eFiction Issue No. 014 - May 2011

efiction

May 2011

Issue No. 014

Contents Short Stories Undercover Essie Holton 4 Red Rum

Jeffrey Baker 25

Bank Job Will Pearson 56 Safe Between the Pages

A.E. Tyree 73

Elko Harris Tobias 76 Night Shift

Kelly Crites

84

The Golden Age

Stasey Norstrom 87 Poetry

A Clean Getaway

Greg Elperin

108

Recollection of a Dream 109 Contributors

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Serial Fiction Blood Binds

113

Tonya R. Moore

Episode XII

Book Reviews Not What She Seems

Essie Holton

131

Essie Holton

135

Victorine E. Lieske The Abbey Chris Culver

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Undercover Essie Holton

As I sat there I saw that look in his eyes again. Danger. Nothing mattered outside of his anger and his secret. His secret that I had easily begun to uncover after only four short months. I wasn’t sure what he was going to do with my knowledge and I was scared. I had even thought that I was terrified, but that was yesterday. Yesterday the truth wasn’t complete. This new level of terror that flowed freely through my body paralyzed my limbs and turned my blood ice cold.

Cold like his eyes. I had never seen danger before in my life, not unadulterated danger.

Joshua sat unmoving across the room. He didn’t speak, but he clenched and unclenched his jaw a few times. I looked around the room for something to do rather than stare at him. The room was small, a converted attic at a local bed and breakfast. It was used as the honeymoon suite and consisted of three rooms. A sitting room, which we were in now, a bedroom and a small but quaint bathroom made the entire suite just larger than my college dorm. It was tastefully decorated in pink and blue floral patterns. It was perfect for the stakeout of a building across the street. It was not perfect for this

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particular conversation.

I needed to focus, Joshua was still glaring at me, his eyes frozen.

He hadn’t spoken in over five minutes. For the first two or three minutes I rambled on and on and he glared, but when I finally shut my mouth he didn’t bother to open his. I wasn’t sure if this was a good sign or a bad one. I thought I knew him, but I was wrong. Very wrong.

Yesterday everything changed.

I’d had a typical day before heading to work for the night shift at the security firm where I am a private investigator. On my way into the office I stopped for a coffee and pastry at a cafe that I had never been to before. On my way out of the building I stopped to take stock of my surroundings, something I have to do often in my line of work.

The city, if you could call it that, was small, dingy and smoggy.

Most of the buildings were in need of work, but it had character. There was a restaurant across the street that I had been to a few times. As my eyes were wandering past the restaurant I caught a movement from the front door. Not really surprising, except that it was Monday, and they were closed on Monday nights. Instinctively, I took a step back trying to hide in a doorway. Joshua walked out of the restaurant. He looked around, but missed seeing me.

I didn’t think much of this except that he was in my part of town, and the restaurant was definitely closed. When he walked in the opposite direction of the office, I decided to follow him instead of catching up to see where he was headed before work. Idly, I wondered where

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his car was. He lived far enough away that he drove to the office everyday. I was lucky enough to live only mile from work and often walked on nice evenings.

Joshua walked two blocks west on Main Street to a small, red brick building. Just as I started to think that I was being absurd, he went into the bank. Surely the bank wasn’t open at ten after seven in the evening. A black Ford Expedition with dark tinted windows pulled up in front of the bank. A large man in an expensive suit and slicked back black hair got out of the back seat and walked into the bank with the authority of someone who owned the place.

I kept walking when I saw what had transpired. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Something was obviously going on in our small town. I walked past Bank Street to the next intersection and made a left cutting over two streets onto Montana Avenue and back to Grand Boulevard where I would have been walking on my way to work. I fought the urge to take a different route to work today. I didn’t want to tip off Joshua that I knew or had seen anything.

I pulled out my cellphone and made a note of the license plate on the SUV from the bank. I needed to know who owned that car.

Ideally I could go to work, look it up and Joshua and I would work it together. Obviously that wouldn’t be happening this time.

I made it back to Main Street and walked a half-mile east to our building. It was once a residence that has been converted into a satellite office of Raia Security and Investigating. I was only about twenty

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minutes late so Eva, the receptionist, was still there getting ready to leave for the night. Steve and Max, two of the daytime guys, had already gone and Eva was as impatient as ever, so I told her to take off early. I was glad to have the office to myself for a few minutes.

Luckily for me, she was out of the office within five minutes and even remembered to lock the door on her way out. I went back to her desk and turned on her workstation. Raia had recently upgraded their computers, so I was booted up and online in only a few minutes.

I didn’t know how long I had, but I could easily explain myself to Joshua if he walked in while I was at Eva’s desk.

I typed the plate number into an online database and hit search.

A jolting shock ran through my body when the name popped up on my screen. James Cicero. The bank owner. I did a properties search on Mr. Cicero and found that he owned another property in town.

A quick search on Google Maps showed the address to be Indigo Landing, the restaurant where I had seen Joshua.

Things were starting to add up, and I didn’t like where they were going. I powered off Eva’s computer and went to my office. I had just landed in my chair when I heard keys in the door. I tried to act casual, but fear rolled through my body. A thought occurred to me as the front door swung open and I heard the familiar squeak of the hinges.

That may not be Joshua walking through the front door.

My fear lasted only a few heartbeats until I heard Joshua’s deep voice rumble through the office. “Liz, you here yet?”

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“Yeah, in my office.” I called.

He walked in carrying my coffee cup that I had left on Eva’s desk.

Shit.

“You went to Marco’s for coffee today? You usually stop by that place on Gulf, don’t you?” he asked. I thought I heard menace in his words, but I may have imagined it.

“Yeah, I heard they had excellent sweet bread, so I went there instead today.” I prayed that I didn’t sound as nervous as I felt.

“See anything else interesting?” he asked.

I just stared. I couldn’t find my voice. I couldn’t even find my lungs to breathe.

“What?” I finally managed while trying my best to sound puzzled.

“Pastries, anything else that looked good, you know, to eat?” He said mocking me, but I was sure that there was more to his question.

“Um, yeah, they had a really nice looking cannoli selection and some, uh, Rice Crispy treats. You know how I love those things.” I attempted to laugh as I said this, but it came out sounding like a cat being strangled.

“Okay, I’m heading out to check up on the case we’re working. I’ll stop by the bed and breakfast, check us in and bring our equipment up to the room.” he said as he turned to walk out the door. “Keep yourself out of trouble,” he added almost as an afterthought.

“I’ll be fine,” I replied trying to stay calm. There was no misunderstanding the meaning in his words.

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I listened as he went into his office, rummaged through some things and walked out the front door, locking it behind him. I had no idea what was going on, and I was pretty sure that I didn’t want to find out. I knew I would though, no matter how adversely it affected my working relationship with Joshua.

I didn’t want to think that Joshua was involved in anything illegal. I didn’t know how else to interpret what I saw though. I booted up my own computer and started my search. I googled James Cicero first. This was not a good guy. The newspapers portrayed him as an upstanding citizen, a philanthropist even, but there were rumors that he was involved in shady business practices, money laundering, and drug trafficking. I’m sure there was more, but that was all I uncovered in my cursory search.

Next, I searched some of our more private databases. I typed in Joshua T. Freeling and sat for a moment. My finger hovered over the enter key. I felt guilty about this invasion of privacy, but my curiosity won and I hit the search button. I got information on a Joshua Thomas Freeling in Missouri, age sixty-seven along with a few others that were obviously not the right person. I added in his date of birth and turned up no hits. I sat staring at the screen feeling more puzzled than ever.

I decided to run a test to see if the head of the firm had us taken out of the system. I searched myself first, and the information that I dug up was unbelievable. On the up side, I learned that I needed to

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contact my bank about a late payment on my mortgage. I searched for three other Raia employees and found them all. I tried the president of the company and found his information as well.

I went to Joshua’s office and looked around. Nothing nefarious jumped out at me, but I took a closer look at his desk anyway. There was a slip of paper on the floor under his chair. The numbers -3136 were scrawled on it. It had been torn in half cutting off whatever came before those four digits. Perhaps a phone number or an address.

Phone numbers were easy, as long as Joshua used his work phone.

I knew that we had secure lines, so it was a pretty safe bet that he had.

I was able to search all phone records for the last six months from all office locations. I went back to my computer and pulled up the call log database. I searched all numbers containing 3136 and got three hits, all from Joshua’s desk, and all made in the last two weeks.

I stored the number in my phone and labeled it with a random first name. I was being paranoid, but Joshua would have no reason to question a contact named Melissa.

My mind was spinning. How was Joshua not in the system? This was going to take more work than I thought, but I had to get ready for the stakeout tonight.

I went about doing my actual job. When I finally got a chance to breathe, it was just after 10:00 pm Joshua should be back soon. We were going to arrive at the B&B late so it was less likely we would be seen. I figured we’d be going in around now.

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As if on cue, Joshua walked into the office. “I went to Grandma Sally’s and told them we would be getting in around 11:30. Our equipment is already set up, so no rush.”

“Okay, I’ll be ready to head out soon. Is there anything else we need for tonight?”

“Yeah, since we are playing a married couple, you want to play the part of the little lady and get us some food?” he smirked as he said this and a bit of his Midwestern accent slipped through in his voice.

I honestly didn’t mind playing the part right now, it would give me a chance to think. And to make a phone call.

Joshua walked into his office and shut the door behind him. It was out of the ordinary, but not completely unheard of, to shut doors around here. However, given the circumstances of the night, I was more than a little curious. I waited three minutes before going in under the pretense of asking him what he wanted from Jenny’s Diner.

“Yeah, its done,” he was saying as I opened the door. I pretended to be waiting patiently, but I wanted to run. I wanted things to go back to the way they were just a few hours ago. But I didn’t run and things couldn’t go back to how they were.

Joshua shot me an irritated glance and wrapped up his conversation. “I’ll call you in a few days and let you know,” he said before hanging up the phone.

“Sorry, I just wondered what you wanted from Jenny’s.”

“Are you serious? Have I ever ordered anything besides the monte

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cristo? Ever?” he asked sounding outraged.

I couldn’t help myself and I answered as a smirk blossomed on my face. “There was that time you ordered soup and toast.”

“My goodness Liz, you’re losing it. I was getting over the flu! Just get our food so we can eat and go.”

“Alright, I’m going.” I looked around his cramped office before turning to leave. “You really should clean this place up one of these days,” I called over my shoulder.

I walked out the front door without bothering to lock it, knowing Joshua would be okay and that I’d be back rather quickly. I waited a block before I took out my cellphone and found the number labeled Melissa.

There was a convenience store on my way to Jenny’s, so I stopped to make a phone call. I deposited two quarters into the dingy payphone and dialed before I lost my nerve. It rang three times before a gruff male voice answered.

“Anders,” was the only greeting I got.

I’m not an expert of voice analysis, but this guy sounded like a cop.

“Detective Anders?” I asked.

“Who is this?” he asked sounding instantly suspicious.

“A friend.” I said hoping that he would slip and give up some sort of information.

“A friend? I believe a friend would know that I’m not a detective.

A friend would know what I do.” I thought I could hear him spitting

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while he was yelling.

I underestimated this man. “Fine, a friend of a friend. Does that work for you?”

“No, it doesn’t,” he growled and hung up.

I walked the rest of the way to Jenny’s feeling more than a little uneasy about my botched phone call.

When I got back to Raia I ate in my office but wasn’t very hungry. I ended up pushing my food around in the to go container before throwing it in the trash.

We made it to Grandma Sally’s without being seen because there was no one to see us. Nothing happened that night, so we would be here the next night doing the same thing, again. We decided not to leave until 8:00 am so we didn’t draw attention to ourselves leaving during what most would consider the middle of the night.

Around 5:30 am I couldn’t take it any longer. I was truly hoping that Joshua wasn’t a bad guy, so I asked him a fairly straightforward, yet innocent, question.

“What were you doing meeting with James Cicero last night?” I asked as casually as possible.

Joshua glared at me. This was the first time I truly saw the danger in his eyes. My blood turned cold as it ran through my veins, my heart pumping it faster and faster. My body started to tremble slightly and I prayed that it went unnoticed.

“Nothing,” he replied making the one word as slow and final as

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possible.

“Hmm, a meeting in his bank after hours doesn’t seem like nothing. Especially after stopping by another of his properties, which was also closed,” I worked to sound braver than I felt.

“Stay away from it, Liz. For both of our sakes. Stay away.” He got up and crossed the small room and turned back to me before saying in a deep, pleading voice, “Please, Liz.” He turned and walked out of the room. I didn’t move, I just sat and listened to the silence coming from the whole suite. After a few minutes I heard the front door open and close and someone locking it from the outside. I stayed in the room and decided to sleep there for a while before going home.

I arrived back at Grandma Sally’s at 9:00 pm that night for the continued stakeout. Joshua was already there.

After eating a nice dinner that we had delivered, we sat in silence for over an hour before Joshua’s cellphone rang. He looked at the screen and answered it with a frown on his face.

“Yeah,” he said as a greeting.

Silence.

“I see.” He paused for a full minute before saying, “I’ll take care of it.” He hung up and turned those empty eyes on me, and for the second time in two days I felt the terror racing through my body.

“Liz, what have you done?”

Shit, Anders. I decided to fess up rather than screw things up even

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more, but the decision wasn’t easy. I wanted to lie, to run and save myself.

“I called a phone number I found in your office,” I reluctantly admitted.

He just glared, so I started at the beginning. When I finished my tale he got up and started pacing the room. I had a so many questions because I still didn’t know what was going on, but I asked just one.

“Why couldn’t I find any record of you in the database?” I asked.

A few looks crossed his face, but finally he settled on annoyed. He sighed in resignation and said, “I suppose you are already in deeper than you think, so I’ll tell you what I can. I’m not in the database because I don’t exist, at least Joshua Freeling doesn’t exist.” He looked away and I thought that was all he would say, but eventually he added, “I wanted you to leave it alone, Liz.” Very weakly I replied, “In my defense, I made this particular mess long before you told me to leave it alone.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” he said.

He still looked angry, but I was less scared for the moment.

“That was my boss on the phone. He told me to clean this up anyway that I needed to. Any way at all.” He said this last sentence very slowly and distinctly. I couldn’t miss the meaning in those words. He turned his glare on me again and the terror returned. “Why couldn’t you just walk away from it?”

And this is where you found me, sitting in this small room in a

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bed and breakfast during the most terrifying moments of my entire life. I gulped and tried to breathe evenly. “What are you going to do?”

I asked trying, again, to sound braver than I felt.

“I don’t know. I’m certainly not letting you leave this room. You aren’t allowed out of my sight.” His hands closed into fists as he spoke while his body began to tremble slightly.

“Why don’t we just calm down? You can tell your boss its taken care of, and I’ll just be on my way,” I said trying to sound hopeful.

“Oh no you don’t, they are going to check to be sure that its taken care of. This changes everything,” he seemed to say the last part to himself.

“You can’t just take care of me, everyone knows that we are together tonight.” But as soon as the words left my mouth I realized it wasn’t true. Dan, our boss, was the only person who knew. This case was off the books because we were looking into something personal for Dan. Joshua looked at me incredulously. “What?” he asked as he started laughing.

“Dan isn’t going to let you get away with killing me, Joshua. There is no way. You’d have to kill him, too.” I was starting to panic. I had misjudged this entire situation.

“I’m not going to have to kill Dan. Stop being ridiculous.”

I don’t know what he was going to say next because I got up and bolted for the door. Unfortunately, Joshua was faster and blocked my

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exit.

“What is going on, exactly? Dan’s in on this? Have you all lost your minds?” I asked, and even I heard the panic bubbling in my voice.

“Dan isn’t in on anything and I’m not killing anyone, at least no one at Raia.” I detected something in his voice that sounded like regret but not quite. “Jeez Liz, calm down. Just because my boss told me to kill you and I agreed doesn’t mean that I’m going to. I just have to move the time line up to finish this sooner than I expected.”

I was lost at this point. I knew I needed him to explain it to me, but I wasn’t sure I would be able to make sense of anything right now.

“Joshua, maybe you should start at the beginning.”

I sat back down in a small, comfortable arm chair thinking that this was a ridiculous place to have this conversation. The honeymoon suite at a quaint bed and breakfast decorated to give the feeling that you were guaranteed a sweet and happy life together, and I’m sitting here wondering if I’m going to be killed by someone I counted as a friend and partner.

Joshua started pacing again as much as the room would allow.

I was beginning to think he was never going to talk. I was racking my brain for something to say to urge him into talking, but came up empty. Finally he started speaking, but I didn’t like what I heard.

“I’m working undercover for an agency that is investigating James Cicero, among others. I’ve been at it for two years. Four months ago we had a break in the case and I was put undercover as your partner

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at Raia. This made me look more legit and appealing to Cicero. He’s wanted for more than just unethical business and drugs, Liz. He’s involved in some ugly things that would make even you uncomfortable.”

I let his words sink in when he stopped talking. He seemed to not want to continue, but there had to be more than that. This was no reason to kill me unless Cicero was the “boss” who wanted me dead, but that didn’t seem likely. He had said that he was investigating Cicero among others. “Who else are you investigating?” I asked.

Joshua just looked at me, but never started speaking.

“Joshua, please, someone wants me dead because of this. I want to know why. I may not need to know, but I want to know.” I could feel my courage starting to come back.

“I’m also investigating Mitch Anders, my boss. Its believed, and now confirmed, that he has competing business with Cicero. He set this investigation up to take Cicero out of the picture. I’m actually working for someone much higher than Anders.”

“I don’t suppose you would tell me which agency you are working for?”

“No, I won’t. That is need to know information, Liz, and I don’t want you to need to know. You’re safer that way.”

“Why does Anders want me dead? It doesn’t make sense, even if he is dirty.” My head was still spinning, but I was relieved to have more information.

“Liz, you’re a private investigator and a damn good one. Anders

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knows it. Fuck Liz, he knows it because of me.” He paused, his face a crumpled mask of anguish and disgust. “He figures that you didn’t just stumble upon his phone number and give it a ring asking questions. He thinks you’re on to him and wants me to take you out to save him. Officially, he says that you are a threat to the operation and claims that you were working for Cicero.”

It was my turn to look incredulous.

“He’s just covering his tracks. He knows you aren’t working with Cicero,” Joshua explained in a tone that reminded me of my very impatient first grade teacher.

