, I think ya outdone yerself this time.” The old man cackled at the compliment, grinning, and slapping his knee.

Benny smiled in anticipation of his turn, but took a much more cautious sip. He was already well on his way to drunk and wanted to savor the feeling if he could.

The humidity had the alcohol oozing from their pores as the jug passed slowly around the triangle. After a short while, Mack managed to offload their cask from the bed of the truck without breaking it, and rolled it behind the shack where the still was set up. Bart groaned as he got up from his chair to start it filling. The still was many years in the making and a work of art, as far as he was concern. He was constantly tweaking to perfect the product, but it was a slow process.

The trio sat and drank, beer from the cooler and sipping moonshine, while the cask filled. They told stories and reminisced, laughing until the sun started to drop behind the trees. By full dusk, all three were the worse for drink, and the cask was halfway filled. Bart topped it off from jugs he set aside for that purpose.

Woozy, yet energized, Benny helped Mack heft it into the truck. They fumbled with the harness, but finally got it cinched in the bed against the cab. Saying their goodbyes to Bart, the brothers promised to come up in the next week to bring his truck down to the shop for a tune-up. Mack handed him a wad of cash for the moonshine, and gave a friendly whack on the back that sent the old man staggering.

Half sliding and half falling into the passenger seat, Benny was suddenly overcome by a sense of dislocation. Peering through the windshield, his double vision showed two Barts talking with two Macks, each one hazy, like distorted spirits. An odd notion crept into his mind, echoing remnants of the foreboding from earlier in the day. He tried removing it by shaking his head, yet it remained, stubbornly berating his brain, and making him wonder if he would see any of these folks again.

***

Elle roused from a fitful sleep. Her dreams rapidly became murky phantoms, blending quasars into humid jungles, in the odd, disjointed way that dreams do. The intensity of the information relayed before her nap still had her reeling. Glancing around, she wondered if the shadows ever slept; they always just seemed to be there. Maybe they work in shifts, she thought, bringing a brief smile to her lips.

Realizing the shadows of dusk had crept in while she dozed, she mentally kicked herself; it may be too late to find a motel for the night, and now her sleep schedule was thrown out the window as well. The thought of staying here in the church was tempting, though. The sign on the door said it was open twenty-four hours a day, and she doubted there would be many visitors overnight. Still, she needed sustenance, the meager rations she packed this morning had diminished to a granola bar and an apple. Hardly fare to keep a body going for long, and her stomach was starting to grumble.

The lights flickered on, startling her for a moment, until she remembered her friends were the ones who turned them off. Their voices shushed from the corners. She pulled the map from her pack to see if there were any restaurants in the area. A fork and knife symbol marked a diner a short hike from the church. It would be better than what she had, and she might be able to get directions to a motel not listed. Tucking the map away, she got to her feet and stretched her limbs.

“I need to eat, guys,” she told the shadows. “There’s a diner not far down the road. We might have to come back here to spend the night, though.” Her friends roiled in the dark corners as she strapped on her pack.

Outside, the first thing she noticed were the fireflies, hundreds of them floating beneath the willows like faerie lanterns. The air had cooled substantially, but the humidity was still oppressive. All was quiet except for the subtle, distant drone of vehicles from a nearby highway. She slipped on her headphones and let her namesake’s voice lift her spirit away from the world for a while. Two small floodlights were aimed at the sign out by the road, so she followed their beacon down the gravel lane, with the shadows clinging to her like a second skin.

Reaching the road, headlights blazed from the right, and the roar of an approaching engine barely filtered through the music to alert her to danger. A street light bathed the area in a harsh glow, keeping her friends confined to the trees lining the edge of the road. With distance from the church, their forms writhed and swelled. High beams glared from the dark road beyond the sign, swaying to and fro as the vehicle swerved over the centerline.

Primal fear kept Elle’s feet planted on the gravel like a deer caught crossing the highway. She could make out enough detail to see it was a pickup truck as it careened toward her on a collision course. The lights momentarily jerked back onto their original course giving the precious seconds she needed to throw off her paralysis.

Her friends couldn’t save her, but her own reflexes managed to propel her to safety with a last-second leap to the side. The truck skidded to a halt on the soft shoulder mere feet from where she landed, enveloping her in a cloud of dust for the second time that day. She heard the driver’s door creak open and a muffled yell from inside the cab. Footsteps approached and the strong smell of liquor made her gag as a large form crouched beside her in the dirt.

“Hey baby, ya wanna have some fun?” a gruff voice slurred close to her ear. A large hand wrapped around her wrist and she was dragged toward the truck.

***

The radio blared one of the latest country hits, an upbeat tune that had Mack trying to drum with the beat on the steering wheel. Benny’s mind barely registered the noise, he couldn’t shake the foreboding since leaving Bart’s place; it was like a physical presence, wrapping him in cold arms and holding him tight. He had no idea what was going to happen, but the fact that Mack was officially blind drunk and swerving all over the road didn’t ease his mind one bit. If his brother’s vision was anything like his own, it was a wonder they were on the road at all. Luckily, there was little traffic at the moment, and he prayed they made it home in one piece.

The only landmark his bleary mind could register was ahead on the left, the tiny church, where he had seen the most beautiful woman earlier that day. He rubbed his eyes in a vain attempt to clear his sight, hoping beyond hope that she might still be there. A thrill ran through his stomach when his vision coalesced enough to spy a silhouette by the side of the road. This quickly turned to cold fear as Mack jerked the wheel in her direction; apparently he saw her, too. Benny went numb with the realization that at this speed and trajectory they were probably going to kill this helpless girl.

At that moment, a switch flipped in his mind. The music muted to white noise, and time slowed as he noted the gleam in his brother’s eye, the feral intent made almost manifest through sheer will. That gleam had been present as long as Benny could remember. In a flash of revelation, he truly realized for the first time that he didn’t even like this man. So, why did he put up with his abuse…because he was family? That was only partly true. Their mother wasn’t a saint, but she did her best for her boys. The other part of the equation produced a vile human being with no regard for anyone but himself.

Perhaps it was the alcohol coursing through his system, or he just had enough of Mack’s bullshit; he reached over and grabbed the wheel, attempting to steer them clear of disaster. For a few seconds, the move surprised Mack, allowing Benny to turn the wheel enough to thwart a head-on collision. The young woman squinted into the headlights with a dazed expression, but Benny was heartened to see her shake off her paralysis in time to dive to the side.

Mack quickly regained his composure, curling his lip in disgust and punching the back of Benny’s hand with all the force he could muster. Quick as lightning, he followed up with a stiff jab to Benny’s jaw, sending him sprawling against the door. Mack locked the brakes and the truck screeched to a halt, causing Benny’s head to smack on the dashboard and tumble him in an ungainly heap on top of the cooler in the process.

“I was jus’ gonna scare her,” Mack hissed as he opened his door. “This ain’t over, dipshit.”

“Fuck yerself!” Benny cried through the fingers covering his bloody nose and lip.

Fumbling with the handle, he opened his door and fell out hard onto the pavement, wrenching his shoulder. Numb to the pain by the combination of moonshine and adrenaline, he picked himself up and stumbled around the truck in time to intercept Mack. Even dragging a wriggling human laden with a full backpack, the older brother easily batted Benny aside with a wild swing of an arm.

The captive was beginning to regain her fight, though. She couldn’t reach her blade, so Elle flailed her free arm, managing to jab between Mack’s legs as he took a stride. It was enough to send him off balance, and he crashed into the door he’d left ajar. He lost his grip on her wrist as he bounced off and fell on top of her, the force of his weight sending the air whooshing from her lungs. The combined stenches of sweat, alcohol, and cigarettes assaulted her nose when she was finally able to draw breath.

The headlights blinded Benny to their struggle. The engine growled low as it idled, but another sound wriggled into his ear; a giggle or sigh, he couldn’t be sure. His vision was blurred, but the adrenaline that left him shaky as he stood silhouetted in the light also sobered him to a degree. He saw amorphous shapes enter the truck, and heard the driver’s door slam shut.

Mack gunned the engine, making it roar like a beast. Tires spun and screeched as the truck lurched back onto the road, almost clipping Benny as he helplessly watched. Mack pulled up alongside, pausing in his getaway.

“No room fer ya, fucker,” he sneered from the window. “This li’l lady an’ me ‘re gonna get ‘quainted.” He hugged Elle close, keeping her from squirming away with an iron grip, then leaned out the window, grinning like a lunatic. “Th’ walk’ll do ya good – give ya time ta git th’ shit outta yer head.” He cackled as he floored the gas pedal, laying rubber in two long, serpentine trails into the night.

***

Benny stared at the taillights speeding away, stunned, with the look of resignation in the young woman’s captivating eyes burning a hole in his already frazzled mind. Mack was a bully and an asshole, but he’d never resorted to kidnapping or rape before. Or left his brother stranded on the side of the road. He looked around slowly, trying desperately to process what just happened, and figure out what he could possibly do to save the young woman from a fate he was certain would be unpleasant at best.

Something lay in the dirt near the scene of the crime, and he crouched to pick it up. A slightly crushed Walkman, with the snapped off end of the headphone jack still stuck in place. A quick glance around showed nothing else so he stuffed the player in his back pocket, wincing at the dual aches in his shoulder and hand, and considered his options. With few available, he stumbled to the opposite side of the road and started walking. Their house was only a ten-minute drive away, but walking in his condition was going to take an eternity.

Outside the glare of the streetlight, the darkness was almost absolute. The night sky beyond the tree cover was clear with a million stars dazzling his eyes when he looked up, overwhelming in their intensity. He paused, trying to guess when he last took the time to appreciate their beauty. It wasn’t anytime recent, he was sure.

Muddled as his thoughts were, they kept retracing to the look in the young woman’s eyes. No fear, just equal parts acceptance, and irritation. It got him wondering why a beautiful woman would be travelling alone, defenseless against the whims of rednecks in this part of the country. He hadn’t got a good look at her, but she looked reasonably fit. Maybe she knew karate and would kick Mack’s ass when they got to the house. The thought made him smile, which turned into a grimace as the cut on his lip reopened. He licked the blood away, blew the dried blood out of his nostrils, and tried to focus his feet in a straight path.

