The Fey - Zack Gardner - Magical Realism - 3009 words - 2016
It never fails I thought, leaning over the rickety old railing of our rickety old wrap-around porch, swishing the melting ice cubes in my empty whisky. Annie was working late again, as it was most nights now that we had moved away. I was city, born-and-bred, and deep down I hated this place. But, with the baby starting to crawl and the possibility of Annie's new job, we took the leap and moved out into the country. It was beautiful out here, this old farmhouse, surrounded by fields on three sides and woods on the other. So much nature, if you're into that sort of thing. The buzz of crickets and cicadas droned on in the background as I purveyed my tiny kingdom. I sneered and took the last sip of what was mostly just melted ice by now, crunching the last few cubes between my teeth, feeling the last bit of whisky heating my throat.
Dusk approaches so strangely in the country, the shadows from the treeline that framed our expansive backyard throwing mean blackness up at the house. The woods were thick back there with hardly any of the sunlight breaking through the brush. We've been here hardly a month and… It's not that I'm afraid of the dark, even though here away from the buildings and the streetlamps and the neon it gets infinitely darker. It's odd to say, but city dark is so much friendlier than country dark. It's just that the blackness is so much more permanent here.
In the city when you weren't safe, at least you knew. You knew what to expect. I had been mugged twice in my thirty-aught years living in the city; both times knowing it was coming beforehand. Both times aware - knowing.
Who knew what was in these woods. Did bears live out here? Wolves? Coyotes? How big are coyotes anyway - should I even be worried about them? Do snakes sleep at night or are they out there too, just waiting? What the hell is a badger, for that matter? I stared into the increasing darkness, the green giving way to smudged charcoal. You could make out shapes in the treeline. Trees turned to figures, branches and bushes adding disjointed limbs and insect-like antennae. Anything could be out there. Badgers. I had to get some nature books.
The wails of Jerry brought me back to the present and shook me out of my paranoia. I turned my back on the yard and went into our rickety old house through our rickety old screendoor. The baby was hungry, and who knows, maybe Annie would be in time for a late supper. I could wrap up a few articles that were overdue, and maybe we could binge-watch something…
The sound of gravel on tires brought me around again, Jelly-boy playing with my fingers as I cleaned carrots out of his hair with a dishrag. Annie always drove up our quarter mile driveway a-hellin' coming to a stop in our turnaround beside my new-used F150. Hope and melancholy preceded her - would we talk tonight? Maybe she'd get away from the laptop long enough to hold a conversation, a meal, or god-willing a romp on the old couch once Jerry turned in.
Annie had fallen asleep on my shoulder, and Disk 3 had ended a half hour ago, the menu screen theme serenading me into dozing as well. There came a thunk from the back of the house, and I jerked up, jostling Annie into a state of semi-awareness. I ran through the living room into the kitchen, the light above the sink guiding my way, bare feet slapping against the rough hardwood. The screendoor leading out to the back porch wasn't hooked. I banged it open, cracking loud against the outside wall, the rusty spring squealing in complaint. I paced the length of the porch, adrenaline pumping, squinting into the darkness, trying to make out shapes. That sound was the screendoor, it had to be. Something was out there. Animals can't open doors, right? Did raccoons have thumbs? Was it someone, and not something?! I paced some more, the paranoia being fed by the adrenaline, clenching and unclenching my fists. Annie shouted for me from inside, and I hurried to her, hooking the screendoor while sending one more warning glare out to whatever phantom I had conjured to lurk in the shadows of those damned trees.
