Premise for Murder Mystery

When they picked Little Jo up at the Sears department store, in the home appliances department, the main thing sergeant Vega wanted to establish was whether or not Little Jo was connected somehow to the crime scene at the ice-cream factory.

Back in the office, Little Jo had woken up a little, now showing signs that he was cognizant of his surroundings in fairly precise detail, i.e. he knew whose body it was that his consciousness was now inhabiting.

Sgt. Vega reviewed her (long) list of questions she had to ask Little Jo. “Hey there Little Jo. My name is Sergeant Vega, and I’m with the NYPD, ok? I’m gonna have to ask you a loada questions. Do you understand that?”

Little Jo nodded. “Yes,” he mumbled, “yes I got it.”

Ok. First question was “Do you have any ID?”

There was a pause, and then Little Jo shook his head. “No,” he said, “I don’t have any.”

“Do you know why is that?” said Sgt. Vega.

This is what always happens. For some reason, the suspects never have any ID. This one, Little Jo, acted all confused, like he had no idea why he didn’t have any ID. He just shrugged. “I–uh–I honestly don’t know.”

Sgt. Vega moved expertly onto the next question. “So you have no idea why a store clerk finds your ID just lying around in the home appliances section of a nearby Sears, the morning *after* an as yet unidentified corpse is found frozen in a shell of chocolate dip, an internal layer of vanilla ice-cream surrounding it, within an industrial freezing appliance at an ice-cream factory?”

It was too much exposition for Little Joe, and he just shook his head once, then stared blankly at the sergeant.

“And after finding your ID, police soon also find you sitting inside a display fridge unit nearby.”

No response.

“You’re shiverin’, except it’s just a display unit. The electricity was not even turned on, it was probably hotter in there rather than cold.” She put her notebook on the table, now in stride, and said “What we want to know is why in the world you were shivering, Little Jo?”

A look of realization slid onto Little Jo’s face. The identification, the refrigerator, the body in the freezer; all of this had to have something to do with a small taste he’d taken a few weeks ago from a strip of paper that had been left fluttering in wind near a local Taco Bell.

“Magic paper,” said Little Jo, suddenly.

Sgt. Vega took her notebook back, and pulled a pen from her breast pocket. This was going to be good.

“I was strolling,” began Little Jo.

“Strolling? You’re just strolling? Just randomly like that?”

“Yes,” continued Little Jo, “just very randomly strolling. Looking for avenues, and streets–traffic signals, that kinda thang. And I was on my cellphone.”

Sgt. Vega prepared her pen. “Who were you on the cellphone with, Little Jo? Who were you talking to?”

“Well–”

“But wait,” said the sergeant, expertly, “before you answer that, can you tell me if you remember if there was a name on your cellphone. Cos a lot of people put their names into the phone–that way they can remember their name, in case they forgot or something.”

“Yeah,” said Little Jo. It was all clearing up now, and he was getting more interested in the conversation. “I remember the name now. It was Sagat, Bison.”

Vega dropped her notepad and looked at the criminal. “Oh. Sagat Bison,” she said. “Kind of an unusual name, don’t you think? Weird arrangement. Sagat is not a very good first name.”

Little Jo smiled a fresh smile back at her. “It’s actually Bison Sagat. I just like to put the last name first, with a comma–it makes it sound more official.”

At least, she really, really wanted this guy to be the criminal. “Ha. Now you’re name-calling a homicide detective. You don’t think I’ve heard that before? Little kids who think they’re gods at Street Fighter making fun of my last name?”

“Okay, it was just a joke,” said Bison Sagat, “Don’t take it that seriously.”

“So who were you talking on the cellphone with, Bison?” asked Sgt. Vega.

“Two people,” said Sagat. “My momz, and my ex-girlfriend. Both at the same time.”

This was getting really weird. “Oh, so you’re on the phone at the same time with your mom and gf. Was it a conference call, Bison?”

“No,” said Sagat. “I was using the ‘hold call’ trick that they have, speaking to my mother in one moment, and then speaking to my ex-girlfriend the other. They both called me up out of the blue, trying to find out what I was up to at that particular moment.”

“Where are your mother and ex-girlfriend right now, Roger?” asked Sgt. Vega, then. “Can we give them a call, maybe? See how they’re doing? Maybe they’re feeling a little…left out in the cold, you know?”

Bison looked up. “Who’s Roger?” he asked.

“You’re Roger,” said Sgt. Vega. “Remember, we found your ID just a few feet away from the display refrigerator you were sitting inside.”

“Oh. But–”

“Yes?”

“How would you know that that is my real ID?”

Sometimes it pays to try the longshot. “Well,” said Sgt. Vega, “we know it’s yours because the barcode imprinted in it corresponds to the chip that was embedded in your neck when you were born.”

“Oh…” said Roger. “But they could have just transplanted the chip,” he said.

“Why would anyone do that?”

Roger looked down at the small desk. He kept looking for a good twenty-thirty seconds. Only when Sgt. Vega shook her head, ready to pursue a new tree of investigation, did he look up again. “Maybe…” he said, and he seemed very uncertain of this. “Well…they always sometimes dim the lights on me.”

“What?”

“Like sometimes, I’m fine as a feather,” said Roger, “and all of a sudden it’s like someone ‘dimmed’ the lights in the room for just one second or so.”

Sgt. Vega stabbed repeatedly at her notepad with her pen. “They just dim the lights?” she asked. “And what do they do after they dim the lights in the room?”

“I don’t…know,” said Roger. “It’s too fast. It only happens for, like, one second. And then it’s over.”

“Over? Just like that?”

“Yeah,” nodded Roger. “And even more, it happens even regardless of whether there is a room or not. Sometimes it even happens in the streets to me.”

“Streets?”

“Yeah, I’m just walking around, in the streets, all of a sudden I experience this feeling like…like as though my battery life just dipped for one moment. Except it’s not a battery for my phone, or if I’m driving, a battery for my car, but more like…more like my own battery. My own personal human battery.”

The Recruiter

“You sit there, and just smile at me. You drink your orange juice, no pulp. You had to have no pulp. You sit there, drink your no pulp orange juice, pulling that unlit cigarette from your lips, putting it back, pulling it out to sip your juice, putting it back. But you won’t light it. Not once, you won’t light it. Just sit there, smiling, drinking, and…. Well, it doesn’t matter what I say now does it?”

He laughs at his companion’s agitation. It is amusing after all, someone getting so bent out of shape over things so little, because all he can see is a bigger picture, but even so, it’s blurred. Like a massive painting. From far away, he can make out a galloping horse racing through a sunlit meadow, but upon closer inspection, your eyes were fooled from far away. Upon closer inspection, it’s just a blur of colors, nothing spectacular, no galloping horse, not even a meadow. Just a big picture that isn’t what you think it is up close.

That’s how John thought.

Pulling the cigarette from his lips, sipping his orange juice, and smiling, Thatcher couldn’t help but wonder how in the world people got by thinking like John. There were so many, who lived by the “Big Picture” rule.

“That’s what you are John. A Big Picture kinda guy. You don’t look at all the little pebbles at the bottom of the pond and think, ‘man, there’s millions of pebbles on the bottom of that pond.’ No John, you walk up to that pond, stand on the edge and think one thing. Do you know that that one thing is you think John?” Pull the cigarette out, take a sip, set glass down, cigarette returned to the lips.

“That it’s a pond. Just a pond.” John said it, knowing that what Thatcher wanted to hear, that that was the answer he was seeking. And John would deny it, in his head, to the man sitting across from him with the loaded gun, with the cigarette and the orange juice. But, deep down inside, John knew that the man across from him was right.

“Exactly. It’s just a pond.” Cocking the hammer back on the gun, making John’s heart skip a beat, Thatcher relaxed back in his chair, running his free hand through his long, black hair. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this. Not in a long, long time.

“Why are you doing this?” John had to know. There he was, in his home, being held hostage by a man who had barged in, gun to John’s head, forcing the two to sit down. For two hours, to the second they had sat in silence, nothing said between them as Thatcher pointed the gun at the owner of the house. Then, precisely as those two hours were up, Thatcher pulled the unlit cigarette from his lips that had been there from the get go, introduced himself, asked for a glass of orange juice, no pulp.

“Ask yourself why the pond is just a pond?” Thatcher was smiling, still smiling.

“What does a damn pond have to do with you pointing a gun at me?” John couldn’t figure out for the life of him what he had done to make another man want to hurt him. The chance was there that Thatcher was no more than a crazy person, which was seeming more accurate a conclusion with each passing moment.

“The pond has nothing, and everything to do with this John. Here we are, two strangers, sitting across from each other, one has a gun pointed at the other, and the other has nothing pointed at the one. And then I ask you about a pond. Makes you wonder about the pond and why I even bring it up. Because John, right now, this situation is the pond. And it’s sink or swim time. Which are you going to do?”

John didn’t understand. What was happening? Was he about to die? Was he about to get shot by a man who didn’t even know, hadn’t met before, hadn’t even known existed before two hours and sixteen minutes earlier that evening.

“What are you going on about? Please, tell me what I did to deserve this? What did I do to you? Do you want money?” This only made Thatcher laugh harder, the cigarette almost falling from his lips, the man having to struggle to hold his mouth just right to not let the menthol stick fall.

“Please, all I wanted was your time, your ears and a glass of no pulp orange juice. I got all three, now all I want is for you to grasp and understand my reason for existing. We all have a reason, and this is mine.” All John could think was that Thatcher was out of his mind.

“If you’re going to kill me, just get it over with. I can’t stand this bullshit. I don’t get what you are going on about. So do it, just kill me.”

“There it is John. Just a pond, no pebbles. ‘Just kill me, kill me already.’ And you are probably thinking I’m out of my mind too aren’t you?” John just nodded, his eyes glued to the gun still pointed at him. “John, look at this, and ask yourself why I’m here?” Pulling out a picture from the front pocket of his ratty jean jacket, setting it on the table between the two, John was in shock, not understanding how the man across from his had it.