A sound from the trees beside the road caught his attention, similar to the one he heard before Mack sped off – a tiny giggle that wormed into his ears and reverberated inside his mind. Peering through the gloom into the deep folds of the forest, he was sure his eyes played tricks as the darkness appeared to coalesce into forms. Leaves rustled and a stain darker than the night bled into the fabric of reality, growing and wavering, stretching to tower over him.

Benny began to quiver. A primitive part of his mind rooted him to the spot in the vain hope that this was a hallucination brought on by stress and alcohol poisoning. The rational portion of his psyche made him dimly aware of wet heat trickling down his leg.

No fear, a hundred individual voices whispered. Their volumes and cadences bled jarringly into each other, as if every nightmare utterance in the world had been haphazardly poured into an echo chamber.

“E-easy f-fer you t’ say,” Benny croaked. His bowels loosed and the stench of feces rose to assault his nose.

The shadows giggled, but did not mock; they understood the frailties of humankind. Gossamer tendrils glowed with an eerie phosphorescence – not quite light, more the antithesis of light, but somehow visible nonetheless. They reached to him, pricking and probing his mind with thousands of impossibly thin needles, effortlessly penetrating his skull to root into his fears and desires.

You want to help the girl, they stated.

While that had been his intent, this new development had Benny wondering if he might not be a late-night snack for some creature straight out of Creepshow. The probes in his brain were mostly a one-way drain, but he gleaned snatches of their intent, and a string of names. Most were jumbled together, with one standing apart from the rest.

“Elle?” he asked hesitantly.

The shadows chittered and giggled. Come with us. We want you to see.

In his relatively short life, Benny had never been in a position where he needed to decide between two utterly different desires, the outcomes of which – almost certain death, or redemption – juxtaposed so completely that they made him reel. He could run as far and as fast as possible, and pray for some divine intervention to save his pitiful life, or trust that this entity was that intervention, only in a form he never would have guessed.

“Couldn’t ‘ve done this when I was sober, could ya?” he muttered.

He was amazed how quickly terror was able to sober him up, though. About to be engulfed by the shadows on the side of the road, he still wasn’t totally convinced they weren’t toying with him and he would end up as dinner. That fear turned out to be fuel enough to burn away the alcohol poisoning his brain and body.

The needles exited his brain, they had his answer.

We travel swiftly, the darkness whispered.

His voice came out a hoarse croak as he was enveloped.

“Show me,” was all he could manage.

***

Abduction was a first for Elle. It was hardly surprising given her foolhardy approach to this journey; she was more surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. Though, she did wish her captor smelled better – he stank like he had been fermenting in his own juices all day. She could almost forgive this, and all the other infractions, but her Walkman had been broken and lost during their altercation outside the truck. The ragged end of the headphone wire hung desolately around her neck.

Taking away her music – her lifeblood – while not necessarily punishable by death, certainly deserved restitution. The country tune blaring on the radio wasn’t her style either, so he lost a few more points there. The shadows growled in guttural tones behind the seat and around their legs, perhaps unimpressed with the music as well, and biding their time until the feast.

Elle guessed this redneck was a local, so she didn’t anticipate a long drive. It was a surprise, however, when they immediately turned onto the road she had hiked earlier in the day. There had only been a couple of dirt paths along the way, nothing she would have considered driveways. She was a stranger in a strange land, though, so didn’t know how folks lived around these parts.

Her abductor was obviously drunk, the truck weaved over the lines pretty regularly, and the added distraction of wrangling a kidnap victim didn’t improve his driving skills one iota. Elle decided early in the drive to forego pulling out the knife – he probably wouldn’t even feel the blade in his current condition, and it would likely just piss him off. Best to just let him think he had the upper hand and play the part of the compliant victim. This ordeal would be over soon enough.

The stuffed raccoon on the dash caught her eye while her captor tried engaging her in conversation – as if she would give him the time of day, given the circumstances. Her mind drifted to the other man, the one who tried to intervene; the toy belonged to him, she decided. Maybe these two were just drinking buddies, but she had a gut feeling there was more to their relationship. Brothers, maybe? It took a lot of courage to stand up to the larger man, and that gave him high marks in her book. Plus, he was cute. Blind drunk – but cute, nonetheless, in a rugged, Miami Vice kind of way. She gave her head a tiny shake and smiled internally so she wouldn’t give an outward sign of anything other than distress.

A few short minutes later they turned down a path she must have missed in broad daylight, let alone pitch dark with only the headlights to pick out any signs of habitation. There wasn’t even a mailbox.

Pretty off-the-grid, which was good for her and bad for him – no one around to hear him scream. Branches and leaves smacked and pattered the sides of the truck as Mack drove up the track. A couple of hundred yards in, he pulled up in front of a dilapidated shack with a barn off to the side that looked to be a garage in much better repair.

“Home sweet home!” he bellowed as he killed the engine and shut off the headlights. The dark was absolute for several long moments and Elle could feel her friends roiling around the interior of the cab. Mack pulled her close to whisper in her ear, “Ain’t no one ‘round t’ hear ya scream, so ya might as well play nice.” Wet smooching sounds from his lips punctuated his intent.

“So, what’s going to happen here?” she asked conversationally, gesturing toward the amorphous shape of the house when her eyes started to adjust. “You gonna fuck me here in the truck, or do you have a bed in there?” She was curious to see how far this would go before her friends took over. Years in the trade had inured her to the fates of clients about to meet their maker, and she was treating this as just another transaction.

We want you both to see, the darkness whispered.

“Wha…?” Elle uttered under her breath.

Mack let out a guffaw that reverberated in the cab, “Yer a pistol, li’l girl!” He slapped the steering wheel and opened his door, almost falling out of the truck in the process, with the interior light spilling out with him. “We kin do it right here, if ya wanna. I’ll drop m’ drawers an’ ya can do whate’er comes natural-like to ya.”

Wobbling as he stepped from the truck, he gripped the door for stability. True to his word, once he gained his balance he undid his belt and let his pants and underwear slide down to pool around his ankles. An ebony stain coalesced in the air beside him, just outside the reach of the light, as he flung his arms out to the sides in a display of pride, with his limp penis dangling between his legs.

“How d’ya like that, baby?” he slurred, beaming a shit-eating grin, and oblivious to his jeopardy.

Elle’s curiosity was torn between his utter bravado and his impending doom. Fascinated, she watched a rift grow asunder in the inky black behind him. A man emerged, as if birthed from the darkness – her would-be savior from the church. Her friends had never shown regard for anyone else in her life – even Damien, whom they merely tolerated – so this new development came as a complete surprise. Nor had they ever carried her with them. That would have made this entire journey south unnecessary. A pang of jealousy lingered in her mind while she bore witness to the unfolding drama.

Mack heard Benny’s feet scuff as they touched solid ground, and he turned to discover the source of the interruption. The smile on his face drooped when he saw his brother stumble from the folds of the living night. Bewilderment, followed closely by stark terror, were the last things Elle saw on his face before the interior light of the truck flickered once and went out.

“B-benny…?” Mack whispered, a plea more than a question.

Yes, that will do nicely, a hundred voices tittered from the dark. The shadows wound around Mack’s quivering body.

The night held its breath and eerie silence hung in the air for long moments. Critters and insects in the area hunkered in their burrows and nests, sensing calamity was afoot and more than happy to quietly wait for the storm to pass. Mack gibbered in near-breathless tones, piecing together bits of prayers he heard over the years.

Elle was almost relieved when the squelch of ripping flesh and Mack’s ear-piercing scream finally shattered the stillness. His screams were cut short, however, and while she couldn’t see what her friends were doing to him, his gurgles were enough to make her thankful for the dark.

***

The trip home for Benny was as quick as promised by his new friends. It didn’t give them much time to get acquainted, but he sensed theirs would be an interesting relationship.

If they didn’t eat him.

That possibility still hung in his mind, even with the reassurances they whispered. Wispy tendrils prodded and caressed his limbs and hair while they careened through the forest, making him think of a calf he’d seen at a fair as a boy. The judges tweaked and pinched the poor creature who just wanted to eat grass and live its simple life. He had felt badly for the animal at the time, but he could relate on a much deeper level now.

Though he couldn’t see clearly due to the dark, both natural and unnatural, he got the dizzying impression of trees whizzing past at high speed. Even with his terror-induced sobriety, it still felt like a psychotic version of bed spins, causing his stomach to roil uncomfortably.

“Might’s well puke, too, I reckon,” he mumbled as their harrowing speed began to slow.

A hazy image of Mack and the truck came into view. As they drew closer, Benny made out more detail, realizing they had arrived in the nick of time. Mack had dropped his drawers and was proudly displaying his manhood for his guest, who watched from the interior of the cab with a curious smile gracing her lovely features. The darkness parted like the opening of a cocoon, allowing Benny to stumble out onto solid ground.

The look on Mack’s face was priceless and Benny wished he had a camera to capture the vulnerability – the utter disbelief – followed swiftly by terror.

The realization of what was about to happen to his brother came on the heels of the truck’s interior light winking out, and he was certain that Mack’s scream would haunt him for the rest of his life. He doubted he could have done or said anything to sway the outcome. If he was completely honest, he couldn’t say for sure whether he would have tried to negotiate if he’d had the opportunity.

Mack was still alive, though. When his scream was cut short, his breath became a ragged wheeze in the eerie silence that followed. After several long moments, Benny heard the cask of moonshine unlatched from its straps and scraped from the bed of the truck. His heart sank further as the sounds of liquid sloshing and pouring broke the silence in the inky black, and the cask dropped to the ground some distance away with an empty thud. His eyes began to adjust, picking out stray motions, while Mack uttered a weak, pitiful groan.

Would you like to see? The shadow voices were giddy in anticipation of displaying their latest creation.

Elle wasn’t sure she was ready to see this. She had hoped they would feed and be done with the whole scene, but they apparently had other motives in mind. The headlights blazed to life, momentarily blinding in their sudden intensity. She looked away, catching a glimpse of Benny as he shaded his eyes against the light. He looked to be the worse for wear, and the stench of excrement wafted to her on the slight breeze, whether from him or her abductor she couldn’t be certain. Of its own volition, perhaps out of curiosity or morbid fascination, her head turned back to see what her friends had to offer.