“I’m going to have to turn Anders in with the information I already have. We can’t take any more chances. It may not be enough to make any charges stick, but its enough for him to loose his job.”

Joshua was only partly talking to me.

“What else are Cicero and Anders involved in?” I asked.

He looked torn about what to say but answered my question without complaint. “They both own restaurants that are used as fronts for human trafficking. They bring people in to work and then sell them into other industries. It looks like the immigrants got into the country and took off. The restaurant isn’t responsible for them, they just employ them. It happens all of the time, so immigration doesn’t look into it too closely.”

I was stunned into silence. Surely this wasn’t happening in our little town. “And they are willing to kill me because of it?”

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“These are bad guys, Liz. Evil. They’re willing to kill anyone who gets in their way.”

My mouth suddenly felt dry. I needed a drink. I walked over to the table by the window and grabbed an open bottle of water. I was shaking, so I decided to sit down. I spun around too quickly and lost my balance sending me crashing into a tall, thin floor lamp. Joshua glanced in my direction and came to help me with the lamp.

I started to speak, but the look on his face stopped me dead.

Something was wrong.

“I’m going to take a shower and think, Liz, stay put.” Joshua said these words but his eyes were screaming something different, I just didn’t understand what.

Joshua got up without touching the lamp. He grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the room grabbing his keys off of the table. We went straight through the main room and into the bathroom. Joshua turned on the water in the shower before turning to face me.

He leaned in close to me and whispered, “The room is bugged.

We need to get out of here now. I’ve already said too much.”

I couldn’t speak. I’ve been in danger before, it comes with the job, but this kind of danger existed only in books. My world didn’t have this level of fear and threat.

“Liz, stay with me here. Please tell me you brought your gun.”

I simply nodded, my mouth unable to form words.

Together, we devised a plan to get out of the bed and breakfast

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so no one would get hurt. We were going to leave together and head straight to Joshua’s car which was parked in the lot outside. We would then take a long drive north letting Anders think that we were heading to the north Florida agency office. We would then loop around and head to the office in the southern part of the state. This plan depended on us being able to lose a tail if Anders put one on us. We were betting he would.

I left the bathroom and went back to the sitting room and pretended to call my mother. I explained that I was going out of town for work and that I’d be home in two days. I faked some random chatter and then mentioned that Joshua and I were heading north on I-75 and I would stop at the local winery for two bottles of her favorite red wine.

After I hung up, Joshua and I left the building.

While driving north on US-19, we noticed a gray Nissan that had been behind us when we pulled onto Main Street from the bed and breakfast. It was two cars behind us and in the lane to our right, but it was tailing us. We drove just over the speed limit and soon came to SR-52 where we made a right and picked up the pace. After a few miles, the road became less populated, and there was less to see on the sides of the road. A few more miles out and there were cow pastures in all directions. Our tail had kept its distance the entire trip, and for that we were grateful.

As we passed the winery , the Nissan started gaining on us. When

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it was almost too close for comfort, the driver gunned the engine and rammed into us. Joshua swerved to maintain control and just as he got us back on the road, we were hit again. This time the car spun wildly off of the road. My head hit the window with a thud and I think I lost consciousness for a moment.

Looking out the window I saw green. We were stopped in a ditch and Joshua was trying desperately to get us out. I felt his car start to move and pull through the overgrown grass. With a loud scrape we were on the road again heading the way we had come from. We didn’t see the other car. Hopefully they had kept going or crashed.

We were almost back to US-41 where we could head south and try to lose anyone who was still tailing us. We slowed and turned left blowing through a red light. There were no cars coming in either direction. As we drove the road curved to the left. I saw headlights in the mirror turning onto US-41 just as we were through the curve, and then there was nothing to see. We would have to wait for something to either happen or not.

After driving on US-41 for about ten minutes, Joshua’s cell rang.

He hit the accept button and the call went through the car’s dock, making it hands free and heard through the car’s speakers.

“Yeah,” Joshua growled at the phone.

A voice that I recognized as Anders replied with an almost singsong quality, “I see you coming.”

“Mitch, what—” but Ander cut him off.

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“Don’t you worry, Joshua, I can take care of the rest of this assignment myself.”

On the road ahead of us there was a car coming. Joshua slowed down.

“What are you doing?” I asked, still in shock.

“I’m buying us time. Either Anders is in the car behind us or the car in front of us. I’m certain that both cars are Anders and his men.”

I saw what I hoped was plan formulating in Joshua’s head, because I was drawing a blank. I had no idea what to do.

The car continued to crawl south on US-41. I was starting to realize what we were in for, and I was not pleased. Joshua’s face was now a twisted mask of confusion and indecision. His eyes, however, expressed nothing except contempt for Anders.

I heard the cell ring again, but I was having a hard time focusing on anything except my own demise and the plan I was praying that Joshua was coming up with.

“Yeah,” I heard the familiar voice growl again.

“Pansy-ass, its time to do this. Head on,” came a voice that I did not recognize.

The phone went silent but didn’t disconnect.

Terror tickled down my throat, and I knew I was going to scream.

A dark SUV came roaring up next to us on the two lane highway. Our car was picking up sped, and Joshua stayed in line with our enemy.

We started racing nose to nose gaining speed. The car in front was

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coming directly at us and I wasn’t sure who I was more afraid of.

“Joshua,” I screamed, “watch out!”

The car in front of us was still coming at us, but Joshua’s driving never changed, except to go faster. The SUV next to us kept on course as well. I tore my eyes from the road to look at Joshua. He looked excited and confident. If I hadn’t been sitting next to him frozen in terror, I would have thought he was enjoying himself.

There was no time left. Someone had to make a decision or there was going to be a three car crash with fatalities all around. The cars were racing down the road going ninety miles an hour. I heard myself scream as I gripped the door and dashboard. At the last possible moment, the car coming at us swerved left. I turned around and looked to see the car fly off of the road into a barren field.

“Keep going. No witnesses,” a voice said through the speakers.

As we sped down the road, Joshua was smiling. I turned to him and asked, “What the fuck was that?”

Joshua replied simply, “Not all of Anders’ men are bad guys, Liz. We’ve been granted a reprieve.”

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Red Rum Jeff Baker

The earth sizzled under the oppressive Nevada sun. In the clear blue sky, a single black buzzard cast its shadow over Red. Pushing back his brown sweat stained Stetson, he peered up at the bird before taking another swig from his tin flask.

“I don’t like the way that he’s eyeing me,” Red grumbled.

As he walked across the plain, his dark boots kicked up a cloud of dust that stacked onto his leather duster. The jeans he wore were once blue, but now had the look of sun bleached bone. He had the look of a worn down man — cooked by the sun and seasoned by the earth.

He took another swig from his flask.

“Friend, he is circling you because you are a man about to die.”

Red looked up to the Iroquois riding a sleek white and brown Pinto next to him. Hawk wore his thick black hair in a long braid down his back, with a boss of the plains hat to block out the sun. His own duster flapped to the cadence of the horse. Hawk was perfectly poised in his saddle—body in perfect rhythm with the graceful trot of the mare.

“That’s encouraging. Thank you for that, Hawk.” Red spat at the

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ground then lifted his red handkerchief that hung around his neck and dabbed at the sweat forming along his lip.

“Here, water,” Hawk reached into the saddle bag behind him, careful not to bump his rifle, and withdrew a water-skin.

“Rum is water,” Red shook his flask in the air, “it’s sweet, fills my belly, and helps a man forget he’s walkin’.”

Hawk let out a chuckle, “Well, next time you will know to check for an Adam’s apple, before lending your horse to a prostitute.”

Red’s tanned skin grew flush as he drew out another slug of rum and slammed the flask back in his coat pocket. Hawk roared with laughter at his friend’s silence. “Let me ride, you bastard!” Red stumbled toward the Pinto, his arms flailing to catch the side of the saddle and pull himself up. With a graceful prance the horse sidestepped before Red could get a grasp. Unable to catch the horse in time, he tripped over his own feet and fell onto the hard packed earth, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Seeing Red on the ground, the Iroquois doubled over his pommel in laughter. With effort he gained his composure, “Wisk… She is… hahah… a fickle one, Red. Hahaha… I am sorry.”

Red spun onto his back and glared up at his friend. The sun pierced his eyes and he could feel the sweat on his face begin to roll down his cheeks. The cowboy drew his Dragoon revolver and aimed it up at Hawk. Reigning his horse, Hawk reached for his rifle, the mirth falling off his face. Red gave his counterpart a hard look, and

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let out a bark from his gun.

The black buzzard above them reeled from the impact of the bullet. Its cry filled the sky. Pumping its wing it tried to fly away from the pain but the wound proved to be too much. The bird beat its wings one last time before dropping like a stone—crashing to the earth behind a large boulder a few yards ahead. Red stood up, snatched his hat from the ground and used it to dust himself off as he walked over to the carcass.

Hawk burst into laughter.

Coming around the rock, Red found the buzzard laying across a wooden sign. In whitewash letters it read, Beatty—19 miles, with an arrow pointing off to the west. Red groaned, wiped the sweat from his brow, and turned to the west.

The sun had mercifully set. The large mountain range in the distance blocked out the mass of stars collecting in the sky. Red’s boots drug through the dirt leaving long gouges behind him as he entered Beatty. “You’re a cruel man, Hawk. Lettin’ a dyin’ man walk,” Red lifted his flask to his lips, a pained look stretched across his face as he shook the empty can over the ground. He winced and gripped his temples.

“I was pulling on you earlier. You will not die, if you just drink some water.”

“No, you were right. I’m dyin’. Lack of drink and a good horse

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kills a man.” Red scanned the small country town. A wooden sign read: Beatty—Population 200. The dirt road they were on ran straight through town and curved off to the south. Deep carriage tracks had made their mark, which were crisscrossed with horse and human tracks. Shops of various sizes lined up beside the road, patiently waiting for people to enter. One large building marked General Store dominated the town at the bend ahead. Next to it was a wide squat building. Painted in red along its front was the second best word in Red’s vocabulary, Saloon.

Red hoisted up his gun belt, gripped the holster of his Dragoon and, forgetting the pain in his head, began a tear down the road. The deep grooves in the ground caused him to stumble, but he was a man on a mission. Red loped around a group of horses, leapt over the short steps leading up to the porch, and burst into the building.

The smell of liquor, sweat, and smoke filled the room. Red closed his eyes and breathed it all in, a grin stretching across his face. The piano player at the far end of the bar was plunking away, each note sad and distant. He leered over his shoulder at Red. A few men at the bar moved their hands to their sides, within easy reach of their revolver. The clink of chips hitting a wood table accented the music in the air.

Red turned his attention to a nearby table where three men played poker. Red locked eyes with the man in the middle. His slick hair was neatly cut and parted down the middle. A small mustache rested on

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his face, finely combed, and curled at the ends. The man’s shirt was pressed, stark white with a high collar around his neck. Most striking was his matching grey woolen suit; pants, four button vest, and jacket. He was the money of the town, as best Red could figure.

As Red made his way to the bar, he could feel the man’s eyes remain on him. Red ignored him, continuing to the bar and more pressing matters.

“What can I do ya for?”, the bartender asked as he wiped his hands across his stained shirt.

“I need this,” Red placed his flask on the bar, “filled with rum.”

The bartender laughed in Red’s face, “Where do you think you are boy?” Motioning behind him, “I’ve got whiskey and some white stuff from the south called tequila. Take your pick.”

“I didn’t ask for either. Now I’ve got money and I asked for rum!”

Red leaned into the bar.

“And I said, I ain’t got it!” The bartender reciprocated by leaning toward Red; their faces inches apart.

Kuhmph.

The cough was low, but with a power that severed the growing tension between the two men. The bartender backed off, his pink watery eyes glazed with a tinge of fear as he looked over Red’s shoulder.

Red turned to the source. The gentleman in the woolen suit, sitting in his chair, affixed a steely eye on the exchange. Only the sound of the soft plunking of the piano filled the room. “Wiley,” he said with

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a smile growing across his face, “this man here is a stranger to our town. Let’s show some hospitality shall we? You can open my private bottle of rum for this man. On me. He looks tired.”

“Yes… Yes Mr. Dade. Right away boss,” and like a whipped pup, Wiley slunk off to the back room of the saloon. Red puffed his chest and sneered a little as the defeated man headed off. Turning to his savior, he tipped his hat, and sat at the bar with a grin.

The saloon doors swung open as Hawk entered, followed by a short squirrelly looking man whose face was covered in pock marks; his skin was coated with a days worth of grime and sweat. Squirrelly skirted around the Iroquois, and made a hasty beat to the table of poker players—all the while keeping his eye on Hawk. If the Indian had noticed the behavior, he didn’t let on. He merely made his way to the bar and joined Red. “You’re a weak man.” Hawk’s face was stone.

“Aw come on. I told ya. You’re not a man less you have a drink and a horse. I’ll remedy the first now, and I’ve come up with an idea to remedy the second.” Red licked his lips as Wiley returned with a glass jug, its amber contents sloshing hypnotically. Red held out his prepped flask and sighed as it was filled. With the container full, Wiley slammed the stopper into the jug; an audible growl rumbled through his thick beard as he walked away.

“Very weak”, Hawk shook his head then said, “What is your idea?”

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Holding up his index finger, Red drew long on his flask with his eyes closed. He coughed slightly as the warm liquid burned down his throat. Leaning into Hawk and in a whisper he said, “OK, you see the Big Bug playing stud back there?”

Hawk didn’t bother looking back at the table, “Ah I see,” his jaw set and he fixed a glare onto Red, “Do you know you can win?”

“Hey now! It’s me we’re talking about. I have luck in my belly and these guys have plenty to lose.”

“I’m more afraid of what little we have to lose. And while you might have luck in your belly, you will soon have water on your brain.”

Hawk’s voice grew stern as he stopped Red’s arm from lifting the flask to his lips. Red scowled and jerked away. “What is the plan?”

“I’ll act dumb. Let ‘em feel like they’re winnin’ then bring it home.

I can get fifty dollars off them easy. We’ll have enough for a new horse and supplies,” Red smiled, “Come on. This will be easy.”

Hawk scowled, “We shall see.”

“Look, just sit here and I’ll be back with cash. Maybe I’ll just win one of them horses outside,” Red slid off his barstool as he poured more rum into his mouth. Squirrelly was the first to notice Red approach the table—suspicion flashed across his face. He leaned over to Dade and whispered in his ear. A smirk opened up beneath Dade’s neatly trimmed mustache. Keeping his eyes on his cards he spoke, “I hope you found the Rum to your liking, Mr…?”

“McGuiness”, Red filled in.

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“McGuiness. I do have to say however, that your next will have to cost. You understand.” Dade turned his eyes to Red, his smile growing larger. There was something about this guy that made Red itch.

He reached up behind his left ear and gave an absent minded scratch.

Something about him seemed too clean. His hair was too well put together, manners too refined for a place like this.

Red grinned back at Dade. “I do understand. Came over just to say thanks. Maybe even sit in on this game you’ve got here.” Red slapped on his best confused face and said, “What we got here? Stud?”

The other three men glanced between themselves before looking for approval from Dade.

His grin widened, “Pull up a chair, McGuiness. We’re always glad to have another player.”

Red grabbed a chair and sat across from Dade—between his other poker mates. He put his cash on the table and Squirrelly slid an assortment of chips over the rough table. Dade deftly shuffled the cards, then proceeded to pass them out—one face down, one face up to all.

The Two of Hearts sat face up and mocked Red. He cursed his luck; having to pay the bring-in right off wasn’t boding well; he threw in a nickel chip and play began. Lifting his down card, the Queen of Clubs helped ease his pain; Red scratched his left ear.

The first of the players to Red’s left leered at his cards and rubbed at the scar across his check with his thumb. A few moments passed before he said, “Call,” sending a white bone chip into the pot.

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“Call,” Dade threw in and leaned back in his chair, tapping his Ten of Diamonds.

“Fold,” said Squirrelly as he flipped his Eight of Hearts over and pushed his cards in.

The second gentlemen, whose his large bristled mustache twitched nervously, looked at his Five of Clubs, peeked at his down card once more, then folded.

Dade burned the top card off the deck before passing out a face-up card to Red, Scar, then himself. Red looked down at his new card—the Queen of Diamonds looked up and giggled at him. The itch behind his left ear started acting up again, and his flask called his name. Another slug of rum down the hatch.

Scar’s pair of fives gave him the bet. He threw Dade a sideways glance before saying, “I’ll raise a dollar,” a blue chip thudded on the table.

“I’ll call that,” Dade smirked and put his own dollar in.

“Wow, you boys sure are confident with such weak hands.” Red glanced down at his cards. A whinny from the horses outside made his feet ache. He needed a horse bad, and the cards were starting to add up in his favor. Maybe, he thought, I can put them out right here and now. All they need is a little push, “I’ll see that and raise two dollars.”

“What!?” Hawk stood up from this stool.

Chuckling Dade said, “It looks like your friend doesn’t approve Mr. McGuiness.”

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Scar folded and eased back into his chair. Dade barely looked at his cards once more and with a smile, “Call.” Red watched as Dade dealt out the new cards. Wait, Red thought, did he burn the top card?

Red blinked his eyes trying to remember.

“Are you all right Mr. McGuiness?” Dade asked.

“Yeah, just fine. Good rum this is,” Red remarked as he took another swig.

“Yes, well it is your bet.”

Red looked down to see the Queen and his pair of Two’s dancing together. “Huh, well isn’t that somethin’. Three dollars.” Three more blue chips joined the pile.

“You drunken fool!” Hawk took another step closer to the table.

“I’d prefer you kept a reign on your savage, Mr. McGuiness,” Dade sneered at Hawk.

Red surged to his feet as Hawk bristled next to him, “You call him a savage again and I’ll rip out your tongue and feed it to your sister there!” Red pointed fiercely at Squirrelly. The other men at the table clamored as they rose up to meet Red, their fists clenched.

“Stop!” Dade yelled, brining room to a standstill. He had remained seated, his eyes cold as iron, and his mouth set into a thin line. The room was silent but alive with hostility. “You all sit,” turning to the piano player behind him, “and I don’t believe I said you could stop playing.” The man licked his lips and wiped the sweat from his brow before continuing the nervous plunk of the keys. It did little to ease

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everyone.

Red and the other players begrudgingly took their seats. “Now,” Dade continued, “I believe we have a game to finish. I see your three, and raise you five,” the blue chips thundering as they hit the wooden table. Red looked at his dwindling pile of chips.