“Ashley.” The picture was of John’s daughter, who, having just died three weeks before in a car crash, was still the only thing that her father could ever think of anymore. He missed her so much, and for this psycho, this Thatcher to taunt him with her picture, it was sick. John didn’t care if he was going to die, get shot, whatever. He was going to murder the psycho who dared to even bring up his daughter. “You bastard, where did you get this?” John held the picture like it was his daughter, though he knew all too well the real Ashley was gone.

“That’s not important John. What is, is the pond.” Cigarette out, sip of juice, glass down, cigarette back.

“The pond. The pond. What does the pond have to do WITH MY DAUGHTER!” Slamming his fist on the coffee table, the glass top shattered, glass flying everywhere, but there Thatcher sat, just smiling. “If you’re going to kill me, KILL ME! DON’T SIT HERE, and talk to me about ponds, lakes, whatever. Just DO IT!” Crying, John was through, spent. His mind hurt from trying to figure out what was happening.

“That’s just it John. You want to see her again. Would die to do so. You blame yourself. Think it was your fault. She was driving though John, you were at home. Drunk driver hit her, not her fault, certainly not yours. And you are just begging me to pull that trigger, thinking that it would me committing murder, not you committing suicide. You miss her that much.” Finishing the orange juice, Thatcher set the empty glass down, and stood, looking down at the sobbing man.

John cried heavily, falling to the floor onto his knees, his hand bleeding, his non-bleeding hand holding the picture of Ashley to his heart. Thatcher was right. Absolutely right.

“Are you my Angel of Mercy? An Angel of Death? Who are you?” John prayed to some God that man had been sent to reconnect father and daughter. John’s wife had left him years ago, leaving the man to raise his daughter alone, leaving the two to grow closer, to bond. And then, with Ashley stolen from him, he was left alone in a world that was cruel, harsh, and unforgiving. “Be my Angel of Death Thatcher.”

“I’m no Angel, nor do I want to be. Too much work taking care of those wings.” Laughing, Thatcher walked over, placing a hand on the crying man’s shoulder. “The gun was never loaded, it just helps to get people to listen. Everything, all this, this world, life, death, it’s all a pond. Sometimes, you need to look past that, and right there, amongst the water, the ripples, the fish, is one pebble just waiting to be found.”

John, looking up to the man whose voice was soothing, calming, Thatcher still smiling, the cigarette still between his lips, John was still confused. Thatcher, nodding with his head towards the seat he had just been sitting it, John thinking it was empty, but proven wrong as he looked to it, his daughter somehow sitting there, smiling and crying, looking at her daddy.

“Ashley,” John said, losing his breath, crawling around the broken top table to his daughter. She was there, he could feel her, hug her. She hugged back. Her hair, her long blond hair was in his face, but he didn’t care. It smelled of lilies, and rosemary. It was pretty.

“I miss you daddy.” Her voice, it was soft, but it was Ashley’s, only making him cry harder.

“I miss you too baby. I miss you too. And I love you. I love you so much. And I’m sorry. I’m so….” His daughter put a finger to his lips, hushing him. Shaking her head, tears that shined like crystals falling from her eyes.

“Don’t be sorry daddy. It wasn’t your fault. And Thatcher took me to a better place, told me I’d get to see you one more time. But, he said, for me to see you, you had to do something.” His daughter was there, there with him for one more time. John would do anything. He couldn’t explain it, how Thatcher had done it. John knew it was Ashley, couldn’t deny it. He had buried his daughter weeks ago, and yet there she was, right in front of him, he holding her. He would do anything. He owed the man anything.

“Anything. You let me see her again. I let me see her.” Kissing her cheek, John looked away, throwing a smile to Thatcher, feeling Ashley disappear from his arms. Looking back, the seat was empty, his little girl gone from him again, making his cry again, this time harder than before.

“I’m tired of collecting souls John. I’m ready to gallop through a meadow, or swim in a pond, instead of just collection pebbles to sit at the bottom. You sir, are my replacement.” Standing, Thatcher, finally lit his cigarette. Twenty three years he had been waiting to light it.

“I don’t understand. Collect souls? For, heaven.” John, still crying, said he would do anything, but, he didn’t quite grasp was he was being charged with.

“No John. I said I wasn’t an angel.” Laughing, taking a closed eyed, long drag of the menthol stick, Thatcher blew the smoke out passed a sinister grin.  “It’s a bit unfair, how we trick ‘em. I bring Ashley up, you see her, you agree to anything. Terrible really. Unfair in my opinion. Don’t see it coming. You didn’t see it coming did you?”

“I don’t understand. What’s happening?” Standing, looking to the gun was sitting on the floor, the gun that Thatcher had said was empty.

“Welcome to Hell’s Recruiting Services. We borrow souls on loan from heaven, use ‘em to ensnare guilty souls, and drag ‘em to hell. Quite a profession, and we get dental. Here’s the book of regulations, rules, guidelines, do’s and do not’s. And by the way, orange juice helps with going from the living world to hell. Don’t know why. Just does. Just remember, always…”

“No pulp,” John said, mouthing the words, not sure what else to say but to finish the sentence with the obvious answer. His eyes had shifted from the gun to the book that Thatcher held, and the man’s mind was spinning. Was it all real? Had his daughter’s soul been loaned from heaven to a man from hell to lure him into the same profession.

 

*

 

“Can I help you sir?” The woman asked, answering the door to the stranger who had been loudly knocking for several minutes, and though she had tried to ignore him, it had been no good, the knocking just continued until she gave in and answered it.

“Hello Marie. I’m going to need a glass of orange juice, no pulp. And my name is John,” the stranger said, the cigarette between his lips bouncing as he spoke. Four weeks it had been there, and he was actually surprised that he was good as his new profession, Recruiter.

 

The Night Guardsman

The planes of life and death are many, with just as many planes of reality and imagination in between. Take for instance Mr. Goodman Howe, a kindly old man who has lost everyone in the world he loves, and yet he still goes on day to day. But, on the first day in a long time, something good will happen to Mr. Howe, only in- The Twilight Zone…

*

Sitting in his vehicle, the rusted out ol scrap that it was, more rust on the truck anymore than paint, Goodman looked at the near empty parking lot, only two other vehicles there besides his. One, the day guards, Ricks. The other, one he hadn’t noticed before. Must’ve been someone working late, he thought. Something that happened ever so rarely.

After the death of his wife a few years prior, Goodman found himself lonely, the isolation of sitting at home alone filling him with depression and grief. Needing to get out, he opened the papers one day, the papers being from days before, and yet still, he saw the ad, called the number, and got hired to fill the position, no problems. Night guardsman for an avionics production facility. A quiet job, and quiet was just what Goodman thought he needed. A quiet job, outside of his eerily, quiet home. But over time, he found that his little guard shack didn’t offer any sort of relief that he had been hoping for.

Finally climbing out from his rust bucket, the hands on his watch finally finishing their crawl to those two one’s standing side by side like two lonely men, the eleven o’ clock shift starting, another night of nick-at-night reruns and reading through the papers from days before.

Strolling up to the shack, Rick already outside waiting, much like he did most nights, his impatience overly visible in his body language. “Bout time Goodman,” the kid said. The kid, Goodman thought, like he could call him that. Rick was in his early thirties, and compared to Goodman’s early seventies, hell, he could call him a kid. Damn kid’s.

“It’s right on eleven,” looking to his watch, seeing it was eleven o’ two, Goodman damning himself, caught in a very minuscule lie, but a lie none-the-less, wondering how it had taken him two whole minutes to walk from the rust bucket to the shack. Was he getting that slow in what used to be a strong, meaningful stride?

“Alright,” Rick said, just playing it off, knowing it wasn’t worth getting irritated with the old man. “You have a good night now.” With nothing else, the man, or kid in Goodman’s eyes made his way to his car, in it, key turned, wheels quickly turning to leave the ugly truck and one other vehicle sitting alone in the parking lot.

Climbing into the shack, shutting the door behind him, taking his seat, realizing that he had grown tired of the job, with no one there at night, nothing happening, Goodman just reasoned that it was just best he stayed put, kept the job. It’ll just be the same anywhere else, he thought. Lonesome. Quiet.

Grabbing a newspaper off the shack’s little counter, the counter itself littered with candy bar wrappers, which Goodman supposed was Rick’s, the man looking to have never minded his weight, and a small t.v., the company nice enough to run a cable line out to them so they could zone out on the job with the trash that was on the boob tube, as Goodman’s son called it.

His son, Gary, had moved all the way over to the other side of the country, in California, where he designed video games, or something like that. Thinking about him, his graduation from high school, college, Goodman was proud of his son, but missed him dearly, having not seen him since Christmas. Of last year.

Wish he’d settle down, give me a grandchild. Goodman thought, hoping his thoughts would drown out the silence of the shack, not that it was completely silent, the humming from the light above him relaxing, once you got used it that is. After so long, the sound became torture, staying in your ears well after your shift has ended and you’re lying in bed trying to get to sleep. Back to his son and a grandchild, Goodman reasoned that even if Gary had a child, its grandfather would never see it. Gary had always been a momma’s boy.

 

The hours rolled by slowly, agonizingly slow. Unable to even fall asleep, even though that was a no-no on the job, something he had been warned about countless times the day he was hired, Goodman knew better than to expect anything to happen. Nothing ever did happen. Ever. Flipping off the light in the shack, the television not even on yet, Goodman not having reached that point of boredom to give in and watch reruns that he had seen countless times, he looked out the dirty window up to the sky and stars, wondering if Mary, his wife, was looking down on here, feeling sorry for her miserable, widowed husband. But he also wondered when he had missed his chance to do anything worth doing in his life.

Not that life hadn’t been good, but looking back on it, Goodman just couldn’t think of anything that had been worth his life, worth life itself. And it saddened him to think that his existence on Earth had been wasted. Deciding to change his mood and demeanor, depression something he had gotten used to but wasn’t in the mood for that night, he flicked the television on, turned it to nick-at-nite, and let the show’s he was only half-heartedly watch take the rest of the night away.