I ran up the stairs and turned the corner to the nursery. Annie stood by Jerry's crib, holding him in her shoulder and cooing into his ear. The demeanor she projected for calming the baby stopped at her eyes, as she motioned for me to look down at the floor. At the foot of the wooden crib smeared into the thick carpeting of the nursery was a barely noticeable trail of dirt. I fell to my knees and followed it on the hardwood, barely a dusting, leading down the steps and into the kitchen to the back screendoor. Jelly-boy, ever the trouper, went back to sleep easily. As Annie cleaned up the dried dirt, I assured her it was only an animal that had gotten in, probably more scared than anything else. I convinced her to head up to bed, her eyelids already heavy. Easily enough, I had assured her. I went around closing every window, making sure they were all locked up tight. It was a warm night and it made the old farmhouse stuffy, ceiling fans doing the best they could. I sat up that night, in the kitchen, peering out into the darkness, guarding my family.
Later that week I had shown my hand as an electrician, installing a dusk-til-dawn light on the back porch. The stark white of the massive bulbs illuminated the backyard each night, turning on shortly after the sun would disappear behind the trees.
A few weeks passed, as they often do, in an assortment of days, one after the other. Eventually the windows opened. Eventually Annie stopped checking in on the baby three or four times a night. She had started coming home at decent hours as well, which did wonders for our relationship, but even that started to back off as time progressed. I still had my evening whisky on the back porch as night shrouded our little world, and I never put my full back to the wood. The dusk-til-dawn light would kick on as I headed indoors, the sudden light forcing the shadows to retreat back into the trees.
I took to taking short hikes into the woods, Jelly-boy in an emasculating baby carrier, strapped against my sweaty chest. I would get a few hours work on the porch in the cool of the morning, Jerry babbling to himself in the playpen beside me and gnawing on anything that got too close to his slobbery face. Eventually with the impending heat of the day and the ignorance of my clients, I'd get fed up, slap the laptop shut, strap on the baby and head into the shade of the trees. Jerry would marvel as we walked, cooing and straining to reach branches thick with vibrant greens. I had a walking stick, almost a cudgel, that I carried with me on these jaunts and had taken to keeping a springblade in my back pocket again, just as I had in the city. Forgive, but not forget.
We took the old deer path that ran along a stream that coursed through the woods, easily narrow enough to leap across at its widest. The path wasn't foreign to us; we had come and gone this way quite a few times in the past few weeks. We stopped in a clearing, sitting out in the open, yet in the cool shade of an oak. Or a maple. I have no idea, really. I had ordered a stack of books on nature, but they had yet to arrive. I sat Jelly-boy down between my legs and pulled some snacks out from a pack I had thrown on before leaving. I thumbed puffs into the baby's mouth and cracked open a soda, already lukewarm from the day. We sat in silence, the cicadas trilling in the trees, birdsong filling the meadow. A score of small white and yellow butterflies busily danced along the wildflowers that populated the meadow, while heavy honeybees went methodically from bloom to bloom, all business. Occasionally a damselfly or dragonfly would zip through, no doubt searching for the stream we had followed here.
The peace and serenity that emanated from the tableau my son and I shared was cut short by an itching at the back of my neck. Not an itch-itch, but a nervous-itch. I started scanning the treeline that surrounded the meadow, inspecting the midday shadows instead of enjoying the warm afternoon. I tried ignoring the anxiety, but it wouldn't be quelled. Finally, I stood and packed Jerry back up into his carrier, much more hurriedly than I would like to admit. I set a brisk pace back the way we had come, one hand holding my son closer than the carrier did, the other hand holding the walking stick at its midpoint, parallel to the ground. By the time we were back at the house, stepping out of the woods into our yard, I was running.
A few more days of normal passed, but still I never put my full back to the wood.
I had spent the day mowing the yard with our new riding tractor, still getting used to a task that I've never done in my life up until a few months ago. I had the grill out, something else that I had to buy now that the country was our home. It was late afternoon, Jelly-boy napping in his playpen a few paces away in the shade of the shed in the corner of our turnaround. Annie had promised an early night, and damned if I wasn't trying to make a decent steak for her. I flipped the delmonicos with a large meat fork, juice pouring into the charcoals and hissing. A bundle of tin foil took up half of the little grill, housing peppers and onions.