“Call,” Red placed his own chips into the pot, saddened that they didn’t have the same weighty sound as Dade’s. Finally, the last round of cards hit the table. There was something funny about the way Dade was dealing, but Red couldn’t get his brain to tell him why. Dade’s gold cuff links sure were mesmerizing though.

Red labored to pull his thick mind back to the game. He looked down at his last card on the table; a Four of diamonds. No problem, he thought, Two pair is good. Queen high. Red looked across the table at Dade’s hand. Ten, Seven, Seven… Ten. Red scratched furiously at his left ear. I got him.

“You’ve got the hand, Dade. You sure you can beat me?” Red sneered as he took a long drink.

A wicked smile grew across Dade’s face, “I may manage. Ten dollars.” Red nearly spat his Rum across the table onto Bristles. He looked down at the few chips in front of him and furiously counted them.

“What’re you tryin’ to pull here, Dade? I only have a dollar fifty on the table.”

“Oh, didn’t I mention before? We don’t play table stakes here in Beatty. So if I were you I’d find another eight dollars and fifty cents,

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Mr. McGuiness,” Dade stretched and placed his arm over the back of his chair.

“Hawk, gimme your gun,” looking back at Dade, “It’s nickel plated. That more than meets the bet!” Red reached for the revolver at Hawk’s hip. The Indian slapped his hands away in annoyance.

“I’ve no use for a gun, try again.”

“Boss, they have a real nice mare outside,” Squirrelly all but rubbed his hands together as he mentioned the horse.

Red’s face lit up, “Consider that my bet and raise!”

“No!” Hawk leaned into Red, “Wisk is not property to be traded and sold!”

“I’m sorry but the bet has been placed,” the ends of Dade’s mustache seemed to curl more as his devilish grin widened, “I can cover that right here myself.” Reaching into his left breast pocket, he withdrew a billfold and threw a stack of bills on the table. A metallic glint shone off from the inside his sleeve, “Let’s show our cards shall we?”

“Hawk, trust me, I can’t lose!” Red reached to the face down Queen and flipped her over, “Two Pair, Dade. The Queen’s parade!”

Red stood over the table and began laughing. Dade only smiled, placed his thumb and forefinger on his card and turned.

Red looked down and immediately stopped; a full house stared back at him. The table had grown silent, but Red could feel the heat of anger radiating from Hawk behind him. “You lose, Mr. McGuiness,” Dade’s voice sliced through the room. Standing up, Dade began to

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gather the money and chips with his right hand. That was when Red saw it, the bit to this puzzle through the entire hand.

Like a snake Red snatched up Dade’s arm and pulled down the sleeve. A leather strap sat snug against his forearm, with a metal clasp holding a group of hidden playing cards. Red grinned as he held up Dade’s arm, “Should have been more careful, Dade. I got all these witnesses here. I bet the law here will love to hear about this.”

Dade cocked an eyebrow, “Really?”, as he pulled back his woolen coat to expose his belt. Affixed to the leather was a gold star with Sheriff stamped into it glinted in the lantern light. “Now as my deputies and I see it, I just won myself a new horse.” The other men sitting at the poker table all stood, pulling back their coats—exposing their badges—as they each drew their revolvers on Red, who let go of Dade’s arm.

Hawk took a step toward the table, malice in his eyes, when in a flash Dade had his own Colt out and leveled at the Indian’s head.

“Now you two draw slow and put ‘em down.” With three barrels pointed at him, Red did as he was told without hesitation. Hawk and Dade remained locked in eye contact. Red looked to his friend over his shoulder and slightly shook his head.

The loud clack-clack of the hammer on Dade’s revolver resounded through the room.

Hawk undid his gun belt, and dropped it to the floor.

“Good choice. Now gentlemen, if you’d follow me.”

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The walk out of town felt much longer this time for Red. I guess having four loaded guns at your back doesn’t help, he thought. What few residents were still out at this time of night, found a different place to be when they saw the parade heading down the street. “I don’t blame ‘em”, Red said aloud.

“Keep quiet!” Squirrelly shouted and brought his heavy revolver down across Red’s back. The thick iron bit hard, sending a wave of sobering pain through his body.

As they reached the edge of Beatty, Dade barked for them to keep walking. The town became a small dark bump on the horizon. Red began to say his prayers. This was it. He had pushed his liquid luck too far for the last time and now he’d finally drowned in it. He didn’t mind so much for himself. It was that he brought his only friend down with him.

“Stop right here.” Dade ordered.

The back of Red’s head began to itch with anticipation for where the bullet was going to enter.

“Remove your boots.”

Huh. That was an odd request.

“Don’t make this hard, boys. Take ‘em off.”

“You heard the sheriff!” Squirrelly lunged for another strike across Red’s back, who dodged the blow clumsily as he reached for his left boot. He hopped a bit to remove it, then shifted to remove the other

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boot. Hawk followed suit. The two men stood there, hands raised with a boot in each. “This is an odd thing to ask of two men you’re about to kill,” Hawk said.

“Oh? Kill?”, Dade said, “I never mentioned killing anyone. I need to keep some semblance of law, and so far you two boys haven’t given me a reason to shoot you. Pity really.” A bit of sadness tinged his voice with his last statement.

“Then why not jail us?” Red asked.

“And waste money watching and feeding you both? I have much better things to do with my, and my deputies time. So this is my idea.”

Dade grinned like a school boy who had become very proud of himself, “Now, throw your boots to my deputies.” Two pairs of boots thudded into the dirt. “Now, you both are free to go. Thank you for your money and horse. I’m sure they will both go to good use.”

Bewildered, Red asked, “Just like that, you’re goin’ to let us go?”

“You think very highly of yourself. This was never about you.

While your money and horse are nice, it’s the people in that town that I need to keep in check. It’s always best to rough up some strangers to keep the fear alive, rather than harm anyone directly.” Smug looks passed between the deputies. “You both played your parts admirably.”

A deep belly laugh erupted from Dade as he walked back to Beatty, his henchmen joining in along the way.

The cold began to bite into Red’s feet as he watched the four silhouettes disappear into the night.

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“Well, that could have gone worse.” Red finally chirped. He turned to his friend, who stood stoically watching the horizon. Red took stock of the empty landscape around them. A few bushes, some bits of grass, and a lone boulder were all that dotted the plain. Red tenderly walked over to the rock, a few ouches escaping his lips along the way.

Leaning back, he pulled out his flask and began to drink. This will help clear my head for a bit, he thought.

“Fine predicament we’ve found ourselves in,” the cowboy glanced to the silent Indian. He coughed and continued, “We can think of something. Just give me a moment to think and we’ll be right as rain.”

Hawk whirled to Red, “We!? Ourselves!?” Red slunk against the rock as if the rage was pinning him to it. “No, there is no we here.

You have dragged me here. Time and again.” Hawk stepped closer to Red, his foot crushing a bramble beneath it. “But in the end, Red, I am the fool. I have followed you into this hell. No more.” A string of words Red couldn’t understand leapt from Hawk’s mouth and hit Red like a barrage of arrows.

“Now come on. Don’t get all uppity. Things aren’t that bad, let me just…”, Red brought the flask to his lips.

A blinding flash filled Red’s vision as he tumbled to the ground.

The tin canister spun through the air and clattered on the clay earth.

He pushed himself up on all fours, the taste of blood starting to fill his mouth. Red shook his head to clear out the ringing. Hawk stood over Red with his fist clenched, “Weak.” Disgust colored his tone. He

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then spat on the fallen drunk, turned and silently walked off into the night.

Blood dripped from Red’s mouth as he fought to regain control of his body. Sitting back against the rock, Red held his head to ease the pain.

Weak.

The word stung him more than he wanted to admit. As his world began to draw back into focus, Red opened his duster to look at the inside of his left lapel. Starring back at him was a large brass button sewn to the inside of his coat. Embossed upon its face was the Union Eagle, and on its chest the letter ‘I’. Red’s face grew dark as he looked upon the brass circle. “That’s not you anymore.” Jerking his coat closed, the ex-infantry man scanned the ground around him. The glint of metal caught his attention off to the right. Crawling across the dirt and stone, Red reached his new commanding officer.

Red sat back on his heels as he lifted the flask from the dirt. He gently wiped down the sides with his handkerchief and lifted the flask to his lips.

There is no we.

It was just as good as being punched again. Without a drop on his lips, Red held out the flask in front of him. The tin was full of dents, it had buckled on the side from the impact with the ground, and the hinge for the top had nearly separated from the body. “I ‘spose I’m not fairing much better.” With a bit of effort, Red screwed the top closed

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and shoved the flask back into his breast pocket. He grunted as he stood up—adjusted his hat and duster—then with determination in his stride, headed back toward Beatty.

The crescent moon hung high over the town. The sound of distant cattle rustling in their pens broke the hush that had settled on the shoppes and homes. Horses whinnied in their stables, while the town folk slumbered peacefully in their homes. A single figure darted through the street. At least he would have liked to have darted. Red cursed quietly and high stepped from shadow to shadow as rocks, brambles, and other debris dug into his bleeding feet.

He had weaved through the edge of town just off the main road, making his way toward the saloon. Red felt like he was practically yelling and marching down the center of town with each step and curse he made. Reaching the bend in the road, he sat down at the corner of the Post Office just across from the saloon. Red pulled his left foot up, gripped the end of a brier sticking out from his heel, and yanked. His hands clasped hard around his mouth as he nearly yelped in pain. He shook his foot in hopes to ease the pain.

Red peered around the corner to the saloon. No horses were tied to the rail, no lights on inside, and the door and windows shuttered.

Blast!

He didn’t know what he expected. Now that he thought about it; seemed foolish that they’d still be there. He needed to think clearer.

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Needed his friend by his side. Red shook his head to try and clear it out. His brain felt dry. Maybe just a bit of help. Instinctively his had reached for the flask in his coat.

Weak.

Red’s hand jerked from his lapel as if struck by a hot poker. You can do this Red, he thought. Looking back around the corner, Red scanned the road as it bent to the South. There, he could just make out flickering light that passed between the buildings. Red steeled himself, and moved out from his hiding place.

He crouched low to the ground, staying on the edge of the road where it was more traveled. His feet thanked him with only minor pangs and aches. Determination spurred him on with each step as he approached the light. He noticed that it was coming from a building sitting behind a shop; discarded axles and broken wagon wheels littered the front and sides and a sign that read “Gert’s Wagon Repair”.

Red ducked behind Gert’s on the far side, and made his way down to the corner.

The sound of voices could be heard coming from the building with the light. It was small and square. Only big enough for two rooms.

It had a wrap-around porch with three crooked steps leading up to a narrow door, where a sign had been tacked to the frame that read “Sheriff”. Red reached to his right hip and grasped air over his empty holster. He felt naked without his side arm. Drawing his duster tight around his body, he slipped his red handkerchief up over his nose.

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Not seeing any of the horses in the front, Red began to circle the building. He kept low and out of the light, doing his best not to step on anything too sharp. There, crudely attached to the back side of the building was a small stable. It was built large enough to accommodate four horses, each stall already full. On the far side of the stable, Red caught sight of Wisk. Her reigns were bound around a crooked post freshly pounded into the ground.

Ignoring the pain in his feet, he quickly made his way to the Pinto—doing his best to stay low and out of the light. Red could see that the horse was wild eyed. The ground around it had been pounded flat from its feet striking the earth. Her reigns had been stretched from trying to pull loose from the post.

“It’s all right girl. It’s just ol’ Red.” As he approached, the horse stamped and moved away, its nostrils flaring and huffing. “Come on now, you know me,” he reached out to stroke the horse on the neck.

The Pinto spun her thick neck around in an attempt to bite Red. The sound of empty teeth clamping rung out. “OK, OK. Dumb animal…”

A huff and two hooves stamping the ground responded to Red’s insult.

Walking to the post Red continued talking to Wisk, “I’m risking my hide for you. This is the thanks I get.” He worked on the knot in the reigns. The swindlers had done a good job of making it difficult for the horse to escape. The more it pulled on its lead, the tighter the knot had become. It took Red several tries, a few curses, and some hurt teeth to finally loosen the leather straps. All the while the horse

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continued to stomp the dirt. With the reigns free, Red began to pull the horse toward the road. “Come on. Time we left this place behind.”

Red turned to lead her away, and was greeted by the long barrel of a Carbine.

“Looks like I caught myself a horse thief”, crooned Dade.

Red lifted his hands and threw a sideways glance to the horse.

“Lot of help you were, makin’ all that racket.” Wisk responded with a huff and stamp.

“I had a feeling you’d try something stupid,” Dade interrupted.

“I like to think of it as bein’ brave,” Red grinned.

“They do go hand in hand,” Dade sneered, “But now you’ve proven to be a nuisance, McGuiness. And I have no room for nuisances.” Dade’s men had all come around the building with their rifles and revolvers drawn. Squirrelly chuckled as he hefted a spool of thick rope over his head, to rest on his shoulder.

Things had gotten worse.

“Saddle up my horse boys. And you, bring that devil of a mare.

I’ve got a friend you need to meet.”

Red dug his bloody heels into the dirt as he fought to pull Wisk forward. Waves of pain and nausea surged through his body with each step. The deputies took turns hurling insults and rocks at him as they made their way to the west side of town. Red fought to think

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through the cloud of pain that had settled over his brain, but could only manage to just stay on his feet and keep walking.

“Dead Man’s Roost,” Dade’s voice yanked Red out of his stupor.

Several yards ahead, a dead tree loomed before him. Its trunk twisted upward and was so thick, it’d take eight men hugging the tree to circle it. The massive tree stood roughly forty feet tall, with a copse of gnarled branches jutting up from the top. One large branch hung from one side, as if it had grown for a single purpose.

“Set it up,” Dade motioned with this head. Squirrelly rushed forward with a bit too much glee for Red’s liking. Taking the rope off his shoulder, he took one end with a large knot on it and threw it over the worn branch. The rope found its familiar groove and settled in.

With quick and disciplined movements, Squirrelly fashioned a noose on the other end. Once completed, the crazy little man retrieved the knot from the ground and ran it around the trunk of the tree. The noose lifted off the ground and came to a slow mournful swing close to ten feet. It continued to turn in the evening breeze as Squirrelly secured the rope.

Red watched the procedure with a look of acceptance thinking it’s probably what he deserved. “All right Mr. McGuiness, lead the horse under the noose,” Dade’s voice dripped with excitement. Red did as he was told. Digging in deep he pulled on the reigns and forced the Pinto to the tree. Dade and his men closed in around him. Scar pulled out a thong of leather while Bristles trained his revolver on

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Red. “Now climb on and present your hands.”

Red looked Wisk in the eye. A grin tugged at his lips, “Climb on you said?”

“Please don’t stall, Mr. McGuiness. I would like to get some sleep tonight.”

“Sure thing boss,” he looked to Dade, “and the name is Red.” The cowboy let out a mighty yell and leapt onto the horses back, wrapping his arms around her neck.

Hell had broken loose.

In an instant the mare began to buck and scream. Its front hooves smashed Scar in the face, sending out a shower of blood from his nose.

A wild shot rang out as Bristles covered his head for protection and pulled the trigger. The mare spun as it came down on its front legs, kicking out her back, catching Squirrelly in the chest. A sickening crunch reverberated out as he was pinned to the giant tree, then fell in a heap on the ground.

Dade’s own horse went into panic at the sudden commotion.

The sheriff fought against the wild horse; a giant boom and cloud of white smoke flared from his Carbine, sending up a clump of dirt.

Red couldn’t hold onto the thrashing horse and was thrown—crashing down on top of the bleeding deputy. His head was ringing as he pushed himself up from the unconscious man. A glint to Red’s right caught his eye. Sticking out from the deputy’s belt was his Dragoon.

Red quickly drew his revolver from Scar’s belt and stood up, just as

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a lead bullet whizzed past his head and buried itself in the ground behind him. Red returned the shot toward Bristles, then turned to his right and began to run around the tree. Dade whirled his horse around, regaining control—placed the butt of his Carbine in his shoulder—and let out another resounding boom. The trunk of the tree behind Red burst into a shower of splinters.

Red aimed over his shoulder and let off another shot while he gained cover by putting the tree between him and the other two shooters. Crouching low with his back pressed against the trunk, Red strained to listen for their movements. The tree only offered as much cover as he could keep between him and his attackers, and ahead was only open plain. He needed to end this fast. Circling the tree to the right, Red aimed his gun forward—ready to shoot the first thing he saw moving.

“Heeya!” Squirrelly let out a wheezy scream as he jumped around the tree at Red; a knife gleaming in his hands. Red fell backward as he instinctively pulled the trigger, sending a bullet flying through the little man’s neck. Squirrelly jerked in mid jump and fell to the ground beside Red, holding his neck, trying to keep his blood in.

“Circle him! Get him now!” Dade screamed. Red scrambled up and ran back to the left toward Dade.

The sheriff’s horse loomed into Red’s view as it cantered around the tree. A small yelp escaped Red’s lips as he jerked up his revolver and sent a round screaming toward the animal. The cry from the horse

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was deafening as it reared back on its hind legs, sending the sheriff crashing to the ground.

Red continued running around the tree, passing by Scar, the leather thong still held in his hands. Bristles had continued making his way around to the gun fire when Red came up behind him. He aimed his revolver at the deputy, his forefinger itching on the trigger as he aimed at the man’s back.

He didn’t fire.

“Drop it,” Red ordered. The deputy stopped in his tracks. “I said drop it, now.” The man planted his feet, and threw a side-long glance over his shoulder. Thinning clouds of white gun-smoke hung in the air. A cold wind rustled through the dead branches of the giant tree.

The smell of gunpowder and blood filled Red’s nostrils, his ears rung from the shots and screams.

Bristles lowered the gun. The moonlight caught the nickel plating off of Hawk’s gun. Bristles’ hand squeezed the wooden grip as a bead of sweat ran down his face. With as much speed as he could muster, the deputy spun to face Red, his leather coat fanning out. With his left hand he struck the hammer hard as he aimed. In the same instant Red leaned to the left and pulled his trigger home. The two guns spat fire and lead.

The deputy spun around as Red’s round caught him in his chest.

His eyes went wide, his gun hand limp, and he fell to the ground dropping Hawk’s gun. The other bullet hurtled through the air and

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ripped through Red’s right side. His hand jumped to the wound as he fell to his knees.