An hour passed by like that, when startled by a sudden knock at his door, Goodman about fell from his chair, was almost certain that he was going to have a heart attack, his old heart pounding in a way it hadn’t in a long, long time. Looking to see who had spooked him, a kid, and this time a young man, no more older than twenty three, stood, smiling, mouthing the word sorry through the door’s tiny window.

Motioning the kid in with a wave of his wrinkled hand, the door opened, the young man stepping in, apologetic. “I’m really sorry bout that,” he said. “Didn’t mean to give you a scare there.” Laughing, Goodman thought little about it, just glad to have someone to talk to for a minute.

“It’s nothing, needed it to keep me awake. Is there something I can do for ya? You the one working late in there?” Looking out to the car that hadn’t left yet, it was the logical thing to think.

“Yeah, that’s me,” the kid said, looking out to the car. “Ol thing ain’t starting up, was wondering if I could use your phone, can’t seem to find mine.” Goodman, not even seeing the kid walk out to his car and attempt to start it felt bad, the old man never owning a phone in his life, and the realization that his shack didn’t have one either. What good was a guard with no gun and no phone? He thought, they really must not expect anything to EVER happen out here.

“Sorry, but, no phone. Wish I could help. Got a key to get back in the building, they got phones in there.” Reaching for his keys, getting up to walk in, the kid wasn’t too worried about calling for a ride.

“Nah, don’t worry bout it sir, thanks anyways. I don’t live too far from here, and I can walk. Nice night out anyways.” Looking back behind him into the stars much like Goodman had been doing, a smile came across the kid’s lips that reminded the old man of better days, when he young, and thought he could own the world. Instead, the universe turned everything around on him, leaving him alone in a too-crowded world.

“It is ain’t it. Reminds me of when I was about your age. Owned a cherry red ’56 Chevy. White top, never had the thing on with nights like this to drive around. Love the feel of the wind making my way down these roads. Remember when this parking lot used to be nothing but fields, looked so nice in the moonlight.”

Goodman was in a very happy place thinking back to his days of his reckless youth, burning down the back country roads, back before they were asphalt and yellow paint, with Mary in the passenger seat, neither wearing a seat belt, the voice of Buddy Holly trying to beat out the roar of the engine and the howl of the young couple’s laughs. The best of times.

“Those must have been the days,”  the kid said, still looking up into the sky. “Welp, I better get goin before the wife starts wonderin’. You have a g’night now sir,” the kid said, the sir surprising him, kids these days having no manners. Goodman just nodded, said a goodnight and a goodbye in response, his mind left wandering back to better days. His night would go by quick, the rest of his shift spent on back country roads with the wind blowing through his memory.

 

Two hours had grudgingly crawled by, leaving Goodman to wish he could return to working on his Chevy in his pa’s garage, or sitting with Mary the night of their first kiss, both nervous teens, just waiting for one to make a move. Mary made the first move, putting her hand on top of his on the hillside that looked over both their homes. They had lived close, their houses on the same street, their families went to the same church.

Seeing his rust bucket and the kid’s car being the only two in the parking lot again that night, he wondered if the kid’s car was still not running, left from the night before, or if the young lad was working late again, leaving the misses at home waiting.

Not in the mood to watch the television or read the paper that he had brought in with him, not that it was worth reading, the damn thing four days old, he instead walked out of the shack, stretching his old, tired legs, getting some fresh air. Stepping into the night, the air was a bit chilly, autumn creeping it’s way up on the closing summer, but autumn was Goodman’s favorite season. Most likely cause it had been Mary’s. She loved the colors of the leaves.

Very calm, taking deep breaths, taking in the stars, wishing he could just fly up there with them, around the planets, maybe take in the sight’s of Saturn’s rings, talk to the Man on the Moon, roast a marshmallow over the sun, Goodman jumped when he was surprisingly greeted from behind.

“Hey,” laughing, realizing he had yet again startled the night guardsman, the kid laughing, placed a reassuring hand on the old man’s shoulder, apologizing. “I’m sorry. Keep doing that too ya.”

“You’re gonna kill me one of these nights. Catch me just the right way and poof!, heart attack,” Goodman playfully grabbed his shirt over his heart, acting like his heart was giving out on his, going into full character with facial expressions and groans, getting a few more laughs from the kid. “Late night for ya again. Must love that overtime.” Finishing his laugh, the kid just nodded.

“Not really, but hey, could use the money. Takin’ in the night air?” he said, taking a deep breath himself, eye’s shut.

“Good night to do so. And those stars are just calling down to me. ‘Come play with us Goodman.’” Looking up at them, he knew Mary was up there.

“Goodman, eh. Well, I’m Matt.” Reaching out a hand for a shake, Goodman returned the gesture and was pleased by the strength in the kids, Matt’s, grip. A real man’s handshake Goodman thought. A gentleman’s.

“It’s nice to meet you Matt. You’re a good kid.” Goodman said it, instantly regretting calling Matt a kid, not sure if he would take offense too it or not. Kid’s these days, no respect and they take everything to heart. What happened to the youth of this over-crowded world?

“Same to you Goodman. Can I ask you something?” Goodman nodded. “You get bored in there, all by yourself at night? I mean, nothing ever happens round here. I mean, I say that like I know.”

“No, no, you’re right. Nothing exciting ever happens round here. They keep me here for my looks,” Goodman laughed, knowing his charm and good looks left him ages ago, replaced with wrinkles and worn out eyes. But back in the day, he was handsome. Could have been competition for James Dean, or Presley. And Mary, Mary had been so gorgeous. Could have a movie star, she could have. “Welp,” Goodman felt bad, holding the kid up with meaningless chit-chat. “Better get home to the misses now, don’t want to keep her waiting.”

“It’s okay. She’s prolly asleep anyways. I’ll stick around. You need the company anyways.” Goodman couldn’t argue with that. He wanted to tell the kid no, tell Matt to get on home and climb into bed with that girl, cuddle up with her and enjoy it while he had her. But it was only for one night.

“Not much to do round here at night. Got the little shack here,” Goodman said, slapping the door, like he was glad it was all his. “Got the television in there. That’s it. Not much for a young man like yourself. You really should be gettin’ goin.”

“Why don’t we sit out here and you tell me bout those days on these back streets, when these were fields in the moonlight.” Sitting down on the pavement, back against the wall, Goodman thought about and would be glad to tell a story, but he sure as hell wasn’t sitting on the ground. His old back wouldn’t last very long, and he’d never get back up. Grabbing his seat from inside, he made sure Matt wouldn’t be offended if he sat in it, the respectful young lad not caring one bit, just sitting cross legged like a young child waiting for a good story to be spun.

“Let me tell ya bout the time I was racing Charlie Everett…”

 

Life was good to Goodman. Going to work wasn’t so bad. Matt had stayed the whole night, heading home just before the sun came up, listening to the better days of an old man’s life, smiling the whole time. It was the best thing to happen to Goodman in a long, long time, and all the kid had done was listen, but, Goodman realized, Matt had done more than that. He let Goodman remember. Let the man go back to those days. Let him sit behind the wheel of his car. Racing down the back roads neck and neck with ol’ Charlie Everett in his Model T. Man, did Goodman smoke in at the end.

Walking up to the booth, Rick was outside waiting like he always was, although Goodman was fifteen minutes earlier than usual, a smile on his face, his whole demeanor just a little bit brighter.

“You look like a kid on Christmas morning,” Rick commented, wondering why the night guardsman was in such a good mood.

“I feel like it, that’s for sure.” Looking around the parking lot, he noticed for the first time since pulling in that Matt’s car was finally gone, not parked in the spot it had been for days. Maybe Matt had finally gotten it towed, or more than likely he had left early that day, not feeling like the overtime was worth staying late for. Goodman had to admit to himself, if the kid didn’t startle him that night, he would be a tiny bit disappointed, rather enjoying the young lad’s company.

“So, you hear about the accident? I swear they don’t tell us anything. I read it in the paper this morning,” Rick said, the excitement to tell his news almost sickening, Goodman knowing it couldn’t be any good.

“What happened?” Goodman asked, almost not wanting to hear.

“Kid died here a few days ago. Was working late, fell from a rafter while working on the tail of one of the birds,” birds being airplanes, “no one found him till yesterday morning. Company is trying to keep it secret. Can’t believe I didn’t hear bout it till I read bout it.”

“Kid. What kid?” Goodman asked, the part of him that questioned the unquestionable forming a name already, though the rational side of the old man’s brain told him it was impossible, but as Rick tried to remember, Goodman mouthed along with him just as the name came to him.

“Matt something or other. Young kid. Had a wife with a baby on the way.” Goodman couldn’t believe it. It had to be another Matt. Not his Matthew. It just wasn’t possible.

“Was there a picture of the kid?” the night guardsman asked, knowing a picture would prove the crazy assumptions going through his mind wrong, that he would be put to ease knowing his Matthew was home with his misses, doing what young couple’s do nowadays.

“Sure wasn’t. Damn shame though. Well, I need to get going. Have a good one Goodman.” And like that, Rick was gone, leaving an old man alone to wonder in a tiny shack.

 

An hour passed by when Goodman finally decided he couldn’t sit no more, staring out into the parking lot where a kid, no, a young man’s car had been parked the day before. Stretching his legs, hands in his pockets, he didn’t want to think about Chevy’s, or Charlie Everett, or the good ol’ days. He just wasn’t in the mood to think about those days, long and past.

Looking up at the stars, then to the moon, wondering what the Man up there was thinking about, Goodman was startled, nearing jumping off the ground by a “hello” from behind. He knew the voice, and knew that he hadn’t heard anyone walking up behind him. He also knew no one had been in the building working. No one. Turning to see Matt, the boy smiling.

“Sorry bout that. Bad habit I guess,” Matt said, looking at the sad old man before him. “You okay Goodman?”

“Are you bub?” Goodman asked the kid, only ever calling his son that.