Four feet off the ground, Mack’s naked body glistened with the contents of the cask, held aloft from behind by unseen shadows. His limbs had been splayed to form an X, but there seemed to be too many. Upon closer scrutiny, Elle saw that both arms and legs had been cunningly bisected and arranged to give the appearance of DaVinci’s Vitruvian Man, a work she vaguely recalled from school many years ago.

The resemblance to that piece of art ended there, however. The flesh of his torso had been neatly opened and the ribcage removed, so all the organs were laid bare, held in place through his back by shadowy tendrils acting as puppet strings. They poked in and out of his shell in a silent tempo, as if played by the keys of a fiendish calliope. The lungs drew breath, fitfully, like stuttering bellows. His intestines coiled around his extremities in delicate loops, draping from his arms like ghastly feathered wings. The feebly beating heart pumped blood to mingle with moonshine that dripped and pooled on the ground beneath the stump where his penis had been. That he was still alive was testament to her friends’ skill with human flesh, and the man’s constitution.

Squinting against the glare, Elle recognized his missing member jutting from the middle of his forehead, twisted like a cruller, and somehow held erect to look much like a surreal unicorn’s horn. His eyes were open wide under the shadow of his phallus, excruciating pain palpable in the glassy orbs, while his lips quivered, forming soundless words.

The scene was grotesque and nauseating, yet Elle couldn’t help feeling a touch of admiration. They had obviously put a great deal of thought and effort into creating this abomination, and though she wasn’t sure why they wanted her to see, she felt as if she should feel honored by the display.

Benny’s retching beside the truck broke through her fascination. Without years to get used to such sights, she could certainly understand his reaction and took pity on him. She slipped off her backpack and slid from the cab, waiting patiently by his side until his convulsions quieted. He had fallen to his knees, so she squatted at his side, rubbing his back in a vain attempt at comfort. She murmured platitudes, feeling an awkwardness she had not experienced before. When he found his voice, it was ragged with the tears streaming down his face.

“M-m-ack don’t deserve that,” he sobbed, “no one deserves that…”

You do not see the beauty? The shadows huddled around them, their chattering growing agitated. Perhaps it needs something more…The whoosh of moonshine igniting closely followed their words, sending flames streaming up Mack’s near-lifeless body from feet to head.

Yesss! Creation rises from destruction, they exclaimed.

The entrails draped around his limbs sizzled and popped in the heat, the flaring tongues making them sway like the wings of a demented phoenix. Any final sounds he may have made were swallowed by the roar of the fire, burning with a blue intensity, and lapping at the lower branches overhead.

Melting fat dripped into the pool of blood and alcohol beneath Mack’s body, hissing in the searing heat. A small stream had meandered through ruts in the dirt toward the house prior to the conflagration, and now a river of flame caught the sparse grass ablaze, edging close to the warped wood of the porch.

Perhaps we were hasty…, the shadows admitted. You may wish to leave soon…

The sudden burst of flames engulfing Mack’s body startled Benny from his mourning, enough to take in the direness of the situation. He took Elle’s proffered hand and got unsteadily to his feet, shielding his face from the heat and glaring blaze.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit! What the fuck?!” he exclaimed. He watched in stunned disbelief as the boards closest to the flaming grass began to smolder.

Elle had to admit she was impressed with his resilience. Even with his brother’s demise and cremation taking place mere yards away, she could see the gears turning in his mind. His head cocked to one side like a puppy contemplating a new and interesting animal it had never encountered before. The smile that crept onto her face caught his attention. It was hard to tell with the shadows of the flames dancing over his face, but she was sure he was blushing.

“We should probably go…,” she said, vaguely waving a hand to take in the situation.

Benny’s eyes opened wide and too many emotions to count crossed his face in the space between heartbeats. Elle guessed he grew up here and had probably never even left the state. Her pity turned to empathy, knowing all too well how devastating it was to have everything familiar taken from you in one fell swoop. Thus, she was quite surprised when his grip on her hand became a vice and he started leading her around the truck and the back of the house in a desperate gallop.

“C’mon! We gotta get the money b’fore this place is a fuckin’ pile’ve ash!” he yelled over his shoulder.

His grip was far too strong to break free, so Elle tried her best to keep up, stumbling on the uneven ground and feeling like her arm may come out of its socket at any moment. They raced around the back of the house and he only released her hand when they were several yards into the deep grass. He stomped his feet erratically on the ground, crushing grass and saplings, and looking like he was taking part in a dance competition for the mentally unstable. Then, a thunk rang out as his boot heel hit something solid. There was a moment in the flickering gloom when it seemed the past and future collided in that sound. Benny paused for a few seconds, then scrambled on his knees, flinging clumps of dirt and grass away from the cover with his hands.

“Git down here and help me!” he cried, panting with the exertion. He gritted his teeth against the pain flaring in his shoulder.

Dropping to her knees, Elle tried her best to help, though she had no idea what to do. She randomly pulled shoots of grass and dug in the dirt until Benny guided her hands to the edges of a rectangular metal plate that had been grown over for what was probably a year or more. Together they managed to pry it loose from the ground and flip it off whatever treasure it concealed. Benny took out his Zippo and flicked it to life, the sudden light blinding them for several seconds. When they could see without spots dancing in their eyes, a small safe was revealed, set in concrete, and the last thing Elle had ever expected to see.

With his fingers caked in dirt, Benny fumbled with the tumbler, chanting a string of numbers with every turn of the dial. In his haste, he kept bypassing digits and had to start over. Another failed attempt had him howling at the sky like a wounded coyote. He looked at Elle with wild eyes and sweat beading on his dirt smeared face.

“D’ya think yer friends could open this up?” he asked, pleading.

There was no time for Elle to respond. No sooner had the words left his mouth, the shadows gathered around the pair. They had been silently watching this drama unfold, thoroughly enjoying the scene. An audible crack later, and the door of the safe flew off into the trees, along with several chunks of concrete.

Happy to oblige, they snickered. Shall we go?

Flames climbed over the roof from the porch, spreading rapidly over the dry wood. Benny grabbed several large stacks of money from the safe. There was too much to fit in his pockets, so he took off his shirt and wadded them inside, flinging the bundle over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He turned back around to watch his life burning, with the light from the flames flickering over his stoic façade.

Sidling over, Elle draped her arm around his shoulder, patting the bulging sack, “So, I was heading to Miami – I’m a dancer, and I hear they got some good clubs down there. You got any plans?” She didn’t want to be rude, he had just lost his brother after all, but there would be time for mourning after they hit the road. It would probably take the fire department and police at least a couple of hours to get wind of this, but there was no telling for sure. Maybe her friends could give them a lift out of here. They seemed to have taken a shine to him, and he appeared to have his shit together, so to speak. She crinkled her nose for a moment as his aroma mingled with the stench of burning flesh and wood.

Benny turned his head and gave her a quick up and down glance. “A dancer, huh?” he said with a lopsided grin. “I reckon you got some moves, alright.” He scratched the scruff on his chin and blushed as the odor of feces crept into his nostrils. “You sure ya wanna fucked up hillbilly like me taggin’ along? I never even been t’ Atlanta. Don’t know what I’d do in a city.”

Thinking of the barn and lift off to the side of the house, Elle smiled, “Are you a mechanic? I bet there’s plenty of call for someone like you in a place like that.” She glanced down at his rugged physique, her arm tightening around his shoulder of its own accord, “Or, you could be my bodyguard…” Her voice went mock-stern, “You’d have to stay sober when you’re protecting me, though.”

A tiny gasp left Benny’s mouth. He quickly turned to face her with his eyes wide in panic. She was about to assure him she was joking, but his words caused her to choke on her laugh.

“We gotta go – NOW!” he shouted. He grabbed her hand and hauled her back in the direction they had come. “There’s a couple barrels of waste oil in the garage, an’ the fire’s fixin’ to take ‘em out anytime!”

Elle had no trouble keeping up with him on the return trip, her own panic at his words helping her long strides keep pace while they made a wide arc around the corner of the house. She hauled him to a stop when they reached the truck.

“My friends can get us out of here quickly, like they brought you here!” she yelled over the roar of the flames. Benny shook his head vigorously and opened the passenger door.

“We’re gonna need a vee-hicle wherever we go. Get in!” he shouted, not giving her a chance to argue as he bolted around to the driver’s side. He hopped in and fired up the engine, grinding the gear into reverse in his haste.

Sliding up onto the bench seat, Elle sighed, feeling a pang of disappointment. She really wanted to experience travelling with the shadows, but pushed the thought aside; there was plenty of time to explore all they had to show her and learn all they had to teach. They coiled around her legs like pet snakes, more comforting now that she felt they were on a little more even footing since the conversation in the church.

Benny revved the engine and spun the tires, racing the truck backwards down the narrow track. He spared a quick glance at Mack’s body receding in the headlights, little more than a smoldering lump now. The fire had spread to the barn – it was only a matter of time before all hell broke loose. Once out on the road, Benny paused and looked over at Elle.

“Where to?” He patted the bundle of money, “Got plenty of dough, but there ain’t much ‘round here.”

Elle smiled, cranking down the window to fill the cab with fresh air, “Wherever it is, I hope it’s got a shower.” She waved her hand in front of her to clear the air and leaned out the window, “Because you are ripe, my friend!”

Grinning sheepishly, Benny pulled the Walkman from his back pocket, making a quick check that it wasn’t stained, and handed it to her. “Found this back at th’ church, figgered it was yours.”

Tears welled in Elle’s eyes. Her music. This man, a man who didn’t even know her, was already looking out for her interests. Ignoring the smell, she slid across the seat and wrapped her arms around his neck. She kissed his lips hard, tasting blood from his split lip. Benny grunted in surprise and groaned at the pain, but would be damned if he would stop this moment from happening. Several seconds later, Elle reluctantly pulled away, her eyes shining in the dashboard light.