A string of curses flew from Red’s mouth as he held the wound tightly, “Well at least I’m not thinkin’ ‘bout my feet anymore,” he winced.

Red sat back on his heels to inspect the wound. Through and through. It didn’t hit anything major, but if he didn’t take care of it soon, things could get ugly. He slumped, the fatigue of the night’s drama settling in.

That’s when Dade’s horse shifted. A puzzled look crossed Red’s face as he watched the horse do a little shimmy on the ground. He leaned forward to see what the animal was trying to do. Dade popped up from behind the horse. His high collar had popped open so that one side stuck straight out. The top two buttons on his woolen vest had been ripped off, and a large tear had appeared in the elbow of his suit jacket. He still held his Carbine, and he shook his head and blinked furiously as if trying to clear his head.

Red didn’t waste time. He brought his Dragoon up and put Dade in his sights. Dade caught the motion and responded with bringing the stock of the Carbine up to this shoulder, pointing at Red. “Come now Dade. You’re done. I bested all your men. Put down your gun and walk off,” Red tried his best to sound nonchalant through the blood loss, his head growing light.

“You’re nothin’ but an Eastern-Wannabe-Cowboy,” Dade spat in

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anger. Red sighed; the sheriff wasn’t going to give up. Without warning, Red pulled the trigger.

Click.

That didn’t sound right, thought Red. Click. Click.

The screech of a dead buzzard filled Red’s thoughts. “I never reloaded,” he gasped.

The laughter in Dade started deep, “You are all the same. Come out to the West and think you know better.” Dade’s voice turned maniacal, “Well this is my town! I’m the sheriff! I’m the law!” Red could feel the ground beneath his legs start a gentle rumble. That’s weird, he thought. Dade’s voice lowered, “I’ll give you a chance for one last drink, so I can send you to hell like the drunkard you are.”

“No thanks sheriff. I think I’ll be glad to go sober.”

An Iroquois war cry thundered through the night sky. The sheriff spun to see Wisk charging toward him, and standing in the saddle, Hawk. Before he could react a tomahawk came spinning in a blur toward him. The sharpened stone head lodged itself into Dade’s forearm, nearly severing the bones. The Carbine went off harmlessly into the ground as Dade looked at his maimed arm and screamed.

With the reigns in his teeth and a second tomahawk in his other hand Hawk jumped from the back of the horse. Back arched in midflight, the small axe held in both hands nearly touched his feet. He brought the axe head down upon Dade in a sickening crunch.

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Hawk stood up from the unmoving sheriff, a dark stain on the head of the tomahawk. He dropped the weapon in the grass, and with a somber stride came up to Red. The loss of blood from Red’s side and feet had begun to take its toll. His adrenaline at last subsided, his head swam with light and stars. With a half-smile he looked to his friend, “I softened him up for ya,” then slumped over onto the ground.

The morning sun jabbed Red in the eyes. He could feel the crust of sleep glued to his eyelashes. Red sat up, his side protesting the movement. He looked around to find himself on a small cot in a jail cell.

“Aw come on. I won,” he pouted as he threw the threadbare covers off himself.

“Well, I finished it my friend,” Hawk stood up from the desk next to the wall of the jail house, a grin on his face.

“Why you got me in here? I got your horse back. I should be a hero,” Red rubbed his eyes as the Indian laughed at him.

“The door is open. Come have some breakfast.”

Red staggered out of the cell, the bandages around his feet making him unsteady. A large spread of eggs, bacon, and grits steamed on the table. Red stumbled forward, catching himself on the back of a chair and flopped down into it. “How’d you manage all this?”

“It is a ‘thank you’ from the people of Beatty,” Hawk said as he bit into a chunk of bacon.

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“Oh? What would we get for killin’ the mayor?” Red reached across the table, grabbed a plate and began to fill it with food.

Hawk barked in laughter, “As far as the people are concerned, we liberated them.”

Red leaned back in his chair at that, and stared at the food he’d heaped on his plate. “One more good deed for us then,” Red remarked after a moment of silence.

“Yes.” The room grew somber as the two ate.

After the meal, Red moved to the front porch. He sat on a rocking chair, trying to rock out the aches and pains that worked their way through his body. After a time Hawk joined him, leaning against the door frame. “There is something I don’t understand, Red.” “Wassat?”

“Why did you come back into town without me?” Hurt twinged Hawk’s question.

Red sat forward and shot his friend a glare, “Without you? You’re the one that left me! You’re the one who said you were done.”

“Yes. Done with your plans. They had gotten us in enough trouble.

I felt it was time for a plan of mine.”

“Well you hit me and walked off. I figured I was on my own.”

“We had no weapons. And to fashion them takes time. I had hoped to knock you out and give you time to sober up but when I came back you were gone. It was Wisk who brought me to you.” Red sat straight for a moment, then laughed quietly to himself.

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After a time, the two men gathered their belongings. Restocking on ammunition from the jail house, gathering what left over food they could keep, and filling their water-skins. Red picked a chestnut gelding from the stables and began to saddle up. Hawk approached as Red was tightening up the girth. “Here. I think you’ll want this. I had it filled for you,” Hawk held out a new flask—its polished silver shone in the morning light, “A man must have his drink and his horse, no?” Red took the cannister from his friend. He could hear the rum inside slosh about. A smile spread across his lips, “Maybe later.” Red opened his leather duster picked out the busted tin flask and threw it on the ground. The shiny silver one slid neatly within his inner breast pocket.

Despite the pain of putting pressure on his feet with the stirrup, Red managed to mount the horse. Hawk came trotting up and fell in beside the cowboy. “You know, we could stay. This town could use a new sheriff,” said Hawk.

“I don’t think these people would want me as sheriff.”

“Who said you would be sheriff? You would be my deputy,” Hawk grinned.

“Your deputy!? I think I proved last night who should be the sheriff!”, Red jabbed a thumb at himself.

“You keep what you kill, friend. You killed the deputies, I killed the sheriff. I would be sheriff.”

“So, that’d make me three deputies and three deputies equals two

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sheriffs…”

And bickering, they rode off to the west.

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Bank Job Will Pearson

“Hey, Jimmy, I wrote a poem for you,” Alan said to the mortally wounded man lying in front of the main generator.

“C’mon, man, we don’t need to do this,” I said, edging my way to the door. I didn’t want to be around when the big roman candle went off.

“Just one!” Alan cleared his throat, “Roses are red/Violets are blue/They’ll need dental records/To identify you.”

I shook my head and sighed, “Are you done?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Alan said with a little giggle. He nudged the guy with his toe, then gathered up the detonator and backed his way out of the room, wires trailing out from the device in his hand. “This is going to be awesome.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“If we take the generator out first, when the Feds cut the power to the block--as they will undoubtedly do--the generator won’t kick in and the automatic locks on the deposit vault won’t engage either,”

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Alan said in a single breath as he stuffed a couple of batteries into the detonator and started booting it up. His cheeks turned red before he had to stop and take a breath.

I looked around at the basement corridor we were crouched in.

It was still and silent for the time being. Considering that we were two-thirds of the janitorial crew (and the other third was in the bombfilled room), it was unlikely that anyone was going bother us anytime soon. Well, soon was to be debated.

“And when will the Feds be here?”

“About fifteen minutes after I do this,” Alan winked at me and slammed down the big red button. The linoleum flooring leapt a foot in the air, sending Alan and I to our asses as a blindingly bright flash of orange ignited the world around me. I thought I’d died--I couldn’t see or hear anything--but I felt a tug at my sleeve. Blurry images slowly started to leak back into sight, and after a couple of moments Alan’s face resolved in front of my eyes. My ears were still ringing, I couldn’t quite make out the words that Alan’s mouth were forming.

Dull noises made their way into my senses, and I focused carefully on Alan’s mouth.

“-damn lucky that I hadn’t gone with the thermite, eh? Whoo!

Now that is what I call an explosion, am I right?” Alan pulled a chamois from his back pocket, beat it on the leg of his jeans for a moment then wiped his brow, “Like I said, dental records.”

I sat up with a wince and allowed myself a couple of shallow

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breaths. My chest hurt, but I couldn’t tell if there was any serious damage. Maybe a cracked rib or two. I wanted to punch Alan oh so badly, but the bastard was smiling like he’d just sent his five year old off to kindergarten. I couldn’t help but admire a guy who didn’t need more than an explosion or two to make his life complete.

I tried to shake the last of the ringing from my ears, then realized that most of the noise was coming from the alarms blaring overhead.

It was oddly comforting knowing that noise wasn’t coming from my head.

Alan grabbed my arm and hoisted me to my feet. He took a step back and dusted himself off before pulling a pack of Camels out of his chest pocket and shaking out a single cigarette. Alan patted down his pockets, trying to find his lighter before throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“Of course, now I lose my lighter. During this historic event,” Alan said, “Dude, do you have anything that cou- Oh! I have an idea!” He spun on one shoe and headed back towards the recently remodeled generator room. He picked up a piece of trash that was still slightly smoking and gently blew on it until it produced a small blue flame.

Alan tilted his head down and guided the tip of the cigarette into the fire, softly pulling as the tip started to burn. He straightened up abruptly and took a fairly violent drag from the cigarette, dropping the freshly blazing trash ball to the ground beside him.

“Nothing like a smoke after a big bang, eh kid?”

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“Whatever you say, Alan. C’mon, we’ve got work to do.” I said as I bent over to collect the detonator and the charred ends of the connecting wires. I stood and glanced back over at Alan trying to understand the fervor with which he had approached this project. There was a little glint in his eye, and just as I had seen it in my brother’s eye when he’d dropped a touch too much acid, I knew that something had bent or twisted in his mind. It was subtle, there wasn’t any talk of time vortexes or nonsense like that, but there was definitely a mania surrounding the man.

I don’t like letting maniacs handle explosives.

I let the refrigerator door fall shut, not really wanting to try and find something edible amongst the garbage that the bank workers gorged themselves on. The tub of something that resembled egg salad had made me immediately want to vomit, and that had kind of ruined the whole deal for me. I turned towards one of the seven bound men and women lining the wall.

“Don’t you guys eat anything that doesn’t resemble slop?” I asked.

An elderly woman rolled her eyes at me and said, “Oh, so the criminal is a critic, too. This just keeps getting better.”

“A critic with a gun, mind you,” I said as I rifled through the few cupboards in the staff lounge. Behind a few unopened packages of earl gray tea, I spied a sleeve of Oreos. Score.

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“You don’t mind if I eat these, do you?” I said to no one in particular. I didn’t wait for a response before I ripped into the foil and bit into one of the delicious crème-filled cookies. Alan came storming into the room and opened his mouth wide, ready to start barking something inane, but stopped when he saw the cookies in my hand.

He hustled over, grabbed a couple from the pack and popped them into his mouth. He chewed contentedly with his eyes closed for a few seconds, then swallowed with a happy sigh. He looked at me and furrowed his brow, as if asking, “do you need something?”

“Uh, Alan? What’s up man, you came in here.” I said with an eyebrow cocked.

Alan’s eyes glossed over for a moment, then snapped back to focus as he twisted towards me, “Right! Do me a favor and ask one of these nice people whether or not this place has a public address system, or any sort of speakers outside,” Alan said, gesturing first towards the row of people sitting in front of him and then vaguely towards the front of the building. I looked at Alan for a moment before slowly turning towards the hostages and shrugging.

“So, right, is there any sort of-” “Yes, yes, already. The controls are in the security office,” said the same older woman, who seemed to be merely annoyed rather than terrified, which I thought was how she was supposed to act. I would have to work on that.

Alan looked ecstatic, “What’s the volume you keep it at? You

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know, when it’s at that level where you can hear it pretty clearly in the background but it’s not so much that it’s completely overwhelming?”

The elderly woman stared at Alan as he continued on, “I mean, you have to have a default setting or something, what is it?”

“We keep it at around four, I do believe. Our music isn’t loud to begin with.”

“Well that’s good, considering the crap you usually play. What is this, anyway? Kenny G?” Alan said, straining his ear towards the small speaker in the ceiling. The woman crossed her arms and looked away. Alan turned back to me and said, “Time to crank it to eleven!

What’s your preference today?”

“I don’t know, man. Boston?”

“Judas Priest it is!” Alan said as he sprinted away towards the security booth. I sighed then turned back and knelt down next the woman, looking her in the eyes.

“Well, I think we should do something about your attitude problem,” I said as I pressed the barrel of the gun into her gut, “You know, before you get too many people injured.” I added a little Christian Bale roughness to “injured” so she knew I was serious. Which I guess I wasn’t, not completely. She was a bitch, yeah, but gunshots hurt.

And having shot a hostage meant that the FBI wouldn’t take their time in taking us out. I guess it was worth it to take it easy on the people. So I moved the barrel a few inches to the left and pulled the trigger, sending the bullet into the wall behind her harmlessly. The

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superheated barrel probably burnt like a sonuvabitch, though.

I smiled a little as she yelped and jerked away from the gun.

Hopefully she’d stay quiet now. I got back up and walked through the door to the main lobby of the bank. As I strode over the mess of papers and office supplies that littered the floor, I could hear the incessant blaring of the police bullhorn from outside the shuttered and barricaded windows. “...final warning. release the hostages now and no harm will come to you. you have five minutes to reply before...” I tried to tune out the droning as best I could.

A rustling of papers and a crash came from the door to the right of the main entrance, the security booth. Alan’s silhouette played across the floor as he attempted to get his MP3 player connected to the PA system. A couple of muttered curses followed a large thud, then silence fell as Alan’s shadow stopped moving. Suddenly, a monstrous guitar riff sounded throughout the bank, followed by a particularly rapid drum fill before audible hell completely descended on the deserted lobby. Alan flung himself from the booth and started jumping around on top of a banker’s mahogany desk, windmilling his arms around and faux shredding on his air guitar.

I walked over to the windows and pulled back a slat of the shade.

Peering out, I could see the police talking with each other, scratching their heads and shrugging. A suited guy was gesturing frantically, shouting something to a uniform standing next to him.

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“They’re gonna buy it!” Alan shouted over Rob Halford’s demonic snarls, pounding away at an invisible set of drums, “any second now, they’ll-” The music cut out with a screech “-cut the power-oh there we go.” Alan hopped down, twisting a finger into his ear and stretching his jaw.

“Just as planned,” Alan said with a wink, “Now the real fun begins.” He jogged over to a duffel bag lying by the entrance and unzipped it, withdrawing three identical bags rolled up tightly. Alan handed two of them off to me as we started hustling back towards the employee’s lounge.

“Give me your chamois, Alan,” I said, withdrawing a small jar of colorless liquid. I took the oil stained piece of cloth from Alan’s hand and opened the lid of the jar, dipping the cloth into the liquid and squeezing out the excess. Entering the lounge, I walked straight over to the first of the tied up hostages and shoved the rag in his face, holding his skull with my free hand to make sure it didn’t slip. After a few seconds of frantic struggling, the man slumped over. I repeated the procedure until the rest of the hostages were lying still on the floor. I handed the chamois back to Alan and wiped my hands off on my pants.

“They should be out for a while,” I said.

“Oh man, chloroform, nice. I didn’t think of that,” Alan said.

“Small details are my specialty. Anyways, it’s ether,” I said as I twirled the jar in my hand, “Where the hell can you find chloroform

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these days, anyway?”

Alan shrugged. “That’s cool. I’m not really into the drug scene, anyway.”

“Are you kidding me? Don’t you smoke an ounce of weed a month, or something equally ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but that’s different.”

“Whatever,” I said. I looked at my watch and frowned, “We don’t have long until they’re going to storm the place.” I nervously fingered the pistol tucked into my waistband.

“I just called them and started playing a recording of our demands.

You always wanted a pony, right?”

“So they’re going to think we’re gay bank robbers, then. That’s going to be great for my reputation.”

“Well if they’re as confused as you are, we have at least fifteen more minutes.” I flipped Alan the bird, eliciting a couple of giggles from the man. The keys for the deposit vault were in my pocket, snagged from the manager while I was putting the hostages down for their nap. I slapped Alan on the back and ran over to the corridor that lead down to the main bank vault and the separate safety deposit vault.

I passed right by the large metal slab that marked the entrance to the main vault and headed to the gated deposit vault. There was no reason to even try on that. There was not nearly enough time to get the door unlocked and opened, and even if we could the money that lay within was locked in bags stuffed with too many trackers

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and paint bombs for us to mess with with any confidence. The safety deposit boxes were simply locked behind a gate and an digital lock connected to a timer. Luckily, our explosives demonstration and the friendly hand of the FBI rendered that little annoyance useless. All that stood in our way was a simple key lock.

The key slid effortlessly into the well maintained lock cylinder, and presented no resistance when turned. A loud clunk sounded within the frame of the door, and when I turned the handle the door swung inward without a sound. Alan ran up behind me, let out a hoot and sprinted in.

Standing beside the desk in the center of the vault, Alan produced a manila envelope from within his jacket and spilled its contents onto the desktop. Two dozen small gold keys scattered across with a thousand metallic clinks. Each key was crudely etched with a three digit number, corresponding to a numbered deposit box. I grabbed one of the keys, #435, and searched out its mate. I unlocked the door and pulled the case from within, then carried it back over to the desk.

Dumping out the contents revealed a sheaf of papers bearing headings like “Last Will And Testament” and “Trust Fund Information,” and an envelope containing several large wads of hundred dollar bills. I took the whole bundle and shoved it into one of the duffel bags on the floor.

Alan was looking for something specific, I knew, but I didn’t know what. Alan hadn’t mentioned anything about an ulterior motive dur-

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ing our planning, but the man doesn’t tell me everything. Honestly, while my curiosity was definitely piqued, the large amounts of cash and occasional jewels Alan and I were pulling out from these seemingly random boxes were more than enough to keep me from asking questions. My only task in here was to gather any and all papers from the boxes during our search.

It took us about ten minutes of rushing to get all of the boxes’ contents transferred to our bags. They must have weighed at least fifty pounds each now. Feeling the weight of the pure wealth they contained made me dizzy with excitement. Flashes of Aruba and midnight black Ferraris occupied my mind before I had to remind myself of the current situation.