“I’m fine. I mean, I feel a little weird, but I’m prolly coming down with something. Everyone is this time of the year.” Looking up from Goodman to the stars, his smiled turned into a small grin, an innocence present, a longing to be somewhere that he couldn’t get too. Goodman knew the kid didn’t belong there with him, was meant to be someplace else, with Mary. But he couldn’t bring himself to say anything about it. If Matt was supposed to be with Mary, wherever Mary was, the stars, heaven, wherever, he would go when he was well and ready too.

“So, want to hear about the time I got caught sneakin’ into a lasses room?” Goodman asked, the kid sitting down, cross legged, smiling and nodding. Grabbing his chair, Goodman was content. Maybe, just maybe, that was where Matt was supposed to be…

 

 

*

 

An old man left alone in an over-crowded world. A young man robbed of his youth in an accident, only to visit with a lonely man and hear about days long ago. There are many places we are destined to be in our lives, and in the times after our light has been extinguished. And sometimes the most important place we can be is there for someone who needs us. That is no more truer than in…. The Twilight Zone

 

The Slender Man

“Again Barbara, it was only a nightmare. Relax, close your eyes, remember. And tell me what you see.”

Strapped to a chair, she looked to her leather restraints, tightly holding her wrists and ankles to the arms and legs of the wooden furniture piece. Wiggling, trying to escape, it was to no avail, the straps giving no slack, diminishing all hope of release.

She sat, or rather, was forced to sit, alone in a dimly lit room, the only thing differing from the dark brown paint walls was the door positioned directly in front of her, the paint chipped everywhere, the door in terrible disrepair. Screaming, her voice was heard by no one but her, leaving her in a frantic state, panicked, wanting to know what was going on, and who had done this to her.

Feeling her baby kick in her stomach, she was only weeks away from finally holding what the doctors had said would be a baby boy. He was going to be her first child, and the situation she was in, restrained against her will in a room that she knew not how she had arrived, she worried more so about her unborn child then she did herself.

“What do you want from me?!” She yelled over and over again, hot tears streaking her cheeks, the words becoming a struggle to get out past the sobs. “What do you want from me?!” With no answer, no response from anyone or anything, the panic only rose in her. She wanted to move a hand to her stomach, feel her baby’s kick, reassure herself he was going to be okay.

Hearing a faint noise, she looked to the door in front of her, the knob beginning to turn slowly. Her breath caught in her throat, she waited to finally see her captor, to see who would dare lock her up, dare harm her or worse, her baby.

The door opened completely, and wide eyed, she was shocked. Who, or what was he? Walking in, pushing a metal cart with two things on it, an old vinyl player and a worn-leather doctor’s bag, a man, or what she guessed was a man, walked in wearing a black suit, black tie, white under shirt, and black fedora.

She guessed he was a man, fore he had no face. No facial features of any kind, no ears, no nose, no mouth or eyes. And his skin, looked like candle wax, yellowed with age, melted and shaped to resemble a man, only, without any facial features. That part scared her more so than just his presence. He walked like he could see, looked right at her as he stopped the cart next to her. Just looking at her with eyes he didn’t have.

Pushing the brim of the fedora up with a gloved hand, the man, tall and sickly slender just kept eyelessly staring at her, pulling one glove off at a time, revealing fingers made too from the yellowed candle wax, nails, blackened and long, coming to points like they were filed that way.

“Who are you!?” she yelled at him, or it. “What do you want from me?!” Yelling, it was almost to no use other than self gratification, the man not having a mouth to respond anyways. Just staring at her, letting her get it out, he allowed her to scream what she had to, exhausting herself from her pointless efforts. “Answer me you bastard!? Say something, do something?! WHY!?”

Pulling, tugging at the straps that still held her, she was trapped, not going to escape the bonds, and her captor, the strange man that just stood before her, frightened her so. Tired, catching her breath, angry, she wanted to attack him, escape and keep her baby safe. Safe from whatever the man had planned to do.

“Why?” she whispered, again crying, giving up in her attempts to escape, giving up a majority of hope for anything other than some sort of pain that the man had ready to deliver to her. Looking into his featureless face, she knew not what he was, nor did she care to know.

Raising his index finger to where his lips should have been, making the motion for her to “shhh”, be silent, the man rotated the handle on the vinyl player, the record beginning to spin. Lifting the needle from its rest, he slowly lowered it down onto the spinning record, careful to not scratch or damage the disc. From the speaker horn began to play music, first just crackles, then the softly growing instruments and vocals.

Tip Toe, through the window.

To the window.

That is where I’ll be.

Swaying his head to the music, patting his foot in rhythm to the song, the man undid the clasp holding the doctor’s bag closed. Opening it, wiggling his fingers, getting them stretched out, he turned his attention to her.

Lifting her shirt, resting in on the top of her exposed, large belly, he ran his hand over her skin, his feel so cold to the touch. Stopping, he could feel the baby kicking. Gently scratching that spot, much like a person would scratch behind a dog’s ear to please them, he pulled away, returning to the contents inside the bag.

Oh, Tiptoe from the garden.

By the Garden of the willow tree.

Reaching inside, pulling out a scalpel, he examined it without eyes, looking at it in the dim light that came from the ceiling. Satisfied, his attention was again returned to her, the scalpel held with the expertise of a trained surgeon. Placing his hand on her belly where the baby’s kick had been felt, his face was towards hers as she pleaded with him to stop.

“You don’t have to do this,” she begged. “Please, please, please. You don’t have to do this. Stop. You don’t have to do this… PLEASE! LEAVE MY BABY ALONE!” Shaking, pulling with all her might to get free, she was only hurting herself, the straps not daring to give way to her pleas of release.

Still tapping his foot to the song, swaying to the music, he raised the scalpel high, preparing to make the first cut, and then, in the blink of an eye, his hand moved, the blade slicing through her flesh, cutting from one side of her belly to the next before she even felt it.

Spilling forth, blood, amniotic fluid and of course her child. Catching it with one hand, the other setting the scalpel down on the metal cart with a light CLANK, the man without looking reached into the bag, pulling out a large pair of metal scissors. Snipping the umbilical cord, he set the scissors with the scalpel to hold the child in both hands.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” She screamed, the shock and pain from the incision making it difficult to stay conscious, but she found a way. “Give me my baby! GIVE ME MY BABY!!”

Ignoring her, just playfully shaking his head in front of the motionless, blood covered baby, the slender man finally turned to her, head tilted to the side in either aggravation or confusion. Slipping into the room by itself, an all black stroller, the wheels creaking and squeaking as it rolled to a stop by the man. Setting the baby, down inside, tickling its stomach one last time with a pointed nail, he went back to finish his work, reaching into the bag once again as the stroller, by itself, wheeled out of the room.

Will you pardon me?

And tiptoe through the tulips with me?

Pulling a needle and stitching from the bag, moving quickly, the man stitched up the incision, closing the wound, faster than any surgeon could, or safely would have. Pulling his gloves back on, putting all his tools away, closing the bag, she, half conscious just watched him, staying silent, though it would have been difficult to find any way in her to speak at all.

Wheeling the metal cart back out of the room, the music still playing, coming to its close, ending just as he began to close the door, he left her tired, dying, and all alone in the room. Taking one last look back at her, he tipped his hat in farewell, slamming the door shut, leaving her to her bonded isolation.

 

“Is that everything Barbara? Is that everything that you remember?”

“You fucking fool! You took my baby! It wasn’t a nightmare, it was god damn real. That thing, that bastard took my baby!”  Feeling her stomach, there was no kick, the stillborn baby having been delivered months before, two weeks after she had awoke in a pool of blood next to her husband.

“IT was only a nightmare Barbara. It was only a nightmare.” The same thing he had told her before, and the same thing he would tell her again and again. “Come, let’s go outside, let’s get some fresh air.”

 

Tip toe through the tulips with me…

 

One Helluva Nightmare

The pain was horrendous, unbearable. Hot wet tears rolled from his eyes. Trying to roll, so many hands held him down as others tried to save him. A constant ringing in his ears, his eyes blurry from crying, he knew where he was, but couldn’t make out anything that was going on around him.

He could remember had happened. He been standing outside his home, just watching the two kids fighting, thinking about how he had been just like them in his youth. The two boys were only teenagers, no older than sixteen, maybe seventeen. Other boys stood around them, watching, waiting for the first of the boys to throw a punch.

And then, for some reason, out of his pocket, one of the boys pulled a gun. Not believing what he was seeing, Nick was in shock. What the hell are you doing kid? Nick thought to himself, praying it was an airsoft gun, or a very realistic toy.

Watching the other boys around step back, and the kid that the gun holder had been arguing with instantly scared, his hands up, Nick began to approach, still hoping the gun was not real. Hoping it wasn’t loaded.

“Come on kid, what the hell are you doing?” Nick said, trying to catch the boy’s attention so if anyone was going to get hurt, it was going to be Nick. “Put that down before some is seriously hurt.” Approaching slowly, Nick had gotten the boy’s attention, but the boy still kept the weapon pointed at the kid he had been arguing with.

“Mind your own business!” the boy yelled, his hand slightly shaking, making Nick even more nervous. Nick, looking to the boy that the gun was pointed at, could see tears forming in the boy’s eyes, scared out of his mind, not knowing that the argument was going to take that dramatic of a turn.

“Put the gun down,” Nick, pausing, had to get the kid to calm down and come to reason. “What’s your name?”

“What’s it matter? This is none of your business!” Inching the gun closer to the boy he had been arguing with, the boy was openly crying, and the other teen’s were tense, not sure of what was going to happened.

“Put the gun down Dave,” one of the other teen’s said, standing closer to the boy with the gun.

“Shut your damn mouth! I’ll put it down if I feel like it! Scared,” the boy, apparently named Dave mocked, waving the gun in the crying boy’s face. “Crying like a baby, scared.”

“Put the damn gun down Dave. You think that makes you a man?” Nick mocked right back at the teen. He knew that Dave was trying to appear tough to his friends, trying to be a man, not backing down, suffering further humiliation from them. Nick knew that the teen was foolishly worried about his image. “Do you Dave? You think that makes you a man?”