The chirrup of my cellphone perked my ears, and I instinctively patted my front pocket for it, knowing it wasn’t there. Keeping the grill and the playpen in sight, I jogged to the porch where I had left my cellphone earlier that day when I had started mowing. Annie would be late again, held up at the office. I said that I understood through gritted teeth, white-knuckled clutching the meat fork in frustration. I hung up and pocketed my cell, rubbing my temples and wishing I were young enough to cry or throw a fit. I was losing her again. I straightened and told myself to man-up, hopping down the porch steps and heading back around to the grill. A shriek lit a fire under me, and I ran full-tilt around the side of the house to the turnaround. The playpen was toppled, on its side. I threw it out of the way, sending it across the turnaround in my panic, searching for my son. That was no sad wail or upset wail. That was a shriek. A pain shriek. I felt it with my heart as much as I heard it with my ears.
Another screech sounded from my son, my head snapping to where I heard it. I had just enough time to see Jerry being dragged by his leg disappear into the shadowed underbrush of the woods. His hands were out and reaching for me, terror in his pouring eyes. I ran again, filled with fury toward the treeline, barreling through the underbrush where he had vanished with complete disregard.
I could make out a rustling in the failing light, something in the thick underbrush, bathed in shadows. I sped after it, oblivious to the branches lashing my face and chest, jagged raspberry vines tearing into my legs. Jerry sounded again, closer: I was gaining. Now and again, I could catch glimpses of the beast that had snatched my son, hunch-shouldered, covered in course hair and the size of a large dog.
I burst into the clearing we had visited a few days prior, my quarry already halfway across the small field of wildflowers. The creature stopped, dropping Jerry from his grip, and miraculously stood. It was a little man in shape alone, odd knobs of bone jutting out above his thick brow. Its eyes shone on the increasing darkness, panting around protruding misshapen teeth. Jerry began to wail when he saw me, and began to crawl toward me. The beast's thick arms reached out and pulled my son back, redoubling his screams, never taking its eyes off me. I crouched, my arms out, suddenly remembering my surroundings that my anger had blinded me from. I looked back and forth, troubled, before suddenly realizing - there were no insect sounds. The crickets and cicada had all fallen silent.
From all around the circular clearing figures stepped out into the red-orange light of the sunset. They all held a rough resemblance to man, but could by no means be considered human. A few looked like the beast in front of me, some hunched over further, even one with withered wings, like a bat, protruding from its back. My breath caught in my throat, as they each came into the clearing a few paces, surrounding me, my son and his kidnapper. There were two that were obviously female; their hair thick and matted with leaves, their hourglass figures a deep greenish-brown. I turned, trying to keep them all in my view. There was a beetle the size of my new lawn tractor, a great horn protruding from its head, and a gnarled old man sitting cross-legged atop its carapace chewing on a long-stemmed pipe. Behind me had emerged a thin scarecrow, ghostly white and nearly as tall as me. Six or so legs protruded from his hips, all thin and bony. It had no arms, and its face shone blank in the moonlight.
The odd menagerie of creatures were all looking at me, though some stole greedy glances at Jerry. I edged closer to my boy, who had stopped wailing and was focusing on me. I said some encouraging words in a wavering voice that everything would be all right. I silently prayed that the last words to my son would not be lies. I clenched my fists in my impotence, realizing I still held the meat fork... Realizing my uselessness, my failings as a father. Darkness had found us, the light of the moon bathing the meadow in cool blue light, a stark contrast to the warm yellow afternoon that we had spent there.
The old gnome of a man slowly stood on his mount, commanding the attention of the circle of silent creatures. He pulled the pipe from his ancient mouth, examining it in his arthritic claw. He looked upon the meadow in benevolence, and opened his mouth to speak. A whimper from the center of the meadow brought my eyes back to my son, and I had had enough.
Now.