“My name’s El…,” she paused, feeling the need to start this relationship with the truth. “Sarah. My name’s Sarah.” She smiled and asked hopefully, “Do you like jazz?”

Benny cocked his head, remembering the list of names. There was plenty of time to figure out who they were, and who they were going to be. He grinned and lightly brushed a lock of hair from her eyes, “I’m Benny. It’s nice t’ meet ya, Sarah. Can’t say as I ever heard it b’fore, but I’m willin’ t’ give it listen.”

Elle beamed and popped the cassette from the Walkman. The music swelled when she slid it in the truck’s tape deck. Benny patted her knee and put the truck in gear, revving the engine, and peeling out to start the first leg of their journey together.

The shadows swayed as Ella sang.

***

Crickets began to chirp in the still air, the first sounds indicating that the natural world could continue like normal, rousing Bart from an uneasy slumber. He had dozed once the brothers left, hoping for some relief from the foreboding that gripped him since the morning. The hypnotic back and forth creak of his chair helped drain the tension he’d been experiencing all day from his limbs. His fingers found the bone amulet around his neck of their own accord, lightly stroking the delicate and intricate curves of the carved figure that had been gifted so many years ago. Oils from his skin had stained the bone, adding his own essence to enhance the protective spell, while years of rubbing had polished some of the carved ridges almost smooth.

“Too many years,” he muttered. He felt the weight of every one of them in virtually everything he did these days. Not like the old days when he was full of piss and vinegar. Not since New Orleans.

Bart had laughed at the things the young fortune teller told him at the time, of interdimensional beings, older than the universe itself, guiding humanity on Earth and countless species throughout the stars. He hadn’t really paid much attention on that first visit, thinking she was a grifter or genuinely insane. Until the day he saw them for himself a week later while down in the bowels of the ship. He’d spent three days in the infirmary after that encounter, and never really was the same – enough so that the powers-that-be felt it would be best if he left the service. It didn’t take him long to once again seek out the fortune teller after his discharge.

Turned out that most of the stories about Gods and demons throughout history were true, just skewed from the actual facts. It’s hard to take the rantings of those who witnessed the miraculous at face value if you had no experience to relate. Bart knew that all too well, staring at the blank expressions of the Navy docs while he tried to describe what he saw. Not even a glimmer of comprehension in their eyes.

“Fuck ‘em,” he whispered.

He couldn’t blame their disbelief, he supposed. Hadn’t he laughed in the girl’s face that first time? Some things once seen, however, cannot be unseen. They leave their mark, indelibly etched in the brain, maybe even in the soul.

Gripping the idol tightly, Bart whispered the words the girl taught him, offering a prayer to those elder Gods of yore, that they may pass him by once again and let him live out his remaining days in peace. A simple chant he’d performed every day since having his eyes forced open to a reality he could never have guessed.

No, not peace, he thought ruefully. More akin to quiet desperation. With the prayer said, he rose unsteadily from his chair, still feeling the effects of the moonshine. He made his way inside the shack to his bed, peeling off his sweat-damp clothes and laying on the thin mattress. He knew he would never see the boys again. He’d known for fifty years.

“Gods forgive me,” he pleaded, almost breathlessly. It was so hard to keep the truth to himself all these years. He’d tried many times, but it always turned out the same. The side-eyed glances when he walked in a room, snickering behind hands. Too many years of trying to make people believe, only to have their scorn turned on him.

“Fuck ‘em,” he muttered again as he drifted to sleep. They would find out the truth, someday, whether they want to or not.

And now for something completely different…

How would the world react to the Second Coming of Christ?

It wouldn’t be pretty.

Wink of an Eye

Ben did not see the kill shot from his sniper’s nest a half mile away. With crosshairs trained on the target’s right temple, he noted the bronzed features and dark hair and wondered how the man appeared to the crowd below. Preparing his breathing before sliding off the safety, he watched as the target turned and winked up at him through the scope. Ben jerked his eye away, his breath catching in his throat.

It would have been difficult not to hear the shot, however. Echoes hung in the air for what felt an eternity, with several more following at odd intervals. The panic of the crowd was contagious. It was only through years of discipline that he managed to control himself and stay in position. Even this far away, there was no telling what the crowd might do and giving himself up to them would be tantamount to suicide.

Darkness stalked the desert and over the ensuing hours several people came within earshot of his nest. Most were sobbing and consoling one another. He caught snippets of conversations as they passed, mere yards from his hiding spot. ‘The Messiah is dead!’ they wailed. ‘How could this happen?’ others lamented.

It was inevitable, Ben thought, with a numbness infiltrating his being.

He remained alert to be certain no one would spy him emerging from his nest. Once it felt safe, he stumbled from the lair. Legs stiff and numb from hours of inactivity, he stretched and cajoled his feeble limbs. When circulation returned, he eased himself down onto the cool sand, rifle by his side. He fumbled in his pocket for his watch. Zero-two-thirty hours. A large crowd was still in the basin, taking comfort where they could, he guessed.

Maybe they’re waiting for a resurrection, he wondered, the thought tainted by bitterness. Someone would be coming for him soon, so he sat and watched the flickering fires dance with shadows in the basin below.

Hours later, after a harrowing helicopter flight, Ben was led through a labyrinth of corridors to a small, almost featureless room. Cinderblock walls and concrete floor, both painted a dull grey. A bare bulb hung over the faux wood table where he was ushered to sit on a metal chair to await his interrogator. After several minutes, the door opened, allowing a familiar silhouette to enter and blend with the shadows that clung like mist just outside the illuminated cone. He wondered how to start this conversation; many options vied for attention in his mind.

“With all due respect, sir, I was dug in so well, you couldn’t have found me,” he finally said.

Leaning against the cold wall, outside the spill of the light, Colonel Jacobs grunted in acknowledgment. Coming from one of his most gifted students, the words spoke volumes. Though he knew it was true, there were more important details to deal with; riots were breaking out all over the globe. They were safe inside this base, for now, but there were armed civilians gathering around the perimeter. Hell, if he made it home alive, it would be a miracle. Best to get the story straight for the record.

His protégé, Benjamin Patten, was in a very small and elite class when it came to sniper tactics. During his training, it hadn’t taken long to realize the inherent gift that was so eager to be molded. Raw talent radiated from him like an aura, pure and untapped. Jacobs had happily taken Patten under his wing.

The bare bulb above the table glared down on Ben, faint lines beginning to erode his youthful features.

When did he start getting old? Jacobs wondered. Were the lines in his face there at the tactical meeting two months ago? Did he appear so lost? God knows he has seen enough action over the past several years – and in our field that’s almost a guarantee of…what?

Nightmares came with the territory; you learned to deal with them. Jacobs mentally conjured his own image in the mirror. Perhaps a haunted look in the eye, as well, he thought. Psych support for Special Ops was laughable, often no more than a ‘pull yourself up by your bootstraps’ speech, so you had no choice but to figure it out for yourself.

No, Patten never had that look, he decided. If there had been a chink in his armor, Jacobs would have noticed.

“What happened out there, son?” he asked.

Son? Not soldier, or Sergeant, or even Patten. They’re going to kill me, Ben mused. No, he’s going to kill me, he quickly amended.

The thought had little effect on him. With all that had happened in the last forty-eight hours, his impending death seemed anticlimactic. He traced the wood grain on the table with his finger for a moment before looking at the Colonel. Jacobs leaned against the far wall by the door, steeped in shadow. In his mind’s eye, Ben could see the deep furrows etched in his mentor’s face. The man had come to mean more to him than his own father, their relationship deeper than the familial bond. When two people have both a passion and aptitude for the same thing it seems to transcend any mortal trappings.

Being really good at killing forms the strongest bond of all, he thought ruefully.

Now, the man standing just out of reach of the light seemed like anyone he might pass on the street, a blur of nondescript features. And yet…and yet, the bond remained.

“I’m glad they sent you, sir,” Patten murmured.

Jacobs stiffened slightly, wondering at the motive behind the statement. He had asked his superiors to be the one to question Patten because he knew this man like he knew himself.

When meeting Patten’s family early in his training, he had trouble finding the connection between them; much like his relationship with his own family. There was affection, but beyond that there seemed to be a part of him that was separate, protected and special. The young man’s parents were both blue-collar working folks. Two siblings; an older sister, and a younger brother. All had seemed perfectly normal. Abundantly average, he recalled thinking.

Benjamin was anything but average. One look in his eyes those many years ago had told him there was a greatness no one else had guessed at, let alone seen.

Gazing at Patten slouched on the metal chair, that greatness seemed to have evaporated. At just over thirty years of age, Ben was the epitome of the Army soldier. Even with a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks and rumpled fatigues, his solid physique and close cropped dirty-blonde hair gave him the appearance of an action figure. Still, something indefinable had been lost.

Perhaps, Jacobs thought, that will make him a bit more pliable.

“You know He’s dead, right?” he said, pausing for effect. “Mission accomplished.”

Ben glanced away from the shadowy figure. He knew the answer to the question – even before accepting the assignment, if he was honest with himself. Whether he pulled the trigger or not, the target would be neutralized. Ben’s handlers likely had others out there in the desert, dug in like ticks. Maybe a couple in the crowd, just in case. Factions from multiple countries had their own stakes, and throw in a few mercenaries and fanatics just for good measure. The target was too important. Governments, secret cabals, religions, entire societies needed the status quo and this target would rip that veil apart.

If anyone deserved all the attention, it was the Second Coming of Christ.

The problem facing Ben now, however, was the fact he was the Alpha. He had been entrusted with this duty, and failed. Years of training, of steeling himself for just such a target, gone in one moment of confusion.

“I had the crosshairs trained on His temple, then He turned and smiled.” Ben sighed and shook his head, “He winked at me through the scope, sir.”

The team that picked Ben up in the desert attempted to question him on the way to this facility. The soldiers informed Jacobs they figured he was in shock; all they could get from him was dazed repetition of, ‘How could He see me?’

I need to understand what happened, Jacobs thought.