Dave, now not so mad at the boy he had been arguing with, turned the gun towards Nick, just what Nick had been hoping, but the moment he was staring down the barrel, realized the carelessness of his decision.

“Do I think it makes me a man? Who the hell are you, man?” Pulling back the hammer of the gun, Dave held it steady, eyes narrowed, many of the other boys taking more steps back, worried of what their friend might do.

“I’m just a guy trying to keep a kid from making a very stupid decision.” Taking a few steps closer, Nick just had to get close enough to grab the gun. If he had to punch the kid out, so be it, but he couldn’t let anyone get hurt because of one stupid kid’s ego.

“You think you’re a man,” Dave said, “walking up here, trying to stop me from blasting him,” Dave motioned with his head to the teen he had pulled the gun on. “Walking up here, asking me if I think I’m a man. Yeah. As a matter of fact…” Pulling the trigger, Nick heard the second shot before he even felt the first bullet hit him. Three bullets before the group of teens jumped on Dave, fighting the gun away from him. Looking at them, none of them were hurt.

Falling to his knees, the wounds burned, all of them in his chest. Looking to Dave, fear was in the teen’s eyes. Dave had pulled the trigger, but after the act, couldn’t believe what he had done.

“Call an ambulance,” Nick whispered, not sure if anyone had heard him. He was looking around, watching the teen’s hold Dave down, some pulling their cell phones out, neighbors coming out to see what the noise had been, one man running up to Nick.

In no time he was in an ambulance, and then the hospital. His eyes burned from the white light coming from the ceiling, the ringing in his ears gave him a headache, and his chest ached with such intensity with each and every breath.

He knew the doctors and nurses were talking to him. But he couldn’t hear them. Closing his eyes, he couldn’t see them anyways, and he was tired of the burning ceiling light. A sudden cold coming over him, Nick knew he wasn’t going to make. It was obvious. The damn kid had shot him three times in the chest. God damn kid.

A heavy darkness coming with the sudden cold, Nick’s eyes shot open suddenly, a sudden bolt of energy flowing through him. Looking around, the light from the ceiling, the bright white light from the florescent bulbs was gone, instead a ceiling fan, spinning slowly, a beige ceiling.

His eyes forced shut again, his body’s muscles tensing, Nick forced them open, looking all around, the florescent ceiling light back, the blurriness difficult to see through. Trying his damndest to see through it, at the nurses, the doctors, the machines, he knew he was still in the hospital, wondering what the hell he had just seen.

Trying to take a deep breath, not able too, the jolt of energy rocked him his body once more, eyes slamming shut. This time when they opened, Nick’s head turned to his side, he was staring at an alarm clock on a side table, a lamp behind it. 4:13. That was what the clock said. Trying to turn his head to see more, his eyes shut once again before he could, the last jolt of energy passing through him with white-hot intensity.

Suddenly comfortable, suddenly calm, the ringing was gone, no noise at all. No doctors speaking, no nurses, no noise. And his body, relaxed, no pain, no one holding him down. Opening his eyes, the ceiling fan above him off, the beige ceiling illuminated by what little moon light spilled into the room from the window, curtains drawn back, the sky outside clear, stars very visible.

Looking to his alarm clock, it read 4:13. Blinking a few times, his eyes still heavy with sleep, he closed them, took a deep breath and slid his hand under his pillow, the coolness it promised welcoming.

That was one helluva damn nightmare, Nick thought, preparing to fall back to sleep.

 

What a Gig

Sitting on the edge, looking down into the hole that I’d just finished digging, I had a cigarette in between my lips, and my fingers were scratching at the beard that I had let grow around my lips. Man, it had been weeks since my last shave. I’d really let myself go.

“Well, are you going to get to it?” Del asked, standing to my right, looking down into the hole as well, impatience thick in his voice, the same damn impatience that was always thick in his voice.

“Always in such a god damn hurry aren’t you Del?” I asked, taking the cancer stick out from between my lips, sliding it behind my ear, like a writer would a pencil. Wasn’t sure if I was going to have to light it or not.

“Must you use his name in vain?” Polly asked, standing to my left, picking the petals off of a white lily, blowing them from her fingers into the wind. She was in a white dress, as always, but that night she held her hair up in a bright blue ribbon, which didn’t in no way match the dress.

“Sorry Polly, and nice ribbon.” Didn’t match, but it still looked nice holding up her bleach blonde hair. Finally hopping down into the hole, my feet thumped on the casket, and I had to catch my balance, the top of the metal box rounded, and coming from six feet above, I was impressed that I hadn’t slipped. Not that it would have been the first time I had fallen jumping down into graves.

“Be careful now Boston,” Polly said, her feet now dangling where mine had been a mere moment before. Looking up, her legs were crossed, and yes, I may have been attempting to look up her dress, just like every other time I looked up at her.

“Please, continue,” again from Del. Arms crossed, he in his normal attire, black suit, red tie, pencil thin mustache cut perfectly, his thin black hair cut short. A man who was all about the business, never one to really wait for anything.

Ignoring Del, I worked at my own pace. It wasn’t like he had dug up the grave, all six feet of damn dirt, no, he had just stood there and watched, like every other damn time I had dug up every other damn grave. So, he could wait. Bending down, I knocked on the top of the casket, and waited.

“Why do you always knock?” he asked. The guy and his damn impatience, it got old really quick.

“It is common courtesy,” Polly replied, blowing the last petal off the lily from between her fingers, the wind letting this one float down into the hole, landing in front of me on the casket.

“Exactly, thank you Polly.” While Polly was the complete opposite of Del, her over-niceness was a bit overwhelming at times, almost as bad as Del’s impatience. Ignoring them both, I got on with the night’s task. Pulling out the skeleton key from my pocket, I set it on the casket just below the petal, picking that petal up and holding it in my palm.

The skeleton key, made from the actual bone of a man, was a tool of the trade, used to open up caskets quickly and efficiently, saving so much time and effort. Hearing the clicking of all the locks, the upper portion of the lid popped up, and lifting, grabbing the key before it slid off, which had happened when I first started, something which was so embarrassing. Working your hand down the side of a casket to find a damn key, does not look good to your employers, let me tell you.

Opening the rest of the way, the body inside was that of a girl, no more than eighteen if you looked at her, but the stone just above us had her at just a month older than twenty two. Twenty two years old. Poor kid. She had been a pretty one too.

Taking a deep breath, rereading the name on the head stone, Emma Rose O’Maynor. Twenty two when she had died. Car accident as the cause in the newspapers, buried, lowered into the ground the same day I had unburied her to do what I did, the job that only a few in the world were entrusted, or cursed to perform.

Looking back down at her, closing my eyes, I rubbed my hands together, and snapping my fingers on my right hand, I was ready. Thumb out, I placed it right on Emma’s forehead, and then the part I always hate, so much more than digging up the damn graves.

The moment my thumb touches the bodies, the moment I come into contact with the dearly departed, the newly buried, just like before the moment they die, their whole life flashes before my eyes. Conception, birth, childhood, teenage angst, adulthood. Every second, every feeling, everything, in a flash second, in one moment, I live it, see it, feel it. All to decide their eternal fate. What a gig, right?

Pulling back, taking a deeper breath than before the task, the Viewing as we call it in the field, I was left with the ultimate decision. Where was Emma O’ Maynor’s soul going to spend all the rest of eternity? Of course, I know you want to know how or why I get to decide it, what the hell makes me so damn special that I choose where she goes. Don’t worry, I know you want to know. But, that is for another day. So for now, I’ll continue with this story.

Returning my gaze back to the gravestone above me, as expected, Emma, or her soul was standing on her stone, looking down in pure terror, confused on what was happening. They all had that look, every single one of them.

“What, what is going on?” she asked, so confused, so terrified, yet, I had grown so accustomed to it, it didn’t faze me. But a decade of doing this job will do that to ya. I’ll tell ya, the first few, that was a living nightmare, yes it was.

“Baby doll, you’re dead,” Del said. Prick had a habit of always saying it like that. Guy got his kicks from their denial, then sudden realization of shit, I am dead. Poor saps.

“Must you always.” Polly said, and just like it was expected for Del to tell them they were dead, it was expected for her to call him an asshole under her breath. Ignoring them all, I had to make my decision. While the girl had been good her whole life, well, all but one act. Abortion, and in our book, that was never a good thing. Murder’s murder, and while, yes, I don’t agree with it, it still happened.

Putting the cigarette between my lips, lighting it, I could hear Del laughing. Asshole. Guy took too much pleasure in a line of work that shouldn’t have any pleasure. Thinking over her life one last time before I made my final decision, my mind was made up. Taking a long puff of that cancer stick, I held the smoke as I pulled the cig out from between my lips, looking at the burning embers, blowing the smoke up and out of the hole.

“What are you doing down there? What is going on?” Emma asked from above. And while I should of answered her, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I hated telling them when they were going to Hell. Just hated it.

“You see baby doll,” Del said, giving the bad news for me, “he’s about to turn you over to me. The second that cigarette touches your dead skin down there, that will be the last time your body is burned, and the beginning of your soul’s burning, the long, eternity of burning babe.” Polly had nothing to say to that.

Stopping inches before touching that burning end to her forehead, I looked hard at the face on the corpse, then up at the terrified face on her soul. The soul’s of people look exactly like the bodies in the holes, only, moving, a bit greyer in color all over, like someone had turned the contrast down on their existence. There was nothing I could do, nothing. To Hell with her, as blunt as I could put it.

“Sorry Emma,” I said under my breath, those embers extinguished on her brow, screams from her soul coming from above, as the mark of the Inferno appeared. Standing, closing the casket, I turned and held my hands up to be pulled up and out of her grave. Polly, getting to her feet, refused to help me, but I couldn’t blame her. The Emma girl looked innocent enough, but hey, I had rules to follow.