I hefted two of the bags over my shoulder and made my way back through the bank lobby to maintenance access. I kicked the door open with my foot and slowly started into the pitch black of the cramped room. I couldn’t believe that we forgot to put some sort of lighting in here. Considering Alan and I were formerly responsible for its upkeep, there were a myriad of ways for me to trip and kill myself in here. A stupid mistake.

Carefully feeling my way through the room with my feet, I made it to the access door to the basement. I turned around and listened to Alan approaching the door, grunting under the weight of the bags.

“Watch your step in here man. It’s a death trap. Wasn’t it your job to get the lights, anyway?” I said.

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I heard Alan stop and curse under his breath, “Well, shit. That’s my bad, man.” His bulky frame filled the doorway, blocking the small amount of light that I had been able to work with. “Just be careful, we’re almost done anyway.”

I thought about stumbling down the stairs and breaking a leg or a hip, unable to do anything except wait helplessly until the cops came to take me away. I couldn’t help but laugh a little at the ridiculousness of the idea. I’d deserve the jail time if I let myself do that.

Alan and I started down the stairs one at a time, making sure we had sure footing before reaching down to the next. I glanced back and tried to make out Alan’s form in the darkness. I could see a brief blur of movement as Alan lurched down to the next step, but I couldn’t discern any detail. Finally my curiosity about the situation overwhelmed me and I opened my mouth.

“So, did you get what you needed?” I said hesitantly.

“Yep,” said Alan flippantly, offering up no further detail.

“Somebody have some dirt on you, or something?”

“Something like that, yeah. I definitely got my dirt.”

We reached the bottom of the stairs, turned the corner and headed off down towards the boiler room. Above us, there was a heavy thud and then the sound of a dozen or so boots storming across the lobby.

The boys in blue must have finally realized the phone call was a diversion. I looked at my watch and saw that nearly twenty minutes had passed since Alan made the call and told them we needed season

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tickets to The Barber of Seville. Maybe I overestimated them.

The boiler room door had been propped open earlier, so Alan and I slid in and walked over to corner of the room away from the behemoth steam boiler that loomed over us. Alan tossed his bags aside and knelt down to examine the tile beneath us. He pulled a putty knife from his belt and slid the blade in between two tiles, digging and wedging the knife down until one of the tiles popped free. Alan set the knife down and slid the tile to the side. I leaned over and popped another tile free with my fingers, an easy task now that the tension had been removed. Underneath, four small holes could be made out in the concrete flooring, into which Alan placed his fingers. With a couple of seconds of straining, he heaved the concrete hatch up and stood up, rubbing his hands.

I took the first bag and shoved it through the hole beneath the hatch, watching as it disappeared into the darkness below. Impact with the bottom of the shaft echoed up to us, and we fed the rest of the bags in next.

Alan glanced down into the hole and then pulled out a silver cylinder.

“Wait a second, where the hell did you get a flashlight?” I said, stunned he hadn’t mentioned this when we were making our way through the darkness with excruciating slowness.

“I’ve had it all along, for this.”

“What about up there when I could have died?”

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“My hands were full, man.”

I stared at him for a few seconds before just shaking my head and moving along. I grabbed the flashlight from Alan’s hands and crouched down next to the rough hole we had cut in the ground over the past two years. All of the waiting and patience was about to pay off, I thought to myself. Having to put up with Alan for two goddamn years was going to pay off royally.

The hole gaped up at me, almost pulling me out of the pure darkness below. I clicked the flashlight on and shined it down, flooding the chamber we dug with light. We had hammered a ladder made of rebar and scrap metal into the wall of the shaft, shoring up the walls with concrete as we went. Digging had been a slow and arduous process; Alan and I were only able to work when we were both scheduled on the same shifts, and only then when we worked alone. That, combined with the fact that we had to maintain acceptable working habits in order to keep this job, only afforded us an hour or so every couple of nights of solid digging.

I swung a leg down inside, letting it softly rest on the first rung before settling my weight down. The rung held, and I slowly started my descent. I climbed down until Alan was able to get in above me. I held the flashlight up against the wall as Alan reached up to grab the hatch above him. With a heavy grunt, Alan pulled the hatch down with a loud crash and started climbing down.

At the end of the shaft, a good thirty feet down into the earth, I

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crawled down through a hole carved through rusted iron and into the heart of the city’s sewer, gagging on the putrid smell that rose to greet me. I lowered myself down towards the platform Alan and I had built the month before, slipping and falling on my ass as my foot found one of the duffel bags rather than solid wood. I muttered a curse under my breath as I stood up, then watched as Alan’s legs emerged from the hole as well. Alan touched down solidly and looked around the sewer with a gigantic grin smeared across his face. I couldn’t believe that we’d been able to pull this off, just two men. As if reading my mind, Alan turned to me and started to speak.

“Amazing, isn’t it? I knew this would go well. I just knew it would.”

“Yeah, but it’s just a matter of time until they find this shaft and, via the shaft, us,” I said, pulling out an acetylene torch from a set of tools left down here in the sewer. I pulled a piece of sheet metal from a pile and held it up against the side of the sewer where we’d cut through. Alan threw on some gloves and a set of goggles and held up the piece of metal while I primed the torch.

“Well, that’s one more surprise I have for you buddy,” Alan said.

His smirk was given an eerie cast by the sparking torch as I welded the steel onto the pipe. I finished the last weld and sat back, satisfied that the weld would hold for quite some time. It would take the police a while to get a torch down the hole and cut it open, more than enough to get out and be on our way.

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I looked over at Alan as he rifled through his jacket--what cornucopia of treasures must it contain?--and pulled out a piece of plastic no bigger than a cell phone. He grinned wide again and pressed his thumb down on the device. Nothing happened for several seconds, until a mammoth rumble shook the entire sewer, knocking patches of rust off the ceiling into the nameless sludge below.

Alan sighed happily, withdrew a cigarette and used the welding torch to ignite it. I looked at him, my jaw slack.

“What. Did. You. Just. Do.” I said, overemphasizing each word.

“I cleared our tracks, man!” Alan said, throwing his arms up into the air, “They’re not going to be able to find out what we did for weeks!”

“You took down the building?!”

“Yes. Yes, I did. Surprise!”

“There were seven innocent people up there! And then all of the cops, too! You killed them all, you bastard.”

“Eh, well,” Alan said, taking a deep drag from his cigarette before continuing, “You gotta break some eggs to make an omelet.” Alan grabbed two of the duffel bags and headed off down the sewer, whistling the Talking Heads’ “Burning Down The House.”

I stared at Alan’s back as it receded down the pipeline. Christ, I knew I was putting myself at tremendous risk with the bank robbery alone, but now I was on the line for assisted murder as well. At least seven counts. With explosives. I started to wonder if Alan knew

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I would feel like this, that I would have doubts as to whether or not it’s worth it. Maybe the demolition was his guarantee that I’d follow along. Now that I was facing the chair, most likely, I had nothing else to lose.

So, I followed.

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Safe Between the Pages a.e. Tyree

Hiding in the closet, her book clutched to her chest, she scrunched down on the brown vinyl beanbag, praying for invisibility. It was four o’clock. He would be home any minute.

The front door slammed. “Daddy’s home, honey.”

Pushing her bangs out of her eyes, she concentrated on breathing quietly. She heard the floor squeak downstairs with each step he took.

“I know you’re home princess. Where are you?” One by one, doors banged open, shaking the walls.

She squeezed the book tighter, careful not to touch the recent bruises on her arms. “Just go away, just go away,” she whispered. The foul smell of her own breath in the cramped space made her gag.

The stairs groaned in protest as he mounted the first step. The next. “Baby Doll, let me know where you are. Mommy will be home in an hour, and we won’t have time to play our special game.”

She wedged herself deeper into the beanbag. She didn’t want to play their special game. It made her hurt all over, made it burn every time she peed. He must be right, that all daddies played this game

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with their princesses, but she didn’t want to be like all the other little girls. She wanted to be like the girls in the books she read. She wanted to be like Lucy in the Chronicles of Narnia, or like Hermione in the Harry Potter books.

“God damn it, I know you’re here somewhere.” His voice thundered down the hallway. “Come out now and I won’t have to punish you.”

Trembling, she reached one hand down to the floor, ran it over the cedar chips Grandma always kept in her closet. The clothes still smelled like her, a mix of lemons and bitter almonds. Daddy hated Grandma and hadn’t come into her room since she died last month.

She would be safe here.

She heard his ragged breathing at the door to Grandma’s bedroom. He stood there a long time before shoving the door open. A picture crashed to the floor. She slapped her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out.

“Are you in here you little bitch?”

She held her breath, tried not to move, afraid he would hear the rustle of the beanbag. His foot kicked the door jam over and over, but he didn’t come into the room.

“You’ll pay for this later,” he shouted and slammed the door shut.

Motionless, she listened to his footsteps as he stomped down the stairs.

Shaking with relief, she slowly opened the new book, careful not to crease the spine. Flicking on her flashlight, she started read-

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ing, concentrating on each word. Grandma always said books were the strongest magic, and one of these books would be the key. If she believed hard enough, she could travel to that world, become part of the book. She would be safe at last, between the pages.

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Elko

Harris Tobias

There was no way a broken down piece of junk like his could even qualify for the Madison 500, let alone win it. In a classy race like this, only the best and the fastest had the right to compete. The car ran like a dream but it looked like hell. It was held together with duct tape and spit. Its mismatched panels and patched up body looked like something abandoned on the roadside. That look might be okay for the county dirt tracks, but in the Madison he’d be the ugly duckling among the swans. That’s if he even made it through inspection. And that was just the car.

Elko himself was the bigger problem. He might be the best and, if he could ever get this piece of shit engine to run, he might be the fastest as well. But an off worlder like him had a lot of prejudice to overcome. There’s nothing new about that. There isn’t a more bigoted, inhospitable, unfriendly arena on our planet than a back country, red clay race track. Elko never expected to be loved or even tolerated; all he wanted was a chance to compete. You can count on the racing world to throw up one stupid obstacle after another, with great pluck

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and resourcefulness he had overcome them all. He was Elko, the first and only race qualified alien in history. Aliens didn’t get anything handed to them on Terra and that went double in racing. For Elko, life was a struggle every inch of the way.

Elko’s immediate problem wasn’t his low social standing, it was getting the old ruined engine out of the classic Chevy and fitting a new one in. He still had six hours before race time.

It was a beautiful piece of work, the old engine, but it was ruined, never to run again. Was it sabotage? Probably, but how could he prove it and who’d listen to an alien accusing a Terran anyway?

Hell, he’d lovingly re-built every piece of that engine himself. Life was just throwing him one more challenge.

Elko himself was another whole set of problems. The ultra conservative Terran Racing Federation liked things the way they were when gasoline engines weren’t antique curiosities. To say the Federation was biased against off world drivers was putting it mildly. They were biased against every new idea and progressive change that came down the pike. They were against Jews, blacks, women and aliens—anything that threatened their good ol’ boy, beer drinking fraternity. Racing was an Earth sport for Earthlings, damn it, no others need apply.

Elko was a true curiosity, an alien from an Earth-like world without a history of automobile racing or internal combustion engines for that matter. He saw his first car race only by accident having been a high school exchange student in rural Virginia. He fell in with a

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bunch of “hot rodders” and in spite of heaps of ridicule and resistance managed to master the intricacies of auto repair and the fine points of auto racing. And even though internal combustion engines had long ago been replaced in the popular culture by newer and cleaner technology, the conservative Racing Federation clung to its petroleum fueled roots. Alton Turnbuckle, the despotic head of the Terran Racing had said on numerous occasions that, “there’d be no battery operated toys racing on his tracks.”

In those early days, Elko was befriended by Billy “Big Bob” Holtz a good old boy who bucked the anti-alien feelings of his peers and gave Elko his first driving lessons. He saw something in the gawky kid with the funny name and extra limbs that he would later describe as some kind of goofy talent. Years later, after Elko had returned to his world, Big Bob Holtz would give a toothless smile when he recalled how Elko drove the family VW “directly into a telephone pole and came out smiling.”

Under Holtz’s guidance and later as partners, Elko learned how to customize a relatively tame street machine into a fire breathing, roaring demon. Maybe it was Elko’s alien brain that made it possible to innovate so well or maybe it was Holtz’s idiosyncratic belief that there wasn’t anything he couldn’t fix, but it didn’t take long before their inspired re-built engines were winning street races and impressing girls. The challenges and the resentment followed soon after. There were fist fights which the scrappy alien usually won. It’s hard to box

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or wrestle a seven foot, multi-armed opponent.

The two friends didn’t care about their peers. They scraped together enough money to buy their first stock car and, with Big Bob filling out the application, Elko slipped into the driver’s seat and won his first officially sanctioned race. After his victory lap, when he climbed out of his car to accept the trophy and kiss the beauty queen, the crowd almost rioted. The two friends just narrowly got away with their lives.

But they were hooked on the racing life. It was just the beginning of a career filled with heartbreaking disappointment, hate filled sabotage and the stubborn persistence of two beings a world apart.

The two friends had to travel out of state in order to fool the officials a second time. Already the Virginia chapter of the Racing Federation had modified its by-laws to prohibit non-Terran drivers.

But Big Bob had a friend in North Carolina named Arden Samson.

Arden was no alien lover and made Elko sleep in the barn but he agreed to get their car, a souped up Carmen Ghia with a Elko re-invented Chevy 357 engine, registered and entered in the Gopher Classic.

The field was filled with tobacco chewing, alien hating, good old boys from all over the South. More than one of them actually growled their displeasure when they saw Elko suiting up and one Neanderthal walked up to Elko and spit tobacco juice on his windshield.

Insults and tobacco spit weren’t enough to put Elko off his game.

Starting from the worst pole position on the track, Elko drove old number 17 faster and better than he’d ever driven before. He fought his way through the pack, coordinated traps, debris strewn lanes, and eFiction Magazine

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a spit covered windshield to win the Gopher Classic. Not only did he win but he broke the track record by a stunning twelve minutes.

It was so fast a time that it caused the judges to disqualify the car claiming they miscounted the number of laps. It wasn’t the last time Elko was to be robbed of a victory.

Success was not to be denied this gawky kid from a planet of which no one had ever heard. The press started taking notice of the gritty alien with the blue skin and several three fingered hands. There was no doubt that Elko deserved to race and he certainly earned his victories, but he couldn’t have done it alone. There would have been no victories at all if he couldn’t race and he couldn’t race if the Federation hadn’t smelled money. It was the realization by Alton Turnbuckle that the funny looking kid could draw a crowd. And with a wink and a nod, Elko was allowed to race. Elko was good box office. People loved to see him loose and when he won they loved to shout their insults from the stands.

Eventually Elko attracted fans of his own. He’d earned something that Turnbuckle could use to his advantage— the grudging respect of the die hard Federation fans. Elko was permitted to race but he was forbidden to touch the pretty blond. An alien kissing an Earth girl was still too much to take.

“Just keep that thing away from my daughter,” was the prevailing sentiment.

But that was then. This was now. This was the big race, how he

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fought his way here was as gritty a tale of hard work, persistence and good luck as you’re ever likely to hear. It was also besides the point.

The Madison 500 was in a few hours and his best engine was filled with crap—bb pellets, sand and steel bolts. It would need a total rebuild and there just wasn’t time for that.

Big Bob emptied the crap out of the oil pan and shook his head.

“It’s ruined, Elk, she ain’t never gonna fly. We should just go home.”

Elko had never seen his friend and chief mechanic so defeated. They were about to push the race car onto the trailer for the long ride home when inspiration struck. “Hold on a sec,” said Big Bob, “I just got me an idea.”

The next few hours were a blur of improvisation and inspiration. Elko employed all his arms and talents to adapt the old pick up truck’s engine to work in 17’s beat up body. There were a thousand problems. The truck motor was a Ford, the stock car’s was a Chevy.

At one point Big Bob used his snuff can to fabricate a missing part.

With only minutes to spare, they rolled old 17 out of the garage and into the light. The din from twenty powerful engines was deafening and the smell of exhaust smoke was thick in the air. Elko slipped his lanky frame behind the wheel and Big Bob gave him the thumbs up as the hastily modified truck engine caught.

Elko drove the car to his place in the rear of the pack. He could see the looks of shock and surprise on the high priced drivers at the head of the line. Those were the same smug bastards with all the en-

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dorsements, the best cars and mechanics money could buy who still found it necessary to sabotage a poor boy’s chances in order to bolster their own. The crowd booed loudly when they saw car number 17 take its place at the end of the line. Elko waved a blue arm out the window while keeping his others busy at the controls. Then there was the starting flag, the noise and smoke as the 500 begun.

The Madison 500 is a grueling race. It’s hard on drivers and harder on their machines. The old Ford engine started off well enough and Elko fought his way from twentieth place to sixth before the oil pressure failed. He pulled into the pit before he did any permanent damage. He told Big Bob the problem as they gassed up and changed tires. There was nothing Big Bob could do about the low pressure except bang on the oil pump with his wrench and threaten to damn the part to hell if it failed. Then he spat on the windshield for luck and sent Elko back on the track. The pit stop cost them ten places and Elko resumed the race in sixteenth. Again he drove brilliantly and fought his way into second. The crowd by this time was solidly behind him. His driving was flawless. He was the plucky underdog who triumphed against all odds to challenge the well financed leader.

It was a classic David versus Goliath story, an American story, one that all ten thousand fans could understand. When the crowd learned of the sabotage and the last minute engine transplant, they cheered for Elko even more.

For a minute it looked like the goofy kid from another world

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might just pull it off. Ten thousand racing fans were on their feet screaming their lungs out. But, alas, it was not to be. On the 487th lap, with Elko challenging the leader, the old Ford engine finally died.

The crowd heaved a massive sigh of deflated hopes. The yellow flag slowed the race and old 17 was ignominiously pushed off the track.

The crowd gave Elko a standing ovation as he unfolded his lanky frame from his car. He, in turn, raised some of his arms in salute while simultaneously blowing kisses to the crowd. They were still cheering him twenty minutes later when the well heeled favorite crossed the finish line as expected. There was no drama in the anti-climatic ending of the Madison 500.

The drama of that race belonged to Elko even though he didn’t even finish. There was no trophy and no prize money that day and Big Bob was wondering how they were going to get home; but after the winner received his trophy and his check, the pretty blond beauty queen walked over to a bewildered Elko and planted a big kiss on his alien mouth. The crowd went wild.