Rattled from lack of sleep and too much caffeine, his nerves rang with adrenaline. The sidearm on his belt was an unaccustomed weight; it had been years since it was part of his outfit. His fingers were drawn to it like the tongue to a sore tooth, though, brushing it lightly, while furtively glancing up at the dark corner to his left. A camera, hidden where the walls and ceiling met, would be relaying this interview to the monitors in the next room, and to multiple layers of encryption for posterity.

If such a thing as posterity can exist now, he thought grimly.

“How is that possible, Ben?” Jacobs spread his hands before him, “You were a half mile away.”

Until yesterday, Ben wouldn’t have believed it was possible.

“Honestly, sir,” he said, shaking his head, “I’m not sure of much anymore.”

Details on the target had been sketchy, at best. Videos uploaded to social media sites of His visits to small villages began randomly appearing over several weeks. Many showed what could only be described as miracles being performed: healings, vast quantities of food appearing out of thin air, resurrections. Initially, the images were discounted as photoshop and high-end digital manipulation.

Online battles were fought over His physical appearance. Descriptions varied from classic Caucasian – blond hair and beard, to African – black hair and beard, and every race in between. Many threads were dedicated by folks who saw Him as a Her, in varying shades of ethnicity.

Coupling the debates with the viral status of the videos, soon independent investigative teams were dispatched to the Middle East. New videos of eyewitness accounts and interviews from bloggers and small media outlets lent an air of authenticity, enough to attract serious attention.

In the most recent interview released, the target expressed His desire to share His message on a larger scale. Worldwide, enemy nations began sharing information for the first time in decades. According to aerial recon and satellite images, an area was being set up for a gathering a few miles east of Bethlehem, a location that could easily hold several thousand people. Equipment and supplies were slowly maneuvered into place by trucks and trailers, using a crude dirt road. They made their way to a large, shallow basin, roughly bordered by dunes and boulders, with a large outcropping of weathered stone on the western edge. This seemed the obvious area for a stage.

Over the course of his military career, Ben had been to many volatile areas of the world. The missions were generally the same, and usually a last resort; someone had become too powerful and couldn’t be coaxed or bullied into line, short of an outright war. Often, they had resources they were not willing to part with, so they needed to be taken out of the picture, to be replaced with someone more compliant. He didn’t research the backgrounds on his targets for their political or religious motivations, he was told they needed to go and they went, case closed.

Occasionally, when his missions were complete, he could immerse himself in the culture of the areas. Rio de Janeiro, during Carnival, had been one of his favorites. Aside from killing a government official, it had been a nice vacation.

Ben suspected this would not be one of those instances.

‘Operation: Superstar,’ as the brass coined it, was more important than any he had been involved with in the past, with far more scrutiny from the world stage. His mission was to set up a sniper nest outside the perimeter. The Intel he was given suggested rigorous concealment would be a priority; concerns had been raised of a possible detachment of elite ‘guards’ being organized and dispatched by a pool of governments and religious organizations. While none of those groups had officially verified those rumors, Ben’s training – and lessons learned from prior missions – demanded nothing less than perfection.

Just before dawn, a helicopter from a nearby friendly base dropped Ben three miles south of the arena. The sand was difficult terrain for hiking, but with minimal equipment to slow him down he arrived at the outskirts within two hours. The angle of the sun cast odd shadows, making the basin appear as if a large hand had scraped the surface of the land and left the detritus behind on the fringe.

Locating a niche on a rise to allow for a downward trajectory, he made himself all but invisible – someone would have to step on him to give away his position. Once dug in, he tracked the progress of the volunteers setting up below through his scope. State-of-the-art optic and targeting technology allowed him to zoom in, up close and personal. He had personally tested the latest rangefinder, amazed by its ability to compensate for environmental irregularities. The in-scope readout showed the shot would be just over a half mile.

People began to arrive while generators and amplifiers were set up. The faithful, families and groups of friends, or merely curious, Ben supposed. Local vendors erected makeshift booths around the perimeter to sell their wares. Some started cooking fires to service those already arriving, and in anticipation of the rumored crowds. Several media outlets, the ones who managed to send crews on short notice, jockeyed for the best position to set up their cameras.

Over the course of the day, a feeling of Deja vu began to nag Ben. Late in the afternoon, as he watched the steady stream of the incoming crowd, he realized why this looked familiar.

Several of his previous missions dealt with military coups and dictatorships run amok. In all those instances there had been refugees. Thousands of people displaced, carrying whatever they could, sometimes each other. At those times, they were leaving something awful behind, often walking into something worse. Their faces showed the fear and despair of ones whose lives could never be the same. There was no light to guide them.

The people he was seeing now would never be the same, but for very different reasons. Their faces shone with a hope many had never dared acknowledge. The target was their beacon.

This was no government official, however. He was a destiny to be fulfilled.

***

Jacobs noted the faraway look in Patten’s eyes. “Ben, did you hear me? How is that possible, He couldn’t have spotted you?”

The colonel didn’t know what he expected for an answer, but needed a response to give him a better idea of what had happened in the desert; something to appease his superiors and possibly save the young man’s life. Ben was the only one he might believe, anyway.

Several of the backup shooters reporting in from the field had described strange sensations, ranging from lethargy to euphoria. One reported seeing a halo, as she called it, around the target’s head. None had reported in since, seemingly melted into the crowd. In the aftermath, Ben was the only one of their deployment they could locate, sitting on the rise by his nest, rifle unfired by his side.

Ben drummed his fingers on the table while he thought of what could be said.

How can I explain this to you, when I don’t understand it myself? he wondered.

His training and discipline made him a master of assessing surroundings and the people around him. He could tell you the best location and trajectory for a shot at any range, show you how to be invisible. None of it had prepared him for what happened.

“It was like, when someone is staring at you from across a room,” Ben began, frowning as he searched for the words, “and you can feel their eyes, you know, like the lightest of touches. You turn and meet their eyes directly,” he sighed and laid his palms flat on the table. “The instant when your eyes lock…” He shook his head slowly and looked up at Jacobs. “It’s like, for that moment, you’ve taken possession of each other.”

Jacobs noted tears glistening in Ben’s eyes, and couldn’t help feeling affection for the young soldier.

If we didn’t have this connection, would we be friends? he wondered. If we stripped away all that’s made us who we are, would we even like each other? He guessed they would. Souls like theirs were destined to meet. Jacobs wasn’t a religious man but only a fool outright ignores such a powerful connection. And he was no fool.

It was somewhat surprising when his superiors allowed him to take the alternate position, but Jacobs guessed the magnitude of this mission had a great deal to do with their decision. Even out of retirement, a veteran shooter of his caliber would all but guarantee success. Having been informed of Ben’s position, he had set up on the other side of the stage; still a prime location to watch the spectacle unfold and have eyes on the main players. Having no time or inclination to learn the new range finding tech, he opted for his faithful rifle, with a nicked bronze spear inlaid on the side.

There was no way to know for certain when the real drama would unfold, the last online updates were oddly reticent, but he had one of the best seats in the house. Initially, it seemed like something he had seen in an old western film when he was young: The nomadic tribes of Plains Indians moving to their summer camp, uprooting their lives to follow the food and weather. Soon, though, the vast numbers of people pouring into the basin seemed more like a river than anything mortal. A sea of humans was forming below him, some toting banners and signs which undulated like flotsam on the waves.

Jacobs could not pinpoint when the target arrived. He hadn’t seen Him or any major disturbance heralding His coming. One moment, the anticipation and energy of the crowd ebbed and flowed. The next, He and a dozen others were standing on the outcrop, the setting sun providing a brilliant backdrop for the stage.

He is quite the showman, I’ll give Him that much, Jacobs thought as he slowly panned the scope over the recognition rippling through the crowd.

Within seconds, the cheers were almost deafening, even from that distance. He adjusted his position and slowly focused the crosshairs on the left temple. The target’s features were a model of serenity. Long, sandy blond hair and beard betrayed His youth, but His calm, pale blue eyes gave Him an air of wisdom not normally found in someone so young. Jacobs watched Him look toward the opposite rise, a beatific smile lighting His features.

“It’s nothing personal,” he whispered softly, wishing the words were convincing. Smoothly releasing the safety, Jacobs steadied his aim and fired.

***

Ben sat with his face down on folded arms, his shoulders and back heaving as he sobbed. Jacobs gave him a last cursory glance then turned to the door. He gave two sharp raps, followed by one light tap. A stone-faced MP opened the door and stepped aside with a crisp salute. Jacobs gave a perfunctory salute in return and made his way to the control room down the dimly lit corridor. Swiping his ID badge, he entered a small room with one wall taken over by computer monitors. The screens all had similar images: stark cells, each with one occupant.

They had managed to secret away a couple of surviving members of the target’s retinue – along with a few of the more outspoken folk from the crowd – and bring them to the base.

“I don’t think we’ll get much more from him,” Jacobs said to the attending soldier, pointing to the monitor of the room he had left. “What about the rest?” he asked with a wave of his hand at the bank of monitors.

“All interrogations complete and recorded, sir.” The soldier glanced at the Colonel and quickly back to the monitors.

“Something on your mind…,” Jacobs glanced at the name tag on the soldier’s fatigues, “…Taylor?”

“Well, sir, I was just wondering…,” Taylor’s voice trailed off and he dropped his gaze to his hands.

“You want to know if it was really Him,” Jacobs eyes flicked from screen to screen, “and if so, did we just kill the Son of God? Well, Taylor, I -” he stopped abruptly, watching as each of the figures on the monitors stood and moved toward their respective cameras.

***

Ben had barely heard Jacobs leave the room. His thoughts were a jumble, with regret and remorse competing for top honors in his psyche. Every decision he had made in his life brought him here.

At least I didn’t pull the trigger, he thought, that’s some consolation. He wiped his eyes and nose with his sleeve.

“It’s all over but the crying now, eh Sarge?” he muttered softly with a weak chuckle.

He stood up to stretch some of the stiffness from his joints. Eyes closed and holding his arms straight out to the sides, he stretched them back, reveling as his chest muscles expanded. Spots began to dance behind his eyelids, slowly coalescing into one soft, white light.

“Whoa, the strain is starting to take its toll, pretty soon I’ll be drooling on myself,” he said aloud, with a grin that quickly faded, “at least until they kill me.” His voice fell flat against the cold walls of the room.