“So what was it?” Del asked, reaching down in, pulling me out. He was asking of course what damned the girl to Hell. Neither he nor Polly could see into Emma’s soul, knew nothing about it, but that was the way it was. That’s why I was there. To keep the balance. Mortal’s deciding mortal’s fate. A helluva gig man.

“As always, I can’t tell you Del. But, she’s yours.” I relit the cig, no point in it going to waste. Not looking to Del, he just patted me on the shoulder, and walked past, around the grave to the crying Emma.

“Time to go child,” he said, snapping his fingers, both him and the soul of Emma gone, off to Hell.

“I hate that, I really do,” I said, trying to calm Polly. Just like Del, she took her job seriously, and seeing any soul taken to Hell was hard for her.

“What was it Boston? Please tell me.” I looked at her. It was better if she didn’t know. Just shaking my head, taking a long puff of my cig, she nodded, kissed my cheek, and was gone in a flash of white light, returned in to her home in heaven. I’d see her and Del again soon enough. Picking up my shovel, I had a hole to refill.

“God, I hate this gig.”

 

The Wake pt V

“So, why are you helping me?” I asked Shepherd, the two of us walking for several minutes with nothing said, our surrounding now the heavy foliage, the woods where darkness seemed to linger, and the unnerving silence was overwhelming. He wasn’t speaking, just moving, leading me to wherever our final destination was. I had to break the silence before I lost my mind.

“It is what I am meant to do. Just like you, I found the light in the darkness, woke up, seeing nothing, and there, like a firefly in the moonless night, I found the light. Just as you had.” I knew what he was talking about. The lantern that had taken me to the grave sight.

“Is this hell? Purgatory?” I was still trying to figure everything out. It was all too strange, almost like a dream, no, closer to a nightmare. But at the same time, all too real to be either dream or nightmare.

“As I told you before, this is the Wake. From my understanding, and my intelligent guess, the Wake is where warriors go to be tested.”

“Tested for what?” Shepherd stopped as I asked my question, looking at me with a perturbed look. Tapping his fingers on the hilt of his sword, I could tell my questions were annoying him. But anyone in their right state of mind would have questions. So, just like anyone else in their right state of mind, I was going to ask my damn questions.

“To find out the worth your soul, your honor. There are many warriors, many who kill and die. Some, for righteous reasons, while others merely kill for the sake of themselves. The Wake tests their will. You, just like all the others before you, and even before I, have been tested. Consider yourself lucky thus far. There are many who do not find the light, and wander endlessly for all eternity till even they are gone from the memories of those who loved them.”

Picking up his step again, I asked no more questions. Shepherd said we were warriors, but looking at him, and looking at myself, my clothing, we were so different. And it didn’t help that I couldn’t remember anything. Not my name, or what I had done before waking up.

Our walking continued for what seemed like hours, the silence between us only drowned out by our footsteps. Constantly looking around, I didn’t see anything in the woods but us and the trees. And that worried me more than anything else.

Suddenly stopping, Shepherd pulled his sword from its sheath a few inches, slid his right foot forward and froze, his eyes narrowing and his head tilted slightly down, listening for something. I stopped as well, and also listening, I could hear nothing, but his sudden stance had me on edge, wondering what had shaken him and got his attention.

“What is it?” I began to say before he silenced me with a faint shhhhh.

“Stay close to me,” he said, withdrawing his sword the rest of the way from the sheath in the blink of an eye. And with that motion, the woods around us changed, the trees themselves moving. While that sounds strange, the best way to put it is, well, just imagine all the trees pulling away from us, in all directions, moving so far they couldn’t be seen anymore, leaving me and the samurai standing alone in a field. That’s what happened.

“What is going on Shepherd?” I asked, doing as he said, staying close, my eyes darting every which way, trying to see what had him so ready to fight.

“To not be frightened, and be prepared.” Turning his sword upside down in his hand, the tip now towards the ground, he leapt in the air, much higher than a normal human should have been able to jump. Coming down several feet away from where he had leapt, he dug the tip into the dirt, then quickly withdrew it, and spinning, I was surprised by what happened next.

From all around, up from the ground, what appeared to be the undead rose, but not just rose, leapt from the dirt, all landing over top the holes they had emerged from. Everyone of them was different, all men, but one woman. Now, while saying they were the undead, they weren’t the Romero undead. Atop their heads, flames burned, constantly burning, the monsters not noticing. And upon all their wrists, shackled chains, hanging roughly ten feet in length, the rattling and clinking just audible over their growls.

Looking to Shepherd, still in his spin, he cut through three of the creatures, and in my frightened state, I didn’t count how many there were, but if I had to guess, roughly fifteen, maybe twenty.  I fell to the ground, realizing that all the ghouls were looking at me, not so much worried about Shepherd and his blade.

“Stay close to me!” the samurai yelled, slicing another ghoul in half, the other monsters moving between us. One ghoul, closer to me than Shepherd swung it’s chain, the end of the weapon connecting with my face. And the moment it connected, not only did I feel the pain and sting from the blow, but a coldness unlike anything I had felt before. And a fiery burn that was worse that any fire I could have known. And worse so, in my mind flashed thoughts, images, of the same ghoul that had struck me, only, in my mind he wasn’t a ghoul. He was a man, and I was viewing his last moments.

I was chasing him, and in his hand was a gun. There were several yards between us, and it looked like I was chasing him down an alley. He turned a corner, and the seconds went by before I made the corner myself. Rounding it, I froze, the man holding a woman hostage. Lifting my own gun, he shouted to me to drop it or he was going to kill her. He just kept yelling it, walking backwards with the woman. She looked so frightened, tears rolling down her cheeks. Not dropping my gun, I pulled the trigger, the sights aimed for his head. And the bullet hit it’s mark. The man dead on the spot, the woman free.

Coming back too, the ghoul stood over me, with all the others around as well. Looking at the flaming creature above me, I could tell it had been the man in my head. But, it was only a kid, not a man. Only a kid. No more than seventeen. In the dream, he had blonde hair, glasses. But not anymore. The blonde was gone, fire instead. And the glasses weren’t needed anymore, his eyes rotted away from his skull.

“Guilt far surpasses any bodily harm. But what we will do to you tin man, will be far worse than any guilt you feel now.” The kid, or the ghoul kid spoke. His mouth never moved, instead his voice inside my head, inside my head with what was now memories, memories of his last moment. Memories of how I had killed him. I couldn’t see Shepherd anymore, not that I cared. I knew I had killed those who stood over me. And at that moment, I believed that whatever they were going to do to me. I deserved.

 

The Wake pt IV

Looking the man over, Shepherd he had called himself, I wiped the rest of the blood from my face. At first, I didn’t know what the cold, black goo was that covered my head, but after wiping it away, looking at my hands, and the massacre of the eleven creatures at the lonely grave, it was clear and evident what the cold, black goo was. Now-dead creature blood.

“I know,” Shepherd began, pulling his sword out of the still casket, a sudden jet of dark, red liquid shooting out, flying as high as ten feet into the air. “You are wondering what these are,” he said, kicking the decapitated priest creature’s head, watching it roll a few feet towards me. “And, probably wondering what that is,” looking to the slowly, ceasing jet of liquid from the casket.

Just nodding my head, I wasn’t too sure who I was talking to, but, he had saved me, I guess. He was dressed in all white, a one piece, looking like one of those samurais in the movies. Interesting thing about his all white clothing, they were all white, not a spot of black goo, or red blood. Craziest sight knowing that the carnage before me was because of his blade.

Every one of the creatures that had been tormenting me, mocking me, creepy laughing at me, looking at me with those empty eyes, now had no heads. Now those bastards weren’t laughing at me. Thinking about it, I smiled. Still looking at Shepherd, he just looked me and up before he continued, his look not one of question, or aggravation. More of a look that man gives when he is on a mission, and a mission he is determined to succeed at.

“The headless one’s, or well, now headless ones,” Shepherd continued, “those are ironically enough called the faceless ones. Demons that assume your look, only to tear it away in an act to scare you. They feed on fear, then your flesh. Finally your soul.”

“And that,” I said pointing at the casket. The jet of blood had stopped, the entire top of the casket and the ground around covered.

“Is dead.” That was all he said as he slid his sword back into it’s sheath on his left hip, walking around the tombstone, which I had finally noticed had nothing written on it. Standing in my spot, I wasn’t sure what I was to do. “Well, are you coming?” he asked me, answering my unspoken thought and question.

Without responding, I just followed, stepping over the headless corpses and corpseless heads, around the blank tombstone, and after the samurai that had saved me. Ahead of us was wooded area, the trees becoming thick, darkness hidden behind them. Not the same darkness I had awoken too, but close to it.

“Whatever we come to, do not fear it. Face it, defeat it. And I promise, I will see you through this.”

“And what is this?” I asked the samurai.

“This is The Wake. I don’t know what the Wake is. I just know it’s the Wake. So, Welcome to the Wake.” He spoke monotone, never looking at me. I was in the Wake I guess. And though I heard everything he had said, I still wondered, what the hell was The Wake?

 

The Wake pt. III

Held down on my knees by a creature, one of eleven, I couldn’t look away from the horrendous horrors. Laughing, their maws opening much further than a normal humans, but then again their mouths were much wider than a humans, the points where their lips should have met, (if only they had had lips), ending inches from their ears.

“You fear is intoxicating,” the priest spoke, its voice a raspy gargle, difficult to make the words out, but I could. “We can taste it in the air,” walking around the coffin, the priest bent down, looking me eye to eye, only, it didn’t have eyes, just those empty dark orbs. Slipping out past the rows of razor edged teeth, swirling as if it was a creature with its own mind, a tongue, black, like an eel that had been covered and covered in tar. Licking my face, the touch of the tongue was cold, the feeling sickly as it worked its way up my cheek, around my eye, then back into the mouth of the priest.

“We can taste your fear on you,” they said together, all eleven as the priest finished his free tasting of my face. I was frightened. I didn’t know what was going on, who or what these creatures were. And looking to them, each of them except the one which stood behind me, holding me, I looked to the wooden casket in front of me, which was still shaking, more violently than before, the thuds and pounding more audible than ever.