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Night Shift Kelly Crites

Marci navigated the hardwood floor with measured steps, the path before her lit only by the slight slants of moonlight peaking from between the blinds. The room was still, save for the rolling snores of Mr. Carmelo. She loved jobs like these. At any moment her victim could wake up and send her racing from the house. The danger was intoxicating.

Reaching the faded wooden dresser, she stopped to survey the room. It was clear that his wife had been the decorator. The walls were tinged a soft blue from the moonbeams, floral patterns and doilies covering every spare inch of the shadowy space. Photos of Mr. and Mrs. Carmelo throughout their marriage hung delicately on the wall.

The entire dresser top was coated with dust, seemingly undisturbed since the passing of his wife. Apparently Mr. Carmelo had had a hard time coping with his loss. Marci felt her chest twinge with sympathy. She shook it off. This was part of the job. She needed to remind herself why she was here. To put it simply, Mr. Carmelo was an easy target: elderly, senile, and prone to routine. She had staked him out

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a few weeks ago under the pretense of a home health nurse and had found his home to be ideal for a break-in.

With new resolve, she reached for the jewelry box, slipping her finger under the lip of the wood so as to not smudge the layer of dust on top. Within its velvety lining lay what she was looking for.

Strands of pearls and rings laden with jewels glimmered softly in the moonlight. Marci plucked a couple of rings from their resting place, slipping them into the pocket of her dark jeans. The gold chilled her thigh through the material, a delicious, forbidden feeling. She looked back to check on Mr. Carmelo just as a breeze from the open window caught the lid of the box, closing it with a deafening crack. Marci hit the floor, silently cursing her memory for not shutting the window she had entered through. She listened closely for signs of movement.

None. The only discernable change was the still of the air, the frail man’s snoring now a soft wheeze. Cautiously, she lifted herself to her knees, just high enough to peak over the floral spread. Mr. Carmelo was deep in sleep, unmoving except for the light flutter of his chest.

She stood up once more, reaching quickly for whatever else was left in the box. The lid had been a close call and she didn’t want to stick around for something worse to happen. Just as she was about to slip the remaining jewels into her other pocket, she heard the unmistakable click of a gun. She froze. Bolting wasn’t an option when a gun was involved, there was no way she could outrun a bullet. Slowly, she shifted her body towards the bed. Mr. Carmelo stood before her,

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the mouth of his gun aimed straight at her chest. He didn’t look so fragile anymore.

“You’d best put my wife’s jewelry back where you found it, Miss Marci. I’m not sweet on thieves.”

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The Golden Age Stasey Norstrom

If you believe nothing else, believe this: every piece of bullshit that comes out of my mouth is true.

Once again, I found myself sitting on the roof of the six-screen Sun Valley Cinemas, legs dangling over the edge, a Black & Gold hanging from my mouth. German cigarettes always made my head a little light and swimmy; perhaps not the best choice of nicotine while sitting 30 feet above a sea of concrete and people (“patrons” as we in the biz called them). Even though I probably could’ve used some help to get off the ledge, I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask for help from my ninja/computer-hacker/video-gamer rooftop associate, Bob. Foreign, industrial nicotine and certain death does not deter one from being an idiot.

Bob drove a black El Camino and listened to Metallica. Every day he wore black jeans, black urban cowboy boots, and a black overcoat. His wardrobe complemented his jet black hair and contrasted his pale-ass white skin. Aside from his felon-in-training visage, he was one of the nicest guys I ever had the privilege of splicing local business wires with.

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<pause> Adviso: All mention of computer hacking and other episodes of legal non-conformity are completely fabricated and hypothetical. I do not condone any social misconduct that would result in a misdemeanor and/or felony. In no way would we do these things as they are illegal and would keep us from joining the FBI and the CIA and other cool shit. <play> Bob exhaled industrial-strength smoke from his lungs and smiled.

“You know what?”

“Yep.” I watched the collection of people congeal in front of the main doors: antsy children driving their parents crazy, mothers shuffling their candy-laden purses so as to not draw attention and have their foodstuffs confiscated. Like we cared.

Bob began to flick his cigarette butt up and over the edge, but stopped as he looked to the crowd of agitated patrons below. He rolled back and hopped to his feet, squishing the butt under his boot heel. “We should get going.”

“Why?” I sucked down the rest of my smoke, fighting through the dizziness as I shoved the butt into the crunchy rock rooftop.

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Bob lifted a brow. “Because you’re the acting manager, you have the only set of keys, and we should’ve opened the doors fifteen minutes ago.”

“Fine.” I looked past the angry mob below and surveyed the western hills nestled against the blue backdrop of Marin County skies.

I eventually lifted my stocky frame off the roof, careful not to pitch myself over the edge. “Why are there so many damn kids here today?”

“First day of summer, man.” Bob was a step or two ahead of me so I couldn’t see the look of amusement on his bewildered face.

“Jesus,” I sputtered, “don’t they have summer school or something? I always had summer school.”

“And look at you now, boss.” Even though Bob walked a step or two ahead of me, I knew he had that cheeky grin on his face. Jackass.

I shook my head and smiled while Bob skipped high and far into the air, as if Death was on holiday and decided to spend it on a shitty rock garden. He reached the rooftop hatch and quickly descended into the theater’s bowels, anxious to unleash his never-ending energy.

When he showed up to work this morning, he was proud to tell me he was functioning on only fourty-five minutes of sleep and that his actions were in direct defiance of both God and the laws of nature.

It always amazed me that he could function on three or so hours of sleep each night, staying up until five or six in the morning, only to then wake up at 9:00 and leap out of bed, ready to craft his plans for world domination.

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As I reached for the ladder, I heard a yell and a crash of heavy thuds. Bob called out, “J.J.! What the hell are you doing? Why do you only have one boot on?”

I closed my eyes, waiting for the answer.

“I found a mouse!”

Bloody hell. *** “It’s about time.”

“I am so sorry. I didn’t realize you were so excited to get things rollin’.” I feigned sincerity.

“What-ev-er.” Michelle stood in her typical bitch pose: a hand on one hip, the other hip jutting out, her head sharply moving side to side. She wore her bleached blonde hair on top of her head in an uptight bun. Personally, she was caught between being a teenage drama queen, a valley girl dingbat, and an absolute pain in my ass.

Luckily, for my amusement, her pose and attitude were diffused greatly by the theater’s blue and grey polyester uniform that she wore. And they were downright nasty; no matter how many times you cleaned them, you could never get out the stench of butter fat, coke syrup, and minimum wage.

Patting her on the back while walking by, I turned my attention to her co-worker at the opposite end of the ticket booth. “You ready

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to go, Tiff?”

“Oh. Yeah. I’m real excited.” Tiffany completed her face painting, staring into her pocket mirror, puckering up at her reflection. She was the self-imposed “hot chick” at the theater: always catching the eye of middle-aged men and their teenage sons. For her, she was always on the lookout for a future ex-boyfriend, yet I never seemed to appear on the list of applicants. Though I wouldn’t mind some alone time with her, she definitely was more consumed with herself to be bothered by anyone else.

I yanked out the wad of keys from my pocket, untangled them, and shoved the key into the main door lock. “Here we go.” Goody.

The glass door swung outward and I pushed, shoving a small boy into his father, both of whom gave me an instant face of anger and confusion. “Sorry about that, kiddo,” I diverted my focus to the shorter and easier to please of the duo. “Hey, why don’t you go in first.” Most of me felt bad for knocking the little guy around, but surely not enough that I wouldn’t do it again if given the chance. We all knew what disaster would be wrought upon us by those impish minions of hell: they would stop at nothing until they destroyed, ate, and barfed on everything they could get their body parts on. We shudder after entering the bathroom following the end of a children’s movie. Yes. Children were the bane of our existence.

I stepped back into the cool confines of the theater, quickly watching it all come alive with soccer moms complaining, kids screaming,

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and video games blaring. Parents wrangled their miniature drunken cattle, trying feverishly to corral them into the correct auditorium.

I looked around the back lobby, counting the heads of the ushers. I sighed, grimacing, and searched for my partner-in-hypothetical-crime.

I found him darting amongst the pillars of people, his ninja-like skills keeping him from being trampled over by parent and child alike. He saw me waving him over and quickly cut a path through the moving dense urban jungle. “What’s up, boss man?”

“Where the hell is Willy?” I turned slightly, watching a father grab his two kids and trudge off toward the auditorium, each child slung over a shoulder like a sack of squirming potatoes.

“Who knows. He’s probably asleep still. He hasn’t shown up to work on time for years.” Bob turned the other direction, keeping constant vigil over the patrons as they shambled to and fro. “But I did see Lucy, though.”

“Oh yeah?” I snapped my head back to his, trying my best to not seem interested. “Today is her day off,” I said. “I think,” I added.

“Maybe, well…maybe not, but I am pretty sure—” Dude, shut up, already.

“I don’t know,” he drew out each word slowly, “but I do know that she’s looking for you.”

“Fuck you.” I smiled at my own embarrassment. “Why don’t you go get some work done for once?”

“Coming from the guy that sleeps in the office all day long.”

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“Hey.” I began to turn and walk away. “I’m awake now.” Jackass. *** “What the hell do you mean, ‘it’s sold out’?” The man placed both hands on the ticket booth counter and leaned in towards Tiffany. I made my way to the ticket booth, taking a stance behind both her and Michelle.

“I mean we’re sold out, sir.” Tiffany held her ground, throwing back a lock of curly dark brown hair. “Due to regulations, we’re not allowed to sell anymore tickets to this feature.”

“Well then what the hell are we supposed to do?” The man ran his hand over his balding head.

“There are plenty of seats available for The Other Movie.” Tiffany flashed her plastic smile.

“I heard that was a piece of crap.” The man folded his arms, a daughter on either side of him.

“I took my nephews to see it last week,” Michelle chimed in.

“They really liked it.”

The man sighed, shaking his head. “Fine.” He ripped his wallet out of his Dockers. “I need four tickets.”

“Ok,” Tiffany maintained her fake smile, “that’ll be thirty dollars, please.”

“Are you serious?” The man pulled out and tossed two twenties

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on the counter. “Whatever.”

Tiffany punched some keys on the pad and 4 tickets spat out through the counter. She handed them to the man along with his change. “Thank you. Enjoy your movie.”

“Uh-huh.” He walked off, girls trailing behind him, and headed to the candy counter.

I stepped back, surveying the man and his kids, wondering if he was going to keep his word and head into The Other Movie and not The Big Movie. Reluctantly, he opened the auditorium door for The Other Movie. Shuttling his girls inside, he turned and caught me watching him.

“Enjoy.” I said, full of I-don’t-give-a-crap.

He sneered and tried his hardest to slam a hydraulic-assisted door.

A heavy hiss of air surrounded the door, along with a part of his waning pride, no doubt.

“Hey. You.” Said a cute female voice.

I spun with head high, looking for the source of the cute female voice.

“You are such a jerk.”

Grinning, I looked down at the face of light brown skin and deep, dark eyes. “I try.” Overdoing my grin, I shorten it up but lose control in the process and it bunches up on one side. “What are you doing here? It’s you day off.” I failed at my attempt of indifference.

“It is. Or was.” A coy smile slipped across her face. “I traded shifts

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with Chelsea.”

“You traded a quiet night shift for opening day of The Big Movie?”

My brow reflexively came together. “Why?” “I don’t know.” She flitted her lashes; I couldn’t tell if it was at me or she was having an eyelash spasm. “She was also scheduled to work a double, so it looks like I’ll be here all day.”

“How funny. I am too.” I realized my toe was digging itself into the carpet, as if twitterpated all on its own. Stop.

“Well then we’ll be seeing each other a lot today.”

“That’s too bad.” It was still digging. Stop it!

“Dork.” She slugged me in the arm, subjecting each of us to fifth grade romantic gestures.

“Get to work.” I nodded towards the ticket booth.

She stuck her tongue out at me—I considered it briefly—and headed off. I watched her a bit too long to be inconspicuous. Quickyouidiot!

“Oh. Hey.” I yelled out over the crowd.

“What?” She turned, yelling back.

I knew I should step up, grow a pair, and just ask her out. Chances are she’ll say yes, but for some idiotic reason—you’re a pussy—I can’t seem to find the words. I always tell myself “it’s not the right time” or some other crap like that, but I just need to own up to my chickenshit-ery and ask her out. “So… where the hell is your brother?” God, I suck.

She shrugged her shoulders, “I don’t know.” She turned back to-

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wards the booth, “probably still asleep.” She walked off, keeping my manly batting average to nothing. Dumb ass.

I headed into The Big Movie’s auditorium. Though all was mostly darkened and the previews were in full swing, I could still hear kids still shouting and parents shouting even louder, telling their kids to not shout.

I checked the temperature in the auditorium, making sure it was just a bit over tolerable. When we had a theater full of spastic kids, we found that sweating them out a bit seemed to leech the sugar from their bodies and even knock out the smallest ones. Sure, these were drastic measures, but opening day of The Big Movie called for it. Trust me.

I watched the previews, just to make sure the transition from preview to film went smoothly, checking sound and focus and all that other crap I’m supposed to do but never really deal with. <pause> Note: On occasion, I have been known to perform my job duties. At times, working was a hell of a lot better than wandering the lobby, being assaulted by moronic parents and even more moronic high school summer employees; nothing like the scent of sweaty, acneridden temporary staff fumbling around, handling food and dirty money at the same time. Awesome.

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<play> I was hoping to make a dash across the lobby and into the office, where a comfy chair and nap awaited me. I had been on my feet for 45 minutes and I was exhausted. Turning from my position at the back of the auditorium, I walked off, still watching the screen.

“I’ll give you forty bucks to get us some seats.”

“What the fu—” I held my tongue as I spun and hit the brakes.

In front of me stood the jackass father and his two daughters. All of them were supposed to be in The Other Movie and not trying to bribe me to get into the The Big Movie.

“C’mon, man. Look,” he pointed to a dozen scattered seats in the far front corners of the auditorium: the crappy seats where you couldn’t see a damn thing on the screen yet the theater designer thought was a good idea. “There are plenty of seats.” His daughters stood behind him, eyes full of hope, mouth full of popcorn, each carrying their kiddy tray.

“Well,” I scanned the seats again, caught in a moral tug-o-war.

Forty bucks would be great right now. I could ask Lucy out and go to some place nicer than Taco Bell. But I shouldn’t take the guy’s money—damn! look at that watch of his. He can afford the forty bucks. “Lemme see…” I began to look for a few seats further back.

Perhaps I could get people to move in and make some—

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“Whu-whu-what’s the problem here?”

Shit.

I didn’t even bother looking over, knowing full well whose stutter it belonged to. I instead turned back to the father—careful to look past the two sets of eyes begging for mercy—and gave a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry, sir. There aren’t any more seats that we can sell,” I leaned in a bit, away from the greasy ear of my co-worker, “besides, all the remaining seats suck and you don’t wanna let your daughters watch the movie from down there, shoved in the corner. It’s terrible down there.” My head and smile tilted slightly. “Trust me.”

The father looked out at the seats one more time. He unclenched his shoulders and nodded in humble submission. “All right.” He turned towards me and I caught a hint of a smile. “Thanks for checking.”

He turned and knelt down, whispering something to his girls. They looked to each other and smiled wide, turning with their trays and headed down the corridor. I stepped up beside the father as he stood back up. “Ice cream,” he said, “works wonders.”

“Totally.” I watched him walk back into the light, out of sight for now. I checked my cool glow-in-the-dark watch and headed down the corridor myself, completely ignoring the stuttering jackass beside me.

“Did you guh-go to the bank and get,” he followed behind me, an annoying buzz in my ear, “chuh-change?”

“Nope,” I replied quickly without lack of stutter.

“Whu-why not?” I could hear a twinge of frustration in his voice,

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which made me feel good inside.

“Because I’ve been here for an hour, we’ve been busy, and I’m the only manager here,” I rolled my eyes, “until you, of course.” I pushed open the auditorium doors and moved out into the bright lobby. With the films in full swing, the lobby had died down and the staff was milling about. Ushers dragged their dustpans behind him in a weak attempt to collect bits of whatever it ran into. The candy counter “girls”—that was their title, regardless of gender—were busy wiping syrup-soaked popcorn, scattered salt, and congealed butter fat off the counter and onto the floor. A push broom waited at one end, ready to shove the debris to a corner of the floor so it could be promptly ignored until yelled at by someone other than me.

“Juh-just make sure you go before we ruh-run out.” He scurried past my sauntering gait, his rat-like movements garnering him the nickname, “ratón.” I normally settled for “shit-head” but since the majority of ushers are from many countries south of San Francisco, I kept with the local Spanish-speaking flavor. I moved towards the ticket booth, ignoring Matt while he scolded the candy girls for sweeping the floor debris into the corner.

“I’m taking a break.” Michelle grabbed her cell phone and headed for the bathroom.

I raised an eyebrow while turning my head at Tiffany. “Uh…” “She gets lonely.” Tiffany focused on the lips reflecting in her pocket mirror. “I think she needs to dump that asshole boyfriend of

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hers before he gets out of jail.”

“Nice.”

“I’m getting a drink.” Tiffany snapped her mirror shut and headed to the candy counter.

I raised a half-smile, spying the petite female covered in polyester slowly moving towards me. “Yes?” I pulled the question out slowly.

Lucy squished up her mouth, making her nose wrinkle. “I was thinking that maybe you could do something—” Holy shit she’s asking me out.

“—and hire my little brother.”

Dammit. <pause> I took a mental step back, waiting for my heart to stop pounding.

Here was another perfect chance to ask her out—to even have her ask me out—but instead I go and blow another opportunity. I knew that if I didn’t do something soon… <play> “Hello?”

“Whuh—” “You’re weird.” Lucy gave me that cute grin of hers: the kind

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that I would expect to be followed up with a slug on the shoulder or a kick in the shins. I wouldn’t mind if she did, as long as it resulted in some semblance of physical contact. Yes, I’m stupid that way.

“I don’t mind. I’ve been called worse.” I try to cover my nervousness with humor.

Shaking her head, she turns back to some customers walking in.

Awesome. Good work, genius. That’s the second time you’ve blown it. You get one more chance. Failing that, it’s the nunnery for you. I watch the people get their tickets and walk off from Lucy and me, finally giving me the chance to— “So, Lucy,” I took a deep breath and puffed up my lack of a chest, “I—” “OH MY GOD, SHE’S BLEEDING!” I snapped my head to the commotion which was rising from behind the candy counter. The candy girls and some of the users formed a circle, swarming around someone sitting on the grease-laden floor.