The light was difficult to ignore, though. For a moment he thought it might be from the bulb in the room, but it didn’t have the same feel. Keeping his eyes shut, he slowly tracked his head side to side. The glare of the bulb against his eyelids was evident, but another light seemed to come from his far-right. He shuffled along the edge of the table and opened his eyes. It was still there, coming from the upper corner where the walls and ceiling met. Moving around the table, he walked slowly toward the light. After two short steps it winked out.

I am definitely losing my mind, he thought, stopping and staring at the dark corner where the light had been.

***

In the control room, Taylor gasped when he looked back to the monitors. The people in the cells had all approached the cameras. Each stood at the precise spot for their heads to eclipse the lone light bulb in the room.

“They look like angels!” he blurted.

Jacobs grunted at the soldier’s outburst. This development did not bode well. Hopes of a future, or even making it home, fled further. He had seen some bizarre things in his time; some still gave him pause when he allowed his mind to wander.

Add one more to the file, he thought with a frown.

Lifting the phone receiver, Jacobs punched in the access code to his superiors. After a brief conversation, he gently cradled the phone.

“Shut off the cameras, son,” he told Taylor, closing his eyes to shut out the images. The gentle corona around Ben’s face burned behind his eyelids. “Contact the guards at the other cells. They have their orders.”

Reluctantly, Jacobs drew his sidearm and walked toward the door.

I feel I must give a bit of explanation for this next story.
A magazine I wanted to submit a story to was running a writing prompt – ‘A reimagining of a classic fairytale’ – and the following tale lodged in my brain and would not leave me alone until it was written. It is not for everyone, this I realize, but I believe it is one of the better stories I have written, and certainly one of the more profound.

Hardly surprising, whether due to the content or subject matter, the magazine didn’t select it for publication.

Existence is Futile

“Yo, cabrón, you in?” Pinocchio took a long drag from his cigarette, and peered through the smoke at Jesse. The game was winding down, but he wasn’t ready to call it a night just yet. Three aces would probably win the pot, enough to finish the ink on his sleeve.

Glancing down at his cards, Jesse stifled a yawn. Four, seven, ten, and Jack of clubs, with the ace of hearts clogging his straight. His luck had been crap all night, already down fifty bucks. Didn’t matter, though, it was just money. He wasn’t the star attraction in the films they produced, but he made decent bank, and until his body quit entirely, he could always make more.

“I see your ten, and raise you five,” he said, tossing the bills onto the pot. He had given up trying to read his friend for tells years ago. The wooden eyes and face didn’t give away much. It was hard to tell what he was thinking most times.

Beside him, Frankie took a swig from his lukewarm beer and belched. He eyed the pot, then his cards, and sighed, folding them into a neat pile.

“I’m out. Couldn’t get a good hand if I whittled it myself,” he said, looking askance at Pinocchio, hoping to get a rise from the puppet.

Chas shifted uncomfortably in his seat between the two. Jokes like that had turned into brawls enough times for him to know when to be ready to move. Two pair stared back at him from his hand – queens and tens, with the two of clubs, and one more draw to come. A full boat was unlikely, but possible. He took a few seconds to gauge the tension from either side, then dropped his money on the pile.

“Call.” He placed his cards face-down on the table and rubbed his eyes. How many years had they been doing this? Too many, he decided. At forty-one years old, he should have settled down years ago when he had a chance.

The bedroom door down the hall opened and Kara sauntered out into the dim light, cinching her silken robe over her ample breasts. She tugged the short hem down in an attempt at dignity, barely concealing her panties in the process, and glided out into the light. Frankie stood from the table as she approached, offering his seat.

“It’s all yours, babe, I’m outta here,” he said. Chugging the remainder of his beer, he belched again, and slapped Kara’s butt on his way to the bathroom.

Kara gave him a sly smile over her shoulder and pulled the chair out from the table, dragging it around Chas. Setting it next to Pinocchio, she plopped down and flung a long, sleek leg over his lap. Brushing the faded feather in his cap with the tips of her press-on nails, she trailed her fingers down to twirl the dark hair around his ear.

“Hey lover, you comin’ to bed soon?” she purred, leaning in to run her tongue along the worn grains of his earlobe, one of the few areas of his body sensitive enough for arousal. Shoot enough scenes with a guy and you figured out what turned them on.

Pinocchio ran a rough, splintered hand along her leg and turned, snaking out his tongue to tease her lips. It wasn’t the body part that made him famous in the industry, but it was one of the few that spoke to a semblance of humanity. He had learned to use it for all it was worth, earning him a reputation as a selfless lover with the ladies he worked with.

“Just wanna finish this game first,” he said, patting her knee. “Sit with me ‘til we’re done.”

Kara didn’t see him as just a freak, truly a one in a million gift in a business riddled with dysfunction. Maybe she even saw him as real, like he dreamed since he was a boy. She was the only one in which he confided those thoughts. Rather than laugh, as he expected, she had talked with him for hours, sharing their hopes and fears. She had a knack for drawing him out of his shell, and weathering the storm when his darkness settled around him like a cloak.

“How many you want?” Chas interrupted, holding up the deck of cards and raising an eyebrow. He knew Kara for a couple of years before Pinocchio came onto the scene, being the preferred cameraman for the indie studio where she used to work. They always had a good working relationship, but he had harbored a secret longing for her the entire time. If he was honest, there was still some lingering jealousy over the couple hooking up, but he saw how well they fit. It was tough to deny that they were made for each other.

Or at least, one was made for the other, he thought, tilting his head down to hide a grin.

Kara plucked the cigarette from between Pinocchio’s singed fingers and took a long drag, blowing the smoke up over his head in a funnel cloud. Frankie exited the bathroom and bellowed a blanket goodbye to all before leaving. Kara watched the door close behind him.

“Did he tell y’all what the doc said?” she asked. Her hazel eyes turned gray, reflecting her thoughts. There were grim nods around the table, with a couple of sighs and grunts thrown in as punctuation.

“Yeah, it doesn’t sound good,” Chas said. “Shit got really aggressive and spread to his liver.” He exhaled slowly, “Damned if I know what I’d do in his shoes.”

“Whatta ya mean?” Pinocchio asked, glancing at his friend.

Chas sighed again, “Whatta ya mean, ‘whatta I mean?’ Dude’s gonna die, Pino. That’s a fact. And people like us don’t get saved.”

“People like who, Chas?” Jesse asked, looking up sharply. “Scum like us?” He shook his head, “Jesus, that’s fucked up, man.”

Pinocchio leaned forward, his interest piqued by the turn in the conversation, “Truth though, ain’t it?” He looked at each of them in turn, pausing to study their faces. His own remained inscrutable, only slight creases showing in the wood grains around his eyes. “We were made to be disposable, right? Ain’t one of us gettin’ out alive.”

“Easy for you to say,” Chas mumbled.

Kara jabbed the cigarette out in the ashtray, “What the fuck is that s’posed to mean, dickhead?” She reflexively leaned her weight on Pinocchio, pinning his legs with the one covering his lap, and positioned her body in front of him. “You got a lot of nerve talkin’ shit to him after all he’s done for you.”

A wooden hand gripped her wrist, “C’mon babe, ease up,” Pinocchio said gently. “He just don’t understand.”

“I understand more than you think,” Chas replied, looking down at the table and drumming his fingers in agitation. “You don’t know ‘bout livin,’ how you gonna know a thing ‘bout dyin’?”

Kara lunged to slap him, but Pinocchio’s hand cinched like a vise, reining her back.

“I don’t know nothin’ about livin,’ huh?” he said, his mouth settling into the eerie smile that Papa Geppetto carved many years ago. Rolling up his sleeve, he displayed the inked whale on his forearm, “I got swallowed by a fuckin’ whale an’ I’m here to tell ‘bout it, Chas. If that ain’t livin,’ then I guess I don’t know what is.”

Chas’ pale flesh blotched with red as he glanced at the artwork, his fingers continuing to drum on the table, “You know that ain’t what I’m talkin’ ‘bout…”

“And just what are ya talkin’ about?” Kara seethed, crimson flushing her neck and face. She relaxed her arm and wrapped it protectively around Pinocchio’s shoulder. “You got somethin’ t’ say, just say it an’ stop bein’ a pussy.”

The cameraman raised his eyes to meet hers, then the puppet’s, goaded by the taunt, “You ain’t alive, bro, not really. We been friends for a while now but, honestly, it always kinda creeped me out.” He smiled sheepishly, looking away, “Guess you’re right, though. I don’t understand. I don’t get how you can walk an’ talk…,” he glanced at the starlet glaring daggers at him, “…an’ other stuff.”

Jesse leaned back in his chair, sighing, “I gotta admit, Pino, in the few years I’ve known you I still don’t get it, either. I jus’ accepted it, cuz you never wanna talk ‘bout it.” He leaned forward with his elbows on the table and his hands cradling his chin and cheeks, “Maybe this is a good time t’ clear th’ air, bro.”

Staring back at his costar, Pinocchio’s smile subtly altered, the wood grains shifting into a grin. He nodded and rolled his sleeve back down.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “I guess it ain’t a surprise the questions would start, with ol’ Frankie fixin’ t’ meet his maker.” Kara shifted uncomfortably, and he turned to face her, “It’s alright doll, I been expectin’ this.” He set his cards down and rapped his dented knuckles on the table, glancing over at Chas, “Is this here wood alive, bro? Did I jus’ wake it up?” He leaned his face close to the surface, “Hey you, fucker, did I hurt ya?!” he bellowed. Leaning back, he cocked an ear to listen, his eerie smile returning, “Guess not.”

Chas shook his head, “What’s that s’posed t’ prove, man? Th’ furniture don’t talk, for fuck’s sake!” He jabbed a stubby finger at the puppet, “But you do. How’s somethin’ like that happen?”