“What….” I knew what I was going to ask. The priest beat me to it.

“Are we?” Laughter. Again they all laughed, mocking me, mocking my ignorance. They were something that you would read about in a horror novel. Something out of a horror movie. But, here they were, and worst than them being there, at that lone grave, I was there with them. And then, without warning, something that worried and scared me more than the laughter, was the sudden silence that came over all of them, their laughter all ceasing, and that silence that came sent a shiver up my spine as something else was felt atop my head.

Feeling the hands holding my head loosen their grip, and watching as the priest stepped backwards, making distance between him and I, I felt a cold, heavy liquid drip onto my head, pouring down my face, making me close my eyes, my vision hindered by whatever it was that had spilt onto me.

Pushed down onto my face, I stayed there, just listening. I could hear a ruckus, a scuffle, a fight, whatever words you could think of to describe it, that is what I heard. I don’t know what was fighting, but just as fast as it had started, it was over.

“You may look now.” A voice I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t gargled, so I knew it wasn’t the creatures that had been mocking me. Looking up, wiping the liquid from my face and from over my eyes, I looked and realized it had been the blood of the creature that had been holding me, my guess made hundred proof by the fact that it’s head was next to me, not attached to the rest of the monster anymore.

Standing where the priest had been standing when I first walked up, at the head of the casket, an Asian man stood, looking to be mid thirties, long dark hair hanging just below his shoulders, a scar running down his right eye. His right hand, held the hilt of a sword, a samurai sword by my guess, the blade of that sword stabbed through the wooden casket, the non-moving, quiet wooden casket.

“Do not ask who I am,” he said as I stood. “I cannot answer you. But, you may call me Shepherd if you must call me something. Now come, there is work to be done.”

 

The Wake pt II

I approached them slowly, the men, or man, I’m not sure how to word it. All standing around a single, lonesome coffin, I counted eleven of them, eleven of the same man, all wearing the same suits, black, all but one, who was dressed like a priest. And as the closer I approached, the stranger the scene became.

The fact that they all looked perfectly the same was inarguable, impossible to deny. Same clothes, save for the priest, same dark brown, almost black hair, same stature and slight slouch, and same faces. Complete without mouths and eyes. A nose, but where the eyes and mouths on of them should have been, just flesh, skin.

Realizing this, seeing these freaks of whatever they were, I stopped, my body wanting me to walk away, but for some reason my feet wanted me to continue forward. The men disturbed me, but the curiosity of the casket and the grave drove me to inch closer and closer.

The casket, looked as though it was decades old, wooden, appearing to be hand carved, nailed together and painted blacker than a moonless midnight. And upon closer inspection, so close that I was shoulder to shoulder with two of the mouth-less, eyeless men, that I could see the coffin was shaking, and light pounding could be heard. I questioned whether my eyes were merely playing tricks on me, and I pondered if the pounding was merely the wind playing games.

Bending down, the instance my hand touched that wooden casket, I knew it was shaking, the pounding coming from inside. Someone alive was being buried, and these freaks were going to bury that person, alive or not. Looking frantically for a way to open the casket, I was stopped, my wrists, shoulders grabbed by three of the freaks, one for each wrist, and the last my shoulders.

Pulling me back, pushing me to my knees, the one holding my shoulders moved it’s hands to my head, forcing me to look at the face of the freak-priest. It occurred to me that I had just walked up, not even thinking what they were, or where I was, or what the hell was going on? I had, without even thinking just approached, as though a puppet just being pulled by the strings.

Staring at the priest, he, or it, but I assume a he, reached to the fleshy spot where his mouth should have been, and with a razor sharp nail on his thumb, cut the flesh, blood running down from the wound. The blood though wasn’t red like that of a fresh, humanly wound. No, it was a darker red, and thick, so thick. I wanted to look away from the gruesome act, but my head was held in place, and no matter how I tried, my eyes wouldn’t close.

Finishing the self mutilation, the priest had sliced a line long enough to be a mouth, and opening his newly formed mouth, the flesh at the corners of the wound tearing, more of the dark red blood running down its chin, what appeared to be hundreds of razor sharp teeth could be seen. It had to have been hundreds, just so many.

“What are you?” I managed to ask, my voice sounding like a strangers to my own ears. The response given, from the priests newly formed mouth was what I assume to be a laugh, but it sounded like it was coming from under water. It sounded so distant, gargled. But it was a laugh.

My head finally released to move freely, I looked to the others, and instead of cutting a smile in their faces like the priest, they instead dug their nails into their faces above their eyes, pulling, the flesh pulling, tearing, ripping away. When all was finished, their hands, clothes, razor sharp nails were soaked with dark red, and where their faces had been, there was skull, permanently painted red from the blood. And their mouths were visible then, and so were the hundreds of teeth in each mouth. But still no eyes. Sockets for eyes, but empty darkness.

I wanted to ask what they were again, but I couldn’t find the words to form the question. My mind and ears were too full of their laughter, and my whole was full of fear.

 

The Wake Pt. I

It’s a truly strange feeling, waking up, and not being sure if you actually opened your eyes or not, the overwhelming darkness being equal in both situations. Or, if you are lying on your back or standing on your feet, your body so numb that you wouldn’t feel a needle sliding into your gut. That’s how I awoke, not sure where I was, or if a darkness that thick was even possible.

Sitting up, realizing that I was in fact on my back, I rubbed my eyes, but to prevail did the darkness lessen, still shrouding everything around me, including me. I couldn’t see anything, and worst, I couldn’t remember anything. Not even my name.

Standing, or attempting to, my legs were wet noodle, not having the strength on that first attempt to hold me up. Quickly falling back down, I landed hard on my ass, but my body was still numb, so there was no feeling. But stranger than that, there was no noise. No thud of my ass coming back down to meet the ground.

Yelling, trying to figure out what was going on, my voice had escaped my lips as no more than a whisper, though in my mind I had spoke in a nervous yell, my nervousness brought on by the unfamiliarity of my own voice. Raspy, it sounded as though I had gargles rusty screws, then chased them with four bottles of flaming whiskey.

Sitting, knees to my chest, trying to catch my breath and calm down, I clutched my eyes shut, though it didn’t matter if I did or not, the darkness would have been the same if I left them open, but I was wishing that when I reopened them, there would be a light.

Who am I? Where am I? These questions ran through my mind over and over, and each time the disappointment of no answer was all that came. Coming to terms that I wouldn’t get the answers I wanted sitting there, losing my mind a bit at a time, I again stood up, this time holding my balance, feeling as a toddler walking for the first time, only, this toddler is blind.

Turning slowly, there was nothing but the dark. Nothing at all, but that darkness. Looking down, I couldn’t tell you what I was standing on. Stone, didn’t know. Dirt, again, not sure. It could have been the mortified remains of dead babies and I still wouldn’t have known. Thinking back now, I really hope that wasn’t what it was, since I had been laying on it.

Looking around again, knowing nothing had changed, but hoping that maybe something had, a glint of something from above caught my eye. Looking up, in that darkness that my eyes had grown accustomed to, there was a light. Small, but even as tiny as it was, to my eyes, it burned like the sun. Looking away, rubbing my eyes, I looked back up slowly, the light still burning bright.

Staring up, wondering how I would get to the light, and what was making it, my thoughts were answered when suddenly, as though gravity had decided to change it physics, I fell quickly and violently to my side, slamming into a wall that I hadn’t known was there. My body not so numb, I felt the pain of the collision, and was quickly confused, when, just a moment prior I had been on my feet, and then, was lying down on the floor.

I knew I hadn’t fallen, and quickly getting to my feet, the light was no longer above me, but rather in front of me. A simple what the hell is going on went through my thoughts, my arms outstretched fully trying to feel for any other strange walls that could be around, but none were there.

Finally coming to a decision, I began to slowly walk towards the light. Still a painful brightness, I never looked directly at it at first, squinting, trying to figure out what it was as I approached, my steps a very cautious, slow pace. The closer I grew to the light, the more confused I became, and even more so did my questions grow, one in particularly, Where was I?

Upon the light in minutes, I was at a loss about the source. A lantern, a Victorian era street lamp looking lantern, with a candle burning inside, the light was bright and powerful, I could feel the heat feet away. What was odd about it, though the light was bright and warm, it lit nothing around it but myself. Knowing that was merely inches away, I still could not see myself or anything around me. Reaching towards it, the light did nothing to shed away the darkness, giving a clue away about my identity. Dumbfounded, I just looked into the light, watching the candle dance inside that lantern.

Finally giving up on ratiolization, I again reached out, but this time, I reached completely to the light, my hands touching the lantern, and more strange than anything, feeling a bitter coldness on my fingertips. But it didn’t last long, for within seconds of touching that lantern, my body felt as if it had been torn apart and put back together, then my eyes burned worse than ever before, the sudden shock of light hitting them.

Falling to my knees, I was in too much pain to scream or even breathe. Catching my breathe and the pain fading quickly, my eyes opened to a fading blurriness, my new surroundings coming to view. Trees, a light grey clouded sky, no sun. And what looked like a funeral, a group of people gathered around a casket as it was preparing to be lowered into the ground forever. As strange as my sudden appearance was, what was more strange was that there was no other headstones, it simply looking like a field with now a lonely grave. But more mind blowing than that, everyone at that funeral was the same man. And for some reason, I could swear I knew him.

 

Xenophobia


The inside was dark.  Derek McNeal flicks on the overhead lantern and mutters, “Ah, that’s better” as he presses the button for acceleration on his X5 Vehicular Model No. 211 Special.  The gray sleek turbo car tracks and shifts into the appropriate highway travel lane based on speed, distance, and number of other traveling vehicles.  At this hour, there were few.