“Victoria slipped and hit her head on the counter,” Michelle informed me with irritation in her voice, as if tattling on both her and the concession floor. I acknowledged her complaint and looked for a hole to see Victoria without having to actually engage her inside the concessions area. Victoria “Thanks-For-Nothing” Greene was an elitist bitch from some exclusive neighborhood. None of us could understand why she should want to slum it with us lower folk. Perhaps she thought working among us poor and destitute would look great

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on her college application.

“You’re bleeding, huh?” I showed her all the sympathy of a rock.

“That’s gotta suck.”

Victoria did her best to slip me her evil gaze while looking like an innocent victim. She chose not to speak and let her moans and whimpers speak for her. One of the candy girls handed her an ice pack. She disregarded it with a slight sneer, “I’m bleeding. I need an ambulance, not an ice pack.” I imagined the roof opening up and a Life Flight team taking her away in one of those cool stretcher-in-a-wire-basket contraptions…and then dropping her into the San Francisco Bay. If only.

I surveyed the scene, examining the blood on the counter and on her hand and head. Her head was a mess of thin straight brown hair and matted red— Screams of tortured souls erupted from the back of the lobby: children poured out of The Big Movie and clumped around each parent. Anger, confusion, and more anger covered the parents’ faces, ready to choose fight over flight. I spotted Bob wading through the muck and mire of parents and their broods of sorrow. I squished my brows and nodded to the emptying auditorium. “The Hell?”

“Film broke.” Bob raised a brow and smirked. I learned early on that he was a card-carrying anarchist, providing no one got hurt, property wasn’t damaged, and no infractions of the law occurred.

Last summer, he and J.J. found great delight in picking up the backs

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of cars and moving them around the parking lot while their owners enjoyed their overpriced entertainment. I should’ve told them to stop doing that but, all in all, I was pretty damned impressed.

“Young man, just what is going on here?” A scowling grandmother bored her stink eye into my brain. She was surrounded by her little brood’s of destruction and they were not happy.

“Ma’am,” I gave her my calm-and-rational tone, both of which we knew was total bullshit, “unfortunately there was technical incident, but I was just informed that it will be corrected and the film will resume shortly.

“Well, I think we should get our money back,” said the mother in her too-expensive jogging suit and 40 pounds of gold.

“Sure thing,” my full-of-shit smile directed her behind me. “Just head up to the ticket booth and they will gladly issue you a refund.”

As my eyes settled on the booth, they were met by Lucy: hands on hips and her mouth pulled tight. She knew we were never to issue a refund without a fight and even then we were only supposed to dispense readmission tickets and not actual cash. “Lucy will be able to help you right up there.”

Lucy rubbed her forehead with her middle finger. I wrinkled my nose back at her.

“Too bad you can’t give us a refund on the time we wasted.” She moved her saddened spawn toward Lucy, no doubt eager to climb back into her BMW and head back to her small mansion of a home

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so that she can climb on her stair master and climb up invisible steps for an hour, going nowhere.

“Whu-what’s happening?” Matt’s voice stumbled out as he moved quickly amongst the angry patrons. He was tucking in his shirt, a no doubt sign that he was enjoying a little time in the Stall of Fortitude.

Others called it The Can. “The Big Movie broke, the lobby is filled with rioting children, and Victoria was attacked by a buttered-up floor and an innocent ketchup packet.” I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets. “Sounds like a typical day, eh, Matt?” Feigned humor was lost on El Ratón, as was any type of humor. The soulless found nothing funny.

“I am bleeding! I need an ambulance!” Victoria held out her hand, the evidence coating her palm and fingers.

“Holy sh—” The remaining color of Matt’s already pasty skin drained from his face. He put a hand to his mouth and backed off, taking a blind step into the side of little girl standing next to her older sister and their father, whom just moments before had emerged from The Other Movie. The father reached down and hoisted his frightened daughter up into his daughter. Matt landed on his ass, now nauseated and terrified of the father with his no-doubt wealthy attorney on retainer.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” The father glared down at the rat, now scrambling to get to his feet. “Are you retarded?”

“Buh-buh, I, uh…” Matt scurried off as always, commanding the

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ushers into inaction as they all spoke fractured English. Matt then began to make some statement to the irate mob that had filled the lobby.

I promptly tuned him out and turned to find the father and his two girls before me. “Hey.” “Hey there. Sorry about him,” I flung out of my mouth casually, “but we didn’t have a choice in hiring him. Y’know, that whole Affirmative Action thing.” I had no idea if Affirmative Action included jackass stuttering co-workers or not, but I was betting this guy didn’t know either.

“Oh. Right.” The father nodded in agreement with my complete lack of knowledge. “C’mon girls, let’s go get some ice cream.” He began to walk away but stopped back to face me. “And that movie we saw?”

OhGodohpleasesayoulikedit “Not too bad. And the girls loved it.” In unison, smiles broke out on the girls’ faces.

As the father walked out the side exit door, I felt good about myself. My mind was strong and my courage high. I decided that now was the time. I was going to ask Lucy out. No bullshit this time. I’m gonna do it.

“Get off me, sicko!”

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shot her out from behind the concession stand and up the stairs, either to take her to the break room or to the roof to finally end it all.

I was ok with either outcome.

Jesus Jose McKenna jumped over the candy counter in one swift motion, his black work boots crashing onto tile below. His vest was nowhere to be seen and his white buttoned shirt was tied around his waist and rock-hard abs. He was half Mexican, half Irish and a big huge bucket of crazy. He licked the red remnants off his own fingers, apparently savoring the taste. He held out his hand. “Want some?”

“Nah, I’m good.” I quickly examined his clothes. “You working today?”

“Of course I am.” He began to dance slowly in place, keeping time to a smooth rhythm all his own.

“Of course you are,” I said. “In that case, go help Bob. His Spanish is for shit and he looks like he’s about to commit murder.

“He’s fine, Chief.” J.J. scanned the lobby and spotted Bob. With crazy eyes and vomit on his boots, Bob seemed to be weighing whether or not the jury would consider his next action as justifiable homicide. J.J. looked back to me and punched out a hearty laugh. “See? Perfectly fine.” J.J. headed to the back of the lobby, babbling away at the non-English speaking ushers—all but three of them—and handed out some orders they were able to understand.

I backed away from it all, clearing my head of the screaming and the crying and the complaining and the ketchup and the Thanks-For-

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Nothing and the Rat and everything in between. I took a deep breath and composed myself. I saw Lucy finishing up a refund transaction and sighing as the other dozen family members fought to garner her attention. She looked around for a moment, her sour face finding mine. The sourness gave way to a smile and a wink.

I asked her something but, amidst the chaos, she only shook her head, unable to hear anything over the raging lobby.

Screw it.

“GO OUT WITH ME!” She stopped and stared at me.

Good job dingus. Very smooth.

Ignoring everyone around the ticket booth, she walked out slowly towards me, stopping within a foot of my lowered face. Our 12 inch difference in height forced us to crane our heads close to one another.

“I didn’t hear you,” she stood on her tiptoes and gave me a warm and soft kiss on the lips. “What did you say?”

Awesome.

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A Clean Getaway Greg Elperin

Your thoughts are on a bridge upon a river Where we would smoke and gaze down at the docks You want to jump And crash And keep on going If only you could solve the paradox Instead you grip the car keys with tense fingers While wondering how far you’ll get by dawn You’ve left behind old photos and mementos Atop a scribbled list of pros and cons You asked me what I thought of second chances While packing up your past life in a van As usual, I shrugged and changed the subject And wished I had an answer worth a damn I’d be the first to tell you you’re a coward A real man would have stayed and found a way For what it’s worth you know I’m only human For what it’s worth I’d never be that brave

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Recollection of a Dream Greg Elperin

My gaze falls just below the bathroom mirror Eyes ajar To dull the burn of fluorescent light While I gather the the will To lift my toothbrush And it strikes me only now That three mornings came and went in four hours’ dreaming That half-remembered Russian names and faces Don’t belong on Schenectady streets That shouldn’t segue into memories of birthdays That shouldn’t feature characters From books I haven’t touched in months As even those details fade Cold water stirs me back into awareness And I brush my teeth Trying to shake off the last discordant fragments Of a half-remembered dream

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And I put my shoes on Then my socks And get out of bed And stumble over to the bathroom To brush my teeth And I get out of bed And put my clothes on And the world screams And the alarm clock screams And Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been fooled again

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Contributors Essie Holton is a wife and stay at home mom with two children.

She got her Bachelor’s degree in Elementary Education from Saint Leo University in 2005 and taught elementary school for 4 years. She has lived in Florida her entire life and loves the warmth.

Jeff Baker is a returning contributor who was first seen in the March issue of eFiction Magazine. You can follow him @beffjaxter or his blog, http://www.jeffreynbaker.com Will Pearson is currently a third year university student studying the history of medicine. This is the first somewhat-decently edited and revised piece of fiction to be produced, and the hope is that more will shortly follow. Following in the wake of authors such as Dean Koontz, Carl Hiaasen, Bill Fitzhugh, and many more, the author plans to create a world of great humor and intrigue. a.e. Tyree received a degree in Creative Writing and promptly abandoned her love of writing to make a living as a corporate executive. After years of writing non-fiction training manuals, and running two different companies, she has finally returned to her first love­— fiction writing. She lives in San Francisco. http://www.aeTyree.com

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Harris Tobias was raised by robots disguised as New Yorkers.

Despite an awkward childhood he learned to read and write. To date Mr. Tobias has published two detective novels, The Greer Agency and A Felony of Birds, to critical acclaim. In addition he has published short stories in Down in the Dirt Magazine, Literal Translations, Electric Flash and Ray Gun Revival. He currently lives and writes in Charlottesville, Virginia.

Kelly Crites is a creative writing student at Southeast Missouri State University. She has no publications or exciting hobbies, but was the winner of a trip to Washington DC for writing an essay on electricity. The majority of her time is spent scribbling in her journal, cooking failed dishes, and watching hockey.

Stasey Norstrom is a 2010 graduate of Oregon State University where he focused on creative and technical writing. He is married with two wonderful kids and a senior-aged dog who still thinks he’s a puppy. His first published story, “The Dreaming,”appeared in eFiction. This is Stasey’s second publication.

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Blood Binds Tonya R. Moore Episode XII Wandering Child – Part 1

Baron perched on a rock overlooking the salty lake on the outskirts of a city called Kabal. The wolf and the witch slept in the shade of a colorfully flowering tree, curled into each other. They seemed to be drunk on the sweet, delicate fragrance of the dewy blossoms and maybe each other. Intimate but not unabashedly so. Overflowing with hesitant affection, their strange bond buckled ever so slightly under the weight of that ominous yet ever so joyous word with the capital L. She wondered how long could a couple like that last. It would truly be a pity if their romance had to end before it could really begin because Kyle and Tallow were so cute, with their unwieldy powers and their fluttery hearts. So damned cute.

She smiled briefly, the tide of her thoughts already turning.

Their target was no longer just leaving arcane clues for them in random places. His efforts had escalated to a trail of destruction from one world to the next. Two weeks earlier, they’d heard mention of a certain “pilgrim” who matched the description of a man mentioned in more than on of the places they’d visited. They’d tracked the pilgrim

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to this city on the seven hundred and fifty seventh coil.

Baron didn’t really have much interest in the pilgrim. It was pretty obvious that they were being lead around by the nose. She doubted anything of much use would come of tracking this shady character down, but Charls wanted to see this thing through for one reason or another, so here they were.

Not that Baron minded too much. She was still trying to wrap her head around recent events. This assignment was supposed to be a little vacation from her own worries, but a little bit of a breather was too much to ask apparently. The same question kept going round and round in her head. What if the misguided little monstrosity from Amtuat wasn’t the only thing in the multi-verse already actively hunting her down?

She shuddered inwardly, swamped by a desperate sort of anxiety.

What about the Vorsha? Those beings, the ones who’d engineered her creation, were the singular nightmare that cast a black shadow over her entire existence. They’d tried retrieving her once before at the cost of someone very precious to her.

They’d beckoned, but possessed by shock and abject grief, she’d bitten that proverbial hand with all of her might and killed hundreds and thousands of them. She wasn’t concerned about the possibility of retribution. Time and time again, she’d sifted through her inherited memories and every word of her conversation with the servant of the Vorsha that she’d encountered all those years ago. The same answer

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resonated from every fiber of her being.

The Vorsha would come and not even for vengeance. Even after what she’d done to them, they likely harbored not even an ounce of resentment toward their creation. These were beings who possessed neither fear of destruction, nor regard for the passage of time. They’d recover, increase their numbers and come after her again; their original goal unchanged. But for Baron nothing could be more horrifying than the prospect of absolute subjugation.

She’d always figured that she was relatively safe out here. That they wouldn’t come looking, since they supposedly knew where she was. What if they already accounted for the possibility that she might leave Earth? What if—worse, they’d now become aware of her movements across worlds because of some idiotic aberrant who was presently frittering about the cosmos casting lures, hoping to reel in something big?

Anger descended, that last possibility unquestionably the trigger.

She sat there, silently seething. Something like that would be a certain someone’s fault, wouldn’t it? Anyone so carelessly poking their nose where it didn’t belong was obviously begging to be fucked over. Beaten to a bloody smear. Ground into dust. Burned to ash. Trampled until there was nothing-“Something wrong?” Hel’s worried voice had Baron looking up sharply. “You seem a bit peaked.”

Baron was mildly surprised to find the wayfarer standing before

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her, like that. Helioselene’s pose was non threatening. Her concern seemed genuine enough, but it was obvious that her stance was meant to block Baron’s immediate route to everyone else. She glanced downward. Her body was glowing, something inside her having ignited like a star. She hated it, her body’s petty betrayal of the turbulent emotions swirling around inside. She hated it because, she’d yet to figure out how to stop it from happening.

“You’re one smart woman, Helioselene.” Her mouth curved into a predatory smile. “I keep wondering if you might be the most dangerous of this lot.”

“Is that a compliment?” Hel asked innocently.

Baron blinked. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Thanks,” Hel smiled sweetly. “I guess...”

The wayfarer closed her eyes and inhaled deeply as a gust of wind came out of nowhere, sending waves crashing gently to the shoreline and the leaves carpeting the grassy ground tumbling asunder.

“The water looks heavenly, doesn’t it?” She asked. “Perfect conditions for a swim, wouldn’t you say?”

Baron eyed her sharply. “Don’t get too cocky.” She warned.

Hel’s head tilted. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I don’t like it when people tell me what to do,” Baron’s brow furrowed. “That’s what I mean.”

“It was a suggestion, not an order.” The wayfarer didn’t skip a beat. “In fact, I think I’ll go for a dip myself.” She turned around,

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backed up to get closer. “Help me with my zipper?”

“Don’t you ever learn?” Baron grumbled. “I can’t touch you right now, but if you don’t mind being burnt to a crisp, I can sure as hell oblige.”

“It’s alright, I’ll get it myself.” Hel chuckled. “You’re not a bad kid, you know. Only good children are kind to mortals.”

“I’m not a child!” The berserker mumbled, visibly appalled. She scowled but accused grudgingly. “You’re sounding just like my father right about now, you know?”

“Oh?” Hel turned back around to face her. “I met him once, you know? Nice guy. I wonder if he wouldn’t feel the same as I suggest, when the continued wellbeing of one who is of the sea depends on this sort of thing.”

The Vorsha’s creation had been the culmination of bits and pieces of a myriad of intelligent beings from countless worlds. Whether by chance or design, at the end of the day Baron’s dominant genetic factors had been human and an amphibious tribe that had once dominated the Earth eons earlier. She needed to be in water from time to time. Her mental and physical stability depended upon it.

Just how much did the wayfarer know about her?

“You really want to rely on the wisdom of an old fart who wanders around in his house buck naked to teach his daughter a lesson about knocking before opening doors?”

A breathless silence fell between them. It lasted only a few seconds.

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Hel burst into low laughter. Baron had lost their little battle of wills.

“Fine. God...” she muttered, eyes rolling skyward. “I’ll go for a swim if that’s what it’ll take to get you off my back.”

She jumped down from the rock, passing by Charls on the way to the water’s edge. His attention had wandered from his scrying to Hel and Baron in the last few moments of their little chat.

“Do you have time to be gawking?” She demanded antagonistically, not really expecting an answer.

The sorcerer ignored the snarly retort. Instead he said, “Walking around on eggshells is child’s play for wayfarers, you know? They’re not just journeymen and women who collect secrets. Their primary service to the Powers is mediation.”

“Negotiators, huh? No wonder” Their gazes crashed. “Oh, for the love of...” Baron sighed. Charls’ aura was all lit up like a Vegas slot machine on a winning turn.

“You can put your guard down.” She glared down at the man she’d secretly dubbed The Keeper of Secrets. “No matter how agitated I seem, I’m not exactly in the habit of attacking my comrades, so relax already. Jeez.”

Vaguely irritated, she stalked off toward the wet. Her thoughts shifting toward what interesting things might be lurking down there in the cool, wet dark.

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Baron didn’t really understand the mechanics of her visceral connection with the sea. It had the power to heal her, energize her, and restore her psychological equilibrium. Underwater she happily let her worries float away for the time being. Nothing wrong with a little escapism. It’s not like her troubles were going to go anywhere while she was below the surface. She let the weight of the water and the twirling currents fill her. Rejuvenate her. Ah, it felt so good. To float.

To sink. To swim.

Her thoughts turned to home. Anna and Anju should have settled back down into something near normalcy. Nate had taken her place in the three-man cell of Council executioners under the werewolf, Seefra Hanouri’s command. She wondered whether that was working out alright. Seefra had a short fuse, and there was never any telling how violent he’d become in order to keep his subordinates in line.

Knowing Nate, they’d probably been at each other’s throats a dozen times already. The fact that Nate was Baron’s nephew didn’t help matters any. Seefra was still nursing a grudge against her over an incident that took place five years earlier.

She wondered if Dominick was angry. She’d left without telling him about her assignment or so much as a fare thee well. She was starting to regret that. Baron sighed, idly rubbing the head of a blue fish that had curiously poked its head out of a rock.