Anger radiated from Kara in palpable waves. If her eyes could have slashed Chas at that moment, his throat would have surely been slit. Pinocchio chuckled and caressed her leg, hoping she would remain docile for the next few minutes. What happened after that was a matter between the two of them. Right now, he wanted to set some things straight between he and his friends. He had a lifetime to come to grips with his peculiar condition, and was tired of trying to explain the bizarre circumstances in a way people might understand. Maybe these guys could look deeper than the pitted wooden exterior, and see the boy trapped inside.

“I don’t tell too many people ‘bout this stuff,” he began. “Truth is, I don’t really understand it much m’self. But you’re right, Chas. You, Frankie, an’ Jesse is ‘bout the only friends I got, b’sides Kara. And Frankie might be findin’ out soon enough what it’s all about.” Kara hugged his neck and leaned her head on his shoulder.

Where to start, he thought. An extraordinary lifetime full of magic and deceit, trials, tribulations, and mayhem, couldn’t really be summed up in an evening of drinking and playing poker. Nor could the inevitable questions of why or how he could exist in the first place be reasonably answered without the usual skepticism.

Fuck it, he thought, what do I got to lose.

Starting at the beginning – at least what he remembered – he told them of Papa Geppetto, poverty, and betrayals. They smiled, perhaps a little grimly, when he said if he could find the little bitch fairy that granted him this life, he’d swat her like a fly and say good riddance, regardless of the consequences.

His story had evolved over the years through countless repetitions. When he was younger, he embellished and exaggerated for the sake of vanity. Now, he laid bare his own corruption, long since tired of that game. His friends listened, skeptically at first, but attentive. Their demeanors changed over the course of the tale when they realized he was hiding nothing, simply revealing his version of the unvarnished truth.

Once finished, Pinocchio nonchalantly placed five dollars on the pot, then took the four of hearts and Queen of spades out of his hand and slid them face down across the table to Chas.

“Call. I’ll take two.”

Jesse shook his head as if waking from a trance and looked down at his cards, long forgotten on the table. He plucked the ace and slid it across, “Uh, just the one, buddy.” His mouth opened and closed, mimicking a mundane version of his friend. “Dude, I don’t even…I mean, what th’ fuck…?” he stammered when he found his voice.

Chas wasn’t faring much better, staring at the living puppet with eyes wide and mouth agape. He fumbled for his cards automatically, only giving them proper attention when they were unfolded. The two of clubs dropped onto the discard pile, and he silently shook his head in disbelief as he handed out the final round of cards.

“You never told me a lot of that shit, babe…,” Kara whispered, leaning over with tears welling in her eyes. Her voice broke as she hugged him tight. Pinocchio gripped the hand draped around his shoulder, trying to soothe her by gently pressing his stiff lips against the smooth flesh of her hand.

“Sorry, love,” he said softly. “I don’t usually talk ‘bout some of th’ weirder stuff, jus’ cause folks ain’t ready to hear it.” Kara clung to him, quietly weeping.

“So, like, you’re not th’ only magic creature around?” Jesse asked. “Where th’ hell did y’all come from?” He looked to Chas for confirmation of these implausible facts, but the cameraman was staring intently at his cards.

Pinocchio shrugged, “That’s what I wanna know.” Picking up the two cards, he tucked them in his hand, fanning them slowly. King of hearts and eight of clubs. No help, but the three bullets spoke for themselves. “You all know where you come from?” he asked, tossing a twenty on the pile. He glanced around the table, ending with Kara who had stopped crying and was dabbing her eyes with the frill of her robe. She shrugged, but took a deep breath to steady herself before answering.

“I dunno, I was raised Baptist, but we didn’t go t’ church much,” she said. “Before Daddy left, he said it was all bullshit, like some great way t’ drain money outta folks. He said we come from shit an’ go back t’ shit when we die.” She gave her lover a sad smile, “I know it ain’t like that, but I don’t know what it is, neither. There’s gotta be somethin’ better…right?”

Chas cleared his throat beside her, sobering to the idea that there may be more to life than he had thought. “We went t’ church for a while, too, when I was a kid. Didn’t really learn nothin,’ though. Preachers say lots of things, but they can’t back none of it up.” He glanced up at Pinocchio, a childlike innocence brimming in his eyes, “What was it like? Do ya remember bein’ made?” Quickly looking back down to his cards, his face flushed with embarrassment.

Pinocchio chuckled, but smiled sincerely, “Do you, Chas?” The cameraman’s face grew redder. “I could talk right away, an’ understand words, so I guess that’s a big difference ‘tween us. Had t’ learn t’ walk like y’all.” A scowl creased his face, “Had t’ learn ‘bout everythin’ else th’ hard way…guess we’re all pretty much the same in that.”

Shaking his head, Jesse picked up his card and placed it in his hand. The Jack of hearts glared at him like a stoplight on the fringe of the dark forest of clubs. A lousy pair of Jacks; it figured. He tidied his pack of five cards and dropped the pile on the table.

“Fold,” he sighed. Reclining in his chair again, he looked across the table at his friend, “So, you was jus’ wood, an’ then you jus’ knew stuff, like a…whatta ya call it, a chatbot or somethin,’ but for real? Jus’ got booted up like a livin,’ breathin’ program?”

Nodding, Pinocchio grinned again, shaking a finger across the table, “Yeah…never thought ‘bout it like that b’fore, but fuckin’ yeah!” He laughed and slapped the wooden table top, the impact causing the contents to bounce and hover for a split second. “That’s a good way of lookin’ at it, Jess.” His friend grinned back at him.

With his face returning to its normal pale, Chas checked his draw. Three of diamonds. Two pair was still a good hand, so he tossed a twenty on the pile.

“Call…,” he said. The gears were turning in his head, and the game they played had become a backdrop to the surreal fairytale playing out around him, in which he had unwittingly been yanked from behind the camera to become one of the actors on the stage. “I wonder sometimes, ya know…why? Why’re we here, anyways? What the fuck good is a life, if all you get is shit?”

Pinocchio patted Kara’s leg, turning to give her a boyish smile. They gazed into each other’s eyes for a few long seconds before he turned away.

“None of us really know, do we?” he asked, looking around at his friends with a new depth of respect. They didn’t mock, or joke, at least to his face. Who knew what was going on behind their eyes, though? “We jus’ gotta make th’ best of the hands we get dealt, right?” He laid down his three aces, “Whatta ya got?”

Any Black Sabbath fans here?
I wrote this as an homage to one of the greatest heavy metal bands, based on the song of the same name. The lyrics of the song are woven into the story, along with the band members’ names, and a few other references only true fans will spot.
Oh Lord, yeah!

The Wizard

Demons had been a nuisance to the city of Iommi for many years. The souls of the living were the prize they sought. Woodland creatures provided bare sustenance; they would thrive on tasty human suffering.

However, magical Wards on the fortifications surrounding the city provided unassailable defense, sending the beasts scrambling to their lairs with barbed tails tucked uncomfortably between their legs.

That is, until the Master arrived.

In his youth, he conspired to be Lord of this world. Ruthless in this pursuit, he grew adept in forbidden magics, acquiring powerful enemies. Mages skilled in lore more ancient than Time itself, banished him to the fiery depths of the Earth out of fear and jealousy.

For ages, he seethed, his corruption flourishing like a pestilence. He grew strong, drawing sustenance from the planet’s core to feed and swell his body, the fires forging his skin as armor. Vengeance honed his focus as sharp as the finest blade. He learned the limits of his prison and subtly exploited those boundaries.

Empires rose and fell while he picked at ethereal locks that bound him.

Ascending one night from the bowels of the demons’ labyrinthian hive, on leathery wings black as his soul, he came to their midst preaching an unholy gospel of conquest.

His voice like a nest of hornets, he detailed his strategies. He carved maps in the granite walls with stiletto claws. A plan was formulated: he would neutralize Geezer, the city’s elder and chief magician, and the defenses would be vulnerable. They would feed with abandon and the Master would wreak his vengeance on the descendants of his jailors.

The Master slipped into Geezer’s dream and cast a cunning spell to target the dreamer’s desires. A fairy wearing enchanted boots appeared, enticing Geezer, playing hide-and-seek with the Elder, leading him further into a realm from which there was no return.

The fairy whispered and teased to gain the trust of the magician, tickling the keys to the Wards of the city from his fevered mind.

Outside the gates of Iommi, the demons massed.

***

Ozzy gazes out upon the misty morning from the meager shelter of his porch. Clouds in the sky hang gray and heavy with impending rain. He slides his harmonica from his breast pocket, wetting cracked lips in preparation. The demons may hear, yet if last night’s dream can be trusted, salvation is at hand. He breathes life into the harp, releasing haunting tones.

The music sketches patterns in the air and, without warning, coalesce into a solitary figure. The Wizard walks by on the rutted track leading to the main road to Iommi. Ozzy abruptly stops playing on the fourth note, startled by the appearance of the savior from his dream.

A break in the clouds allows a single beam of sunlight to shine upon the Wizard, casting his shadow before him. Serenity surrounds him as dexterous hands begin weaving his spell in the air with delicate sigils, a trail of new life sprouting in his wake.

He pauses a moment, turning in the musician’s direction. Though the hood of his long gray cloak conceals his eyes in shadow, he beckons with a glance. Resuming his song, Ozzy follows like a traveling minstrel. The velvet tones of his harmonica blend seamlessly with the merry ringing of the twinkling bell tied to the sash of the Wizard’s robe.

As the duo journey to Iommi, Ozzy studies the Wizard. Never talking, silently mouthing incantations, he just keeps walking; spreading his magic. A dome of peace surrounding them grows in size and scale with every step.

They approach the city to find the Master and hundreds of demons gathered outside the walls, blocking the road. The fetid air is alive with the threat of death. Geezer has relinquished the keys; the Wards melt away in the absence of his power. The Master laughs raucously, spreading his ghastly wings, while weaving wicked spells. A sinister mist blankets his troops, imbuing them with unnatural strength, contorting their hideous forms.

The demons turn at the sound of the song Ozzy plays. Snarling, they lick swollen lips with forked tongues, agitation spreading like a noxious cloud over their kin. Howls of bloodlust erupt from the twisted ranks. Demons are not lovers of music and are harsh critics. The Master towers over the writhing throng, darkness staining the air around him.