Derek grunts as the sleek pieces of metal slip and slide back into place below his seatbelt.  It wasn’t exactly a very comfortable way to relieve oneself and took some getting used to, but his bladder appreciated it and so did his watch.  The automatic relief disposable bin prevented him from having to stop in one of the highway’s few Relief Stations along the way.  A good thing since many of the Relief Stations now housed several techno gangs who operated solely on looks.  If they didn’t like the way you looked then you died.  If they did, they’d keep you.  Not exactly welcome choices.

Now personally comfortable, Derek presses the automatic refill button to take care of the car — his sleek fiberglass steering transportation machine.  Passing by one of the thousands of gray towers zigzagging along the edges of the eastbound and westbound lanes, Derek hears the command bark through the loudspeaker in front of him.

A metallic voice yells “McNeal, Derek.  What type of automobile fuel would you like today?”

Derek responds with a gruff “Premium.”

“Premium, 12.5 gallons as usual?”

“Confirm.  12.5 gallons,”  Derek replies.

“12.5 gallons beginning … now.”

Derek grabs the slick oblong shaped wheel to brace himself for the impact as a giant arm-like shape juts out of the nearest Highway Tower and races towards him.  A few seconds later, he feels the arm connect to the refuel bin on top of the car and he hears the hiss of air, water and a mixture of fossil fuels being dumped into the rectangular 5” by 5” cubed space.  The Tower Arm bends and jerks with the movement of his car now heading up a hill and almost out of sight of the fill station.  He would have to flip up his hazard lights and hold the car in motion if the fuel dump didn’t finish in time.

Just as this last thought crosses his mind, the electronic voice comes through again saying “McNeal, Derek.  12.5 gallons premium.  Complete.  Would you like to dump your personal waste cartridge now?”

“Yes, dump personal waste cartridge.   Confirm,”  Derek mumbles back to the electronic box.

A few seconds later, he feels the Tower Arm detach itself only as another Tower Arm from the right side of the Highway further up attaches itself underneath his vehicle.  In less than five seconds, the electronic voice spits back  “Personal waste cartridge dump complete.”

“Thank you,” Derek automatically responds.

“McNeal, Derek.  Thirty-six credits will be deducted from your account.”

“Thank you,”  Derek replies again.

“Anything else?”, the metallic female voice queries.

“Yes.  Two beef Hot-dogs.  Mustard.  French Fries.  Onion Rings.  Cola — large.”

“McNeal, Derek.  Those are not foods on your approved dietary catalog.  I will need an override code, please.”

Laughing, Derek gleefully answers with “X12365.  Now can I have my junk food, please?”

“X12365.  Approved code.  Order being prepared.  Please wait.”

Sighing, Derek releases the wheel letting the automatic drive operation take control again.  He presses some buttons on the side door until he gets his driver’s chair in the correct position.  With his thick clumsy fingers he manages to squeeze his hand into the side pocket again pressing a series of buttons until his objective has been achieved.

“Ah, no that’s even better,”  Derek whispers as he feels the automatic heat sensors press and mold into his medium framed body through the leather material of the chair.

About the same time, the electronic voice returns saying “McNeal, Derek.  Order complete.”

“Thank you.  That will be all the service I require for now,”  Derek answers.

The voice responds with “Thank you.  McNeal, Derek.  Sixteen more credits have been deducted from your account.”

Popping the Mustard-Hot-dogs-French Fries-Onion Rings-Cola pills into his mouth, Derek mumbles another “No, thank you.”  The flavors explode in his mouth as the tiny white pills dissolve in his saliva.  Eventually he swallows only to burp still tasting remnants of hot-dog and greasy oils used for creating the French Fries and Onion Rings flavored food tablets.

Fully satisfied, he reaches above him flipping the switch marked “Music – Relax.”  Soon the soft sounds of airy instruments fill the slender car that could accommodate only two passengers including the driver at a time.  No one but Derek had ever traveled in his car.  There had never been a need.

Reaching up above him again, Derek jiggles and presses a few more buttons until the digital numbers read thirty minutes.  “That should be enough time,”  he says aloud as he presses yet one more button whose feature is scheduled to go off after thirty minutes elapses along with the alarm.

Leaning back into the soft chair, Derek shuts his eyes as sweet music swells all around him heightening his senses.  He barely feels the shifts and turns as the car zooms at mid-speed towards his destination.

 

Automobile travel had not always been this convenient, he recalls.  Almost thirty-five years ago as a child he remembers his parents had had to actually drive their cars and use maps, real bathrooms and stop at Fast Food restaurants if they were hungry.  Long dead now, his mother and father probably wouldn’t have been able to adjust to the New Society — the New Way.  They were better off being dead — those who did not, could not, or would not adjust were eliminated just as easily as personal waste was disposed of now.

His thoughts jangling around him, Derek jolts back into reality as the car’s internal electronic voice barks “Alarm.  Time Elapsed.  Please return to an upright state.”   As soon as the mini automatic arm and mirror charge from the dashboard, Derek is forced to sit up straight as the electronic razor begins to glide up and down his hard chiseled face.  Soon a comb moves back and forth automatically through his short black locks, and he winces only a little as tiny splashes of after-shave are sprinkled onto his newly shaven skin.

He takes a large breath of filtered air knowing what is next as the aluminum panels slip and slide around him forming airtight seals in a temporary compartment just below his neck.  He takes another deep breath.

He relaxes completely as he feels his black t-shirt and retro blue jeans sliced and removed from his body by the same automatic arm.  The clothes would be turned into the Tower Clearinghouse to be reworked and returned to him later in a brown paper mail-drop at his four room Apartment allotment off Central Avenue in ABQ, New Mexico — it had been shortened from Albuquerque years ago since spelling had become too difficult for what was left of the New Society’s inhabitants.  Now, everyone human used abbreviations for almost everything.  To his friends, he wasn’t Derek or McNeal but simply DM.  Easier to remember.

Thinking of his friends and the last time they’d reserved a Racquetball allotment pass, he grits his teeth as he feels his fit form being washed and scrubbed with lukewarm water and a soap cleanser.  The vehicle manufacturers had not yet figured out a way to get the car shower’s to produce really hot water.

He winces again as the water suddenly disappears to be replace by volumes of hot air drying his lightly tanned skin in seconds.  Tanning was not allowed, but for an inhabitant with dark features a few degrees of skin burning was acceptable since it was believed their bodies were more immune than those of fair-haired, fair skinned inhabitants.

A few moments later, the panels slip and slide returning to their previous positions only to reveal Derek now in a neatly pressed white turtleneck, black slacks, black hiking boots and a sliver timepiece and monitor secured around his right wrist.  Derek was left-handed — considered a flaw in the New Society but acceptable due to easier identification since there were not so many lefties among the inhabitants.

Wriggling around to a comfortable position, the Car Massager and Music Mosaic Surround Sound automatically shut down as the car’s built-in electronic speaker informs Derek he is five seconds away from his destination.

As the car pulls into the Tower Country Club’s overhang temporarily stopping motion, Derek locks down the theft pattern by whispering his middle name, Dean, into the tiny microphone in the steering wheel.  In the New Society no one had middle names so inhabitants often made them up for security purposes or for fun.  He smiles automatically as the inhabitant valet — a novelty in the New Society’s all electronic, all computers age — assists him from his vehicle.

Moving a few short steps and taking another deep breath — this time of unfiltered outside air, Derek presses the button for entrance into the Tower Country Club.  He knows what lies ahead of him and he is none too thrilled — at least sixty minutes of false and exaggerated celebration for his forty-first birthday party.  Only a few of his friends would be here — most would be inhabitants hired by the country club to make the party seem more realistic.  If he were a lower inhabitant instead of an upper one he might have some co-workers in attendance as well.  But, Derek had been fortunate –  he did not have to work for a living.

Biting his lip, Derek plunges inside the steel gray interior of the round sphere building wishing he had an automatic arm or electronic voice to guide him through all the necessary social graces and expectations for the next sixty minutes.  Every minute would be monitored and broadcast to the lower and middle inhabitants so they could see — since they were required to watch — what the life of an upper inhabitant was really like and aspire to it.

On the other hand, Derek could not afford any slip-ups or mistakes on his part — he being required to act accordingly unless he wanted to have credits deducted from his account.  Too few credits would mean banishment to the middle or lower inhabitant status.  And once banished below status there would be no return to the upper level ever.  The New Society believed once one attained or was born into upper status one had to behave correctly in order to stay or one would lose the privilege completely.

Putting on his best plastic smile and finding his firmest handshake, Derek enters the brightly lit ballroom.  A novelty orchestra also hired by the Country Club plays Big Band music.

As he glides towards the center of the crowd-filled room where a spotlight will be flung on him and his arrival announced, he suddenly realizes that ever since he’d been a teenage inhabitant in virtual High School he’d always hated — been afraid of inhabitants he didn’t know or rather strangers.  Unable to stop himself, the answer to his fear begins to cross his threshold of thought.  Without warning, he feels a sharp pain in his right wrist emitting from the silver timepiece/monitor.

Suddenly, Derek jerks his arm and body as the pain rocks him into reality.

A sharp voice echoes around him saying “McNeal, Derek.  Stop it!  You are not allowed to think.  Return to your previous state.”

Wildly looking around the damp cement cubed cell with a ceiling over forty feet above him, Derek twists his head a fraction taking in the long steel bars to his left preventing his exit and also glimpsing several similar cells scattered throughout down the long stark hallway.  He notes the gray and white distorted fuzz emitting from the 40 inch TV screen buried in front of him in the cement wall, and knows it will be used in an attempt to control his thought patterns.  So far it hadn’t worked.

He tries to twist his body further around when another jolt to his wrist — this time twice the voltage — shocks him back to a complying state.  Quickly, Derek flings himself back down on the cement cot keeping himself perfectly still.

“Prisoner X12365, McNeal, Derek.  Please comply,”  a metallic voice screams in his ear.

Derek repeats  “Prisoner X12365.  McNeal, Derek.  Will comply,” softly but firmly.

Maybe he was a captive here and maybe he was only daydreaming again, but he would never comply.  He might be afraid of the New Society’s leaders, but he would never tell them what they wanted to know.

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