The whole dating thing was so tricky. Throw in the fact that Dominick had been the interim leader of the the Rath for quite some

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time before the wolven matriarch ascended, didn’t exactly simplify things. Still, she found herself wishing she’d told him in person, but at the time she was thinking he would have nagged and she’d already gotten a blistering earful from her father on the subject of her departure.

A pale light emanating from the depths got her attention. She dove down deeper. The source of the light was a lone anemone sprawled on the floor of the salty lake. It looked like a pale blue star. A multitude of thin fronds spouted up from the center. They swayed gracefully with the current.

An indistinct whisper brushed up against Baron’s consciousness.

She wondered if this lovely thing was intelligent.

“Hey, did you say something?” She asked, in thought-speak.

There was no response. Maybe it was shy. She wanted to get it to spill its secrets but refrained from trying to coax it for fear of bruising its tender feelers. She giggled gleefully when its frilly tendrils rose upward to brush tentatively at the contours of her face. Something sparked right before her eyes, sending a violent shudder right down to her toes. She recoiled, instinctively putting distance between herself and the pretty polyp.

She wondered what the hell had just happened. She was mildly troubled about the brief encounter, but shrugged it off as she surged back up to the surface.

“There you are.” Hel called out from the shoreline. “Had fun playing?”

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“It’s evening already?” Baron was a bit taken aback. Had she carelessly lost all track of time down there, or was that the awesome anemone’s weird power at play? “Were you guys waiting around for me? You don’t have let me hold you up, you know. If any of you call for me, I’ll come.”

“Really?” Charls asked, blatantly dubious.

“Mm-hm.” She nodded good naturally. “Try it sometime.”

“Good to know, but that’s not the delay.” He answered tiredly.

“My scrying isn’t working because there’s something repelling Seeking Eyes.”

He rummaged around in the little pouch that was that was always tied to his belt and produced an orb that was clearly too big to fit in something that tiny. Baron was delighted by the careless display of magic, but she’d rather rip out her tongue than admit to anything of the sort.

“It’ll take me a while to develop a counter,” the wizard continued.

“Why not have Tallow help? Wouldn’t that be faster?”

“It would.” Charls hesitated. “That’s not an option right now.”

Baron turned to study the witch, who sat some distance away with her bare toes digging into the soft sand at the waters edge. Her shoulders were hunched. She seemed totally dejected. She kept drawing some small sigil in the dirt with one finger. Erasing it. Drawing it again. Again and again.

Baron swam closer to where Tallow sat. “Hey there, something

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wrong with your magic maybe?”

“Mind your own business!” Tallow glared at Baron with unbridled hostility for a few seconds. Her gaze snapped back to the ground.

What the hell? Irritation surged but Baron was still feeling good enough from being in the water to deign to take the high ground.

She took a half-hearted stab at diplomacy. “Have I done something to offend you?”

Tallow muttered something nasty under-breath.

“Speak up.” Baron ordered. Screw diplomacy, she decided.

She swam shore-ward until her toes touched the ground, strode up to where Tallow sat. “You’ve got a problem with me, right? I’d like to know what it is. Far as I can recall, I haven’t done anything to deserve this level of bullshit from you.”

The wolf shifted into human form at once, drawing Baron’s attention away from his beloved. Kyle only stood there quietly. He didn’t say anything, didn’t really even seem hostile but he was making it clear enough that Baron was not to antagonize Tallow. Because she liked him, she let it go. Because she liked him a lot, and although he didn’t even know it, he’d had no qualms about stepping between them, she relented.

Baron went to retrieve her gear. Having an inhuman body could be pretty marvelous sometimes. She never had to worry about being

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wet when she didn’t want to be. She’d kept her top on but discarded her jeans and boots in order to dive unencumbered. She was slipping back into her boots when Kyle approached.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

“For what?” Baron was vaguely amused by his hesitance.

“For easing up on Tallow.” He said. “you know...”

“Don’t mention it. It’s no big deal.” She brushed his shoulder as she passed. “I was thinking of building a campfire. Is that okay?” She called out to older couple.

Charls looked to Hel for the answer to this one. She nodded. “Go ahead. That’s not an uncommon thing in this locale.”

Finding wood and bramble suitable for burning wasn’t too difficult in this area. Within minutes, Baron had gathered an armful of what she needed.

“Why build a fire?” Kyle was curious. “You obviously don’t need to.” Her tank top which has been wet moments earlier, was already dry.

“Same reason I like to fight with weapons.” She replied. “Whether it’s cooking or killing, once I touch my prey with my power, it’s all over. Listen Kyle,” she ordered sagely.,“if you’re going to do something artful or terrible, you might as well make it fun and interesting.

That’s my philosophy. Understand?”

The night-walker’s brows went up. “You cannot be serious.”

“My dear friend, you will learn.” She set her burden down, piled stick after stick upon each other and eased away scowling down at them. A few seconds later, she decided that fussing over their unsateFiction Magazine

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isfactory juxtaposition was a total waste of time. She ran a finger across the top of the wood pile. It ignited. “That I am nothing, if not serious.” She finished airily.

“But yesterday you told me not to take you too seriously because that kind of thinking would only lead to misunderstanding.”

“Right.” She smiled blithely, pleased that he’d actually remembered.

“So, which is it?”

“I’m confused.” She eyed him as if he were some weird looking critter. “Why does it have to be one or the other?”

Kyle blinked. He gave up. “Nice chatting with you,” he decided, and promptly made a beeline back to where Tallow was.

Already preoccupied, Baron barely acknowledged his departure.

“What would make a nice dinner?” She wondered aloud.

Down in the deep end of the lake, there was a fry of what resembled red eels living in the hollow of the rocks. Just one, coupled with some of the watercress that flourished in the shallows would maybe make a fantastic feast for five.

Baron was wading through the wet, collecting fistfuls of watercress when she heard a faint clamor coming from deep in the woods.

Ten or more people on foot, running. Fast. Five minutes out, at the most. Dead ahead. She spun, trying to get some sense of what was happening in the opposite direction.

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“Don’t bother,” Kyle announced. “We’re already outflanked.”

He glanced down at Tallow, and Baron assumed his concern for her eclipsed common sense. “Shouldn’t we just skedaddle?”

She pointedly ignored him. “It’s too good an opportunity to pass up.” She called out softly to Charls. For all intents and purposes, the wizard was the one in command after all. She didn’t have any problem with him being the one to make that call. “You did say the scrying wasn’t working.” She ventured.

“That I did.” He agreed.

She waited a beat. They’d been traveling together for a month now. If he still couldn’t trust her to carry her own weight at a time like this, they had bigger problems than Kabal’s hostile denizens nipping at their heels.

“Was it true what your council’s dragon said?” he asked, after a moment. “About your propensity for creating chaos?”

Baron nodded. “I’d go so far as to say it’s my specialty.”

Six masked figures burst of the wood line on the opposite side of the lake. Sidearms aside, their matching black and red tunics suggested militia. They carried no obvious weapons to speak of. That was a bit cocky of them, wasn’t it?

“Then, Helioselene and I will infiltrate.” Charls’ staff appeared out of nowhere. “I’ll leave the rest to you.”

“Really?” This was a better vote of confidence than she’d hoped for.

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He nodded. “Don’t disappoint me.”

She smiled widely. “Oh, I won’t.”

“Wait,” Kyle prodded. “What are we doing exactly?”

“Just watch my back and keep your wits about you. I need your girlfriend there to ‘port the three of us somewhere--anywhere but here for a little while. She can at least manage a jump, can’t she?”

Kyle balked a little at the girlfriend bit, but he looked to Tallow for confirmation of the latter. Baron didn’t catch what Tallow said but Kyle nodded. “It’ll take some time setting up though.”

“Figured as much,” Baron answered drifting toward the occupied shore.

Most of the small cadre’s weapons were trained on Baron, who’d suddenly become the biggest threat by reason of proximity. She switched to thought speak--Kyle alone, seeing as she couldn’t tell whether or not it was jacking into Tallow’s mind earlier that had done the poor witch in. To think, the witch couldn’t even fathom much less appreciate how considerate Baron was being.

“That’s it?” Kyle was uncertain. “It doesn’t sound like much of a plan.”

Baron didn’t answer. Her attention had already turned to the newcomers. She stepped onto the shore. She took a deep breath and began to sing. The song itself was just the first thing that popped into her mind, a trippy pop number that had been playing non-stop on the radio two months earlier.

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It was her voice that carried a certain magic, the kind of magic that shook ships and reshaped history, and even time. She was of the sea. She couldn’t be denied. The air vibrated. They all fell to the ground groaning and convulsing. She didn’t stop singing until every last one stopped twitching.

“Oh wow,” she breathed. “That actually worked!”

“Very nice!” Kyle hooted. “Now, that’s what I call a knockout performance.”

“Gee, thanks,” she turned, flashed him a brief grin. “Five more on your six!”

“Seven more from yours!” He yelled back. “How about an encore?”

“It’s not as easy as it looks, you know.” Baron took a deep, steadying breath. If it works, it works, right? Except, it didn’t work the second time around.

Every cell in her body rebelled. That weird light sparked, right between her eyes again. A cold, searing pain cascaded down from her skull to the tips of her toes. Okay, so that wasn’t going to happen.

Guess you can only count on Lady luck so much.

She recovered quickly enough and barely heard Kyle’s wolven growl as she charged her first attacker. A quick thinker. Light on his feet, to boot. Not to shabby, she thought. She made a grab for the holsters at her sides while still in flight, reaching for the first weapons that came to mind.

When her fingers tightened around the familiar handles of a well

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used pair of tonfas, she figured maybe Lady Luck hadn’t quite abandoned her after all. If her powers weren’t going to quite cut it, brute force sure as hell would. She was still thanking her lucky stars as the titanium length smashed into her first opponent’s mask. It shattered.

She heard bones crack. The woman howled, staggering sideways. The second opponent dodged her stike and came at Baron sideways.

She spun, caught a glimpse of the black wolf’s tail as it flitted between the drooping shadows of the forest on the other side of the lake with a deadly sort of precision. She heard another torn scream from somewhere behind Tallow. Kyle Watson had struck her as a pacifist when they’d first met, but it was looking like he could be brutal when it mattered. Good. Very good. Between the two of them, there would be enough confusion to let Charls and Hel slip away unnoticed.

She dropped the tonfas, went low for a hook maneuver. God knows she’d suffered enough broken tibias and pulled hamstrings under Seefra Hanouri’s merciless tutelage to have this one down pat.

She was upright, re-armed and already bearing down by the time her two targets hit the ground. She struck from both sides, crushing windpipes and shattering vertebrae.

Three of the remaining four drew back suddenly, silently melting back into the thicket. Baron wasn’t sure what the hell was going on now. The one who remained was two heads taller and twice as stout as she, someone with authority. He barked something at the ones who’d fallen back. The actual meaning for his words eluded her but

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those were orders. That much was unmistakeable.

She took a few cautious steps back, buying time to catch her breath. Her shins were smarting. Her bones buzzed, the muscles in her arms gone all twitchy. No way was taking him down going to be a breeze. He reached out, palm outstretched. It could almost be interpreted as a friendly gesture. They both looked to his fallen companions, back to each other.

Her mouth tilted. “You’re not going to let me get away with that, are you?”

The center of his palm ignited. That weird red glove he was wearing wasn’t just a fashion statement. The spark expanded. He hurled the sparking orb. Baron dodged. The tree it hit, all the way on the other side of the lake exploded.

“Any time now would be great, Tallow!” She reached for the witch’s mind, momentarily forgetting her wish to avoid doing so.

“This might look like fun but it really isn’t!”

“Shut up!” The witch snapped right back. “I’m working as fast as I can!”

She didn’t see or sense the next one coming. She’d made the crucial error of assuming the big guy was the only one thus armed. She took a hit to the back. The force of it sent her flying into the shallow of the lake, making a mighty splash.

She tried to stand. Her legs buckled, her hand went to the burning warmth at her midriff. She glared back at her second attacker. He

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had two more of those spheres, one in each hand, prepping to throw again. She tried to conjure something similar, to retaliate. She tried again. Nothing happened. She couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t even ‘port away.

She struggled to her feet. There was no way she could let herself take another hit like that. She broke into an unsteady run, knee-high water bogging her down. With every step, waves of agony cascaded her bones. Baron wobbled. Her legs gave out, left her fighting just to stay kneeling. The second guy let loose again. Time went wobbly on her.

She didn’t feel the blows. They must have struck though. She heard Tallow scream. The whole lake was suddenly aglow, light pouring up into the sky from the inky depths. She thought she heard Kyle call her name. Her blood didn’t sink down and dissolve into the wet. It pooled around her, flowing as thickly as lava. Bright and red, it fanned out and out and out.

That was weird, she thought, consciousness already fleeing. That was just so damned weird...

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Book Reviews Not What She Seems - Victorine E. Lieske I picked this ebook up at BarnesAndNoble.com for the unbeatable price of 99 cents. I love browsing through the self-published ebooks looking for those that catch my eye. Sometimes I rely on titles to interest me, and sometimes I actually rely on the cover. I realize that this isn’t good practice for picking out a book, but I do it. I have to admit, it has backfired on me more than once. I’ve learned to carefully read the description of a book before clicking that purchase button, and I’ve saved a few bucks on books that turned out to be reviewed pretty poorly. This book, as it turns out, was a well researched purchase that I was happy with.

Emily Grant is on the run. She murdered her husband, William, 5 years ago after enduring years of physical abuse. After leaving town with a long time friend, Richard, Emily finds out that she is pregnant with William’s baby.

Through a fateful event, Emily meets Steven Ashton, New Yorker and billionaire, who just happens to be interested in her. Steven has escaped the big city and is pretending to be Ethan, your average guy eFiction Magazine

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living in rural America. Richard discovers Ethanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s true identity and is convinced that Emily can scam him for money. Emily and Richard devise a plan to swindle Steven for 100,000 dollars.

Emily sees a different opportunity, however. She wants to get away from Richard, and Steven is her ticket out. Her plan is to get just enough money to run away without leaving a trail for Richard to follow.

Plans start to unwind as Emily gets to know Steven and spends more time with him. She begins to fall in love with him despite her attempts to block out any feelings. This, however, doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stop her from taking his money and running. She is convinced that she is doing what is best for her and her 4 year old son, Connor.

Steven finds Emily just as Richard is also catching up with her.

This is where the action beings. After some digging by Steven, Emily ends up facing her past and together they uncover and solve a mystery.

Who really killed William?

This book was surprisingly compelling to read. I found myself reading later at night than I intended. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m a sucker for a love story, danger and a good mystery. This book has all three. Steven Ashton is a perfect gentleman throughout the entire book, and I found myself

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wondering what I would have done in Emily’s shoes. I think I would have made decisions leading me closer to the man I was falling for, especially one who could protect me. I’m a true romantic and I love a damsel in distress.

The author, Victorine Lieske, does an excellent job foreshadowing throughout the book, and I was left guessing who the true killer was. On more than one occasion I wondered if Emily wasn’t in fact the killer and simply feigning ignorance about the circumstances surrounding her husband’s death. All of this foreshadowing left me feeling inadequately informed, which is exactly what you should feel like in the midst of a mystery.

The most disappointing thing about this book was that the author sometimes carried a scene or conversation on just past the point where it should have ended. Characters would speak with intensity closing a subject, however, the story would continue with a non-character making a joke or with an extra description of what was happening.

These things didn’t add any information to the story and left the scene’s importance feeling diminished.

I found that the ending of the book was weak and wrapped up too quickly. Emily finds out who the killer is, and bam, confession.

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End of story. I want a little more drama, a little more flash and glitter.

I need closure at the end of a book.

After finishing the book there were some loose ends that bothered me. One was that Richard didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t seem to have a motive other than finding Emily after she ran. He was willing to do whatever it took to get her back and keep her safe. This seems like a motive, but I want to know why he wanted her so badly. There is never the feeling that he loves her or even lusts after her. Perhaps he was just crazy, but I would have liked to know his motivation.

Overall, this book was a really decent read. I would recommend it to someone who likes this kind of story, but I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think its strong enough to break a hard core action or sci-fi fan into a new genre.

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The Abbey - Chris Culver This is one of those books that starts out on a really hard note and sucks you into its confusion. I started reading this book on a Friday night after a marathon cookie making session for a church function.

I finished the cookies about 30 minutes after midnight and went to bed, except I didn’t fall asleep, I started The Abbey. I don’t think I stopped until after 2 a.m. when my husband came to bed and made me stop reading.

Ashraf Rashid is a detective with the IMPD. I assume that since the story takes place in Indianapolis, this stands for Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department. Ash is a dark character who tries desperately to shine only light on his family while still doing his job as a detective.

The book opens with Ash delivering a next of kin notification despite being permanently assigned to the District Prosecutor’s Office.

Ash has signed up for this particular task after his teenage niece was discovered dead at the home of her boyfriend. Throughout the beginning pages of the book, the help that Ash provides the homicide unit is welcomed and he teams up with his former parter, Olivia.

When a new lead detective takes over the case after another child

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turns up dead, Ash’s help is no longer welcome. Ash continually goes behind the lead detective’s back and eventually finds himself mixed up with drug dealers, top city gangsters, scientists, a club where the patrons think they are vampires, and things that he can’t seem to make sense of.

I struggle to write a coherent review of this book because I was confused throughout the entire story, never having enough information to understand the motives of the characters. The only reason that this seems to be okay is that Ash doesn’t have any of the missing information either, so the reader is left as confused as the main character. Part of my compulsion to read this story was to lift the foggy confusion from my brain.

I really thought that the author, Chris Culver, had read one too many vampire stories and felt the need to get in on the action. This does not seem to be his intention however. He seems to be using the vampire theme in small doses to bring current popular culture to his story while also seemingly poking fun at groups who act like and perhaps even believe they are vampires.

There were a few minor errors in the books editing that made the story read not quite as smoothly as it should have, at least for someone who takes note of these things. Missing periods came up a few

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times, commas in the wrong spots, and even a typo that read smell instead of small. Nothing so bad that it made the book unreadable, it just needs to be edited paying closer attention to details.

According to Culver, he plans on having another Ash Rashid story out in the fall of this year and its one that I am planning on purchasing.

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Available on Amazon Kindle and everywhere books are sold. eFiction Magazine

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Available on Amazon Kindle and everywhere books are sold. eFiction Magazine

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If you would like to subscribe to the magazine, please go to http://www.efictionmag.com/subscriptions Thank you for reading!

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