The Wizard continues walking, his aura bathing the closest demons in cleansing light. It forms a wedge, parting them to the sides of the road where their clawed feet take root in the fertile soil. Evil power disappears as their corrupt flesh molds into living bark, limbs and weapons becoming branches of healthy trees. Awed by the transformations, Ozzy watches as the suffering and hunger in their eyes is replaced with an indescribable joy, then sealed behind wooden lids.

Demons worry when the Wizard is near, confusion infiltrating the crowd. A river of magic flows, washing them aside, rooting hundreds of new trees on its banks. the Master stands in the middle of the road, struggling to maintain a barrier against palpable waves of power that lap playfully around his invisible shield.

Defeat is imminent. Instinctively, he knows the touch of the Wizard’s magic will not be painful, yet cannot deny the fear that grips his voice as he stands there all alone. His will eroding, he roars in anguish for the vengeance that has been denied, the pitiful sound bringing tears to all who hear. Lowering his defenses, the Master accepts what fate has wrought.

Pausing before the immense figure, the Wizard draws back the hood of his cloak, revealing gentle eyes glistening with tears. The peaceful torrent he has unleashed dances and burbles, molding the Master’s taloned feet to roots before gracefully climbing, coating his limbs and torso. Their eyes meet as tendrils gently weave around his powerful neck and jaw.

A sublime calm softens the Master’s brutal features. He smiles broadly as the magic continues its sculpture. Once the transformation is achieved, the magic retreats, flowing down the trunk of a stately oak.

Guards on the battlements of the city walls gaze with misty eyes on the freshly grown forest below. The gates open and soldiers cautiously emerge, weapons in hand, followed by the more intrepid residents. They stare in silent awe, craning their necks to take in the spectacle of the behemoth gracing the entrance of the city.

The Wizard takes a long last look at the massive tree and covers his head with the hood once more. He continues his journey through the gates of Iommi, the radiance of the sphere surrounding him bringing peace to all it touches. He makes his way to Geezer’s home, his magic freeing the Elder from the bonds of the Master’s spell. Worries evaporate as he turns tears into joy. Everyone’s happy when the Wizard walks by.

Ozzy plays his harp as he follows, a crowd of children laughing and dancing in his wake. Soon, the Wizard will depart, but for this moment he fulfills his mission. Never talking, shrouded in mystery, he just keeps walking. Spreading his magic.

The sky, so ominous to start the day, has brightened. The sun is shining, clouds have gone by. As he works his way through the city, all the people give a happy sigh. He has passed by, giving his sign and left all the people feeling so fine. Ozzy stops at the far gate and watches the Wizard’s progress as he ambles steadily down the road.

Never talking.

Just keeps walking.

Spreading his magic.

I read an article about a little known effect of Hurricane Sandy when it hit New York: thousands of dead rats. They were swept from the drainage and sewer systems, battered, and left in massive piles.

Maybe I’m just soft-hearted (which is fine, I’ve been called much worse), but that story made me sad. I did a lot of research on rats after reading that article. Clever beings. Probably more so than us.

This isn’t a happy tale – if you’ve read the others on this page, I’m sure that comes as a shock 🙂 – but I’m including it because there’s something so primal and poignant about the will to survive and protect those you love.

Swept Away

The alley was dark save for the light from the bare bulb over the doorway to the food place, shining down on mounded bags and metal cans spilling their fragrant wares. Ras’ black eyes gleamed with reflected light while she silently waited at the entrance of the warren of tunnels leading where she and her pups made their home. Her nose twitched, picking up minute scents, whiskers brushed lightly on the coarse brick and wood of the tunnel walls.

Her four offspring huddled beside and behind her, their first foray to the world above about to begin. Sensing no immediate threats, Ras slid from the hole and scurried to the right, hugging tightly to the wall and shadows, her brood following obediently in her wake. She and her pups froze when the door to the food place slammed open, harsh noises from the interior suddenly piercing the night air.

One of the beasts from the food place emerged, carelessly dropped a bag onto the pile beside the overflowing cans. It set a small stick aflame, inhaling and breathing out a huge plume of smoke, then looked up at the dark clouds rolling in from the coast. A few drops of rain stained the front of its white shirt.

Ras cowered in the shadows while the beast stood on the small step casually breathing the acrid smoke in and out, occasionally barking over its shoulder in response to barks from inside. She had seen this ritual before and knew to be patient. Finally, it dropped the stick and ground it with its foot, taking a brief glance up the alley to the metal and flesh beasts clamoring on the busy street beyond, before retreating inside and closing the door tight behind it. Ras released the breath she had been holding, looked behind her, eyes barely able to make out the individual forms of the pups, sensing they were all there. They waited several moments before resuming their journey across the alley, tiny claws a whisper on the hard ground.

Leading them to the wall behind the bags and cans, they wove through the tight spaces with ease, pausing periodically to sniff and listen. She began teaching her pups to chew small holes in the bags, one for entrance, another for escape, just in case. They set about their scavenging, sampling the different flavors, each deciding what they preferred and silently tucking into their meals. Ras chewed a small hole in one of several containers of water for the pups to clean their paws and wash down the meal.

The light rain that had been pattering down, began to fall with force as she led them back the way they had come, sticking closely to the shadows. Lightning flashed, followed abruptly by a thunderous crack just as they entered the tunnel leading home.

Navigating by instinct and memory, they wound their way through narrow tunnels of wood and rock, chewed and widened by countless generations. The pups played and romped, splashing through small puddles that were forming, as they gradually made their way down to the larger tunnels beneath the city.

Water flowed when they emerged in their subterranean domain, a river that coursed effortlessly between its stone banks, carrying all manner of detritus. Ras had been born closer to the surface, but had met her pups’ father down here. They could subsist on what flowed down the river and be safe. The trip to the surface was meant to expose the children to a broader, if riskier, palate of life. They would be on their own soon and could make their own decisions.

As Ras picked up bits of plastic and paper along the way to the nest, a vague unease began to settle in her bones. The droning echo of the waves lapping over the unforgiving banks seemed louder, reverberating more intensely than usual, the air smelled of ozone and felt more humid.

When they arrived, she stuffed and primped the materials into the crack where they made their home, her ministrations designed more for comfort than aesthetics. She tried to snuggle into the cozy warmth while her offspring rolled and played beside the river, but the unease creeping along her spine grew with each splash that pricked her ears.

Unable to shake the nagging malaise, she squeaked a warning to her pups and left the nest, sniffing the air on her way to check the closest tunnels leading to the surface. There were many small ones like they had used a short time ago, but several got flooded when it rained. The larger openings regularly fed the river and weren’t easy to navigate at the best of times. Ras felt she needed to know they could escape.

Water was already pouring from the nearest exit, still navigable but it would be a struggle. Ras almost lost her footing crossing the ever-increasing force on her way to the next tunnel, her heart racing as her feet briefly lost purchase, claws scratching vainly at the ground as it carried her toward the river.

Once across the stream she skittered to the next hole, hearing the splash of water as she approached, usually merry tones now sinister, fueling her dread. Memory of the possible routes told her that those remaining would be far less accessible.

Panic hung heavy on the already leaden air as her ears picked up the sound of other rats squeaking in alarm, scurrying around blindly, seeking some means of escape from the impending onslaught. Ras turned back, leaping over the stream that had threatened to sweep her away, intent on getting her small family to safety.

A familiar squeak pierced the thick air like a splinter breaking the skin. One of her boys was in danger ahead, his choked squeals moving toward her faster than she ran. She caught sight of him struggling in the waves of the river, now quickly spilling over its banks, his furry head bobbing in and out of sight, rushing past without a moment to react. Ras watched helplessly as her boy washed away with the river.

It took her several seconds to recognize there were many more writhing forms caught in the flood, trying desperately to swim against the tide, a lucky few finding debris to climb on and cling for life. Ras stood staring, unseeing, the moments stretched by shock and grief, until waves from the overflowing river swept over her sensitive feet, snapping her back to reality and her need to find and rescue her other children.

The shrieks of those drowning and struggling in the river entwined with the roaring of the water, coming in from all sides now, forming a hellish cacophony. Chunks of tunnels gave way under the pressure, knocking frantic rats into the frenzied waters.

Ras scrambled and dodged through the fray of debris and bodies, clawing forward only to be swept back time and again. Relentless, she powered forward, oblivious to shards of rock and wood tearing at her skin and fur.

A claw of her front foot caught in a crevice and ripped from her flesh when a wave surged into her before she could pry it free. She clenched her jaw tight against the pain, fumbling forward, but was being battered from all sides, the rising waters creating a maelstrom, sucking anything and everything into its maw. A hard, dense object collided with her creating a shower of stars to explode behind her eyes. Darkness enveloped as her body was consumed by the raging river.

Light fell on her eyelids like softly stroking, gentle fingers. She breathed deep and quickly coughed out a lungful of water, shuddering violently with the pain that registered throughout her body. The first smell to assail her was decay. Normally, that would have been welcome, but at this moment it offered only to remind her of her loss. Slowly opening her lids, she winced at the sun now stabbing her eyes, turning her head away while spots danced. She could barely remember the last time she had seen the sun, a brave foray with her siblings as a pup.

She had forgotten its warmth.

Feeling every injury, she squealed with the effort of rolling off her back, panting and swaying awkwardly. Lightning coursed through her right front foot, but the stub where the claw once was had sealed somewhat. It rested on something soft as she stood and tried her weight. Sight still blurry and dazed, it took several seconds to recognize that she stood on other rats. Scanning the immediate area, more rats, as far as she could see.

A new river, this one of fur and death. At least it didn’t move.

Ras fumbled over the mounds of carcasses, sniffing, hoping for a familiar scent. She came across a few survivors, like herself, moving like ghouls through a vast graveyard. Some of the tall beasts barked to each other nearby during the next couple of hours while she wove through the bodies. She paid them no mind, and if they spotted her, they ignored one living rat among thousands of dead.

The sun was still high when she finally found what she was sniffing for. She wrestled the broken body of her daughter from beneath several corpses and lay beside her. Ras snuggled with her daughter atop a pile of her brethren, allowing the scents and warmth to lull her to sleep.