I flew forward, closing the distance between us as fast as I could, throwing my full weight into my left fist, knocking my son's kidnapper down just as surely as I broke all my knuckles. I scooped Jerry up in the same motion, pain screaming from my hand as my boy clung to my chest with his tiny arms. I turned, sliding in the dew damp wildflowers, caught my footing and ran toward the woods, toward the deer trail that I knew was there, dark or no. An alarm rose among the creatures, angry growls and shrieks as they all turned toward me, taken off-guard by my actions. The thin white creature that had come up behind me crouched as I neared it, legs splayed like a spider about to leap. I held the meat fork out like a lance, meaning to ward the creature off. It's smooth head split across the center and opening in a snarl of thin sharp teeth, too numerous to count, snapping at me as I closed the distance, snapping still as I plunged the fork handle-deep into its maw, it's growls turning to gurgles as blood began to flow. I didn’t hesitate. I kept running, holding my Jelly-boy as tightly as my broken hand could.
We coursed through the wood along the deer trail, running with reckless abandon, dozens of those creatures crashing through the underbrush, gaining easily. To my right I could see the many-legged creature. It ran with the precision of a spider - its pasty white limbs, human flesh stretched over sinew and bone, propelling it along with a ghastly speed, easily keeping time with me as I fled through the underbrush. Jerry had his face buried in my breast, and I could feel his little heart beating madly.
I could just make out the clearing ahead of me, the artificial halogen of the dusk-til-dawn light flooding into our backyard outlining the edge of the wood. The creature paced me, pulling closer, darting around trees, as I beat my feet against the tamped dirt of the deer trail. Behind me were more of the same, all-too-human screeches and shouts of anger and outrage.
I burst through the treeline, stumbling over the raspberry vines I had torn through and glanced backwards, bathed in the lamplight. I didn’t stop until I was on the porch, my back slapped against the old wood wall, panting raggedly. I held my son, arms wrapped around him, and he held me back, little arms wide, tight against my chest. I held my son and cried, watching the creatures writhe in frustration just beyond the treeline, held back by the dusk-til-dawn light. We stayed there for some time, him and I, staring down the darkness until the smell of charred delmonicos faded and the drone of the crickets and cicadas returned.
Dead Space - Zack Gardner - SciFi - 3742 words - 2017
The breakneck pace that the Impervious365-X4 had maintained for the past three billion lightyears suddenly pulled back to a lurching crawl, its final destination within sight. The Impervious365-X4 shifted into a comfortable orbit of the blue planet, hissing precise bursts of compressed air to adjust its calculated course. Screens long dark flicked on, back-up systems powering up with a sleepy whine. Cool blue wall panels slowly illuminated the cockpit of the cumbersome vessel.
The A.I. system powered up all of its resources, leaving its hibernation state and returning its CPU and processing speeds to normal. It reinserted its empathy drive along with its short term RAM and ran a SYS check. There was something that needed to be done; something primary. Something urgent. Full interior and exterior cameras and mics rebooted, giving the onboard A.I. its senses back, just as the SYS check completed, flooding the AI's human-esque mind with feelings and memories.
"Oh dear," the A.I. stated aloud. Strapped to main control chair in the cockpit was one of the Portsuits, inhabited. The A.I. activated the control chair's functions, connecting with the Portsuit. It began to recount the events from three billion years ago, before the jump to lightspeed, as data simultaneously poured from the Portsuit into the onboard AI.
"Oh dear." It stated again to itself.
It was dark and he couldn't move. Panic wasn't far behind, but at least he knew it wasn’t far behind, so there was solace in that, right? He couldn’t even tell if it was darkness, or his eyes were shut. Everything felt fuzzy and off. He tried remembering how he got here and came up blank. He tried remembering the most basic of things and came up blank. Panic arrived just in time. If he could have made himself scream, he would have.
"Oh dear." He heard, his mind instantaneously clearing of the panic. He could hear - that was a start. There were the humming and soft grinding sounds of computers, the buzz of fluorescents.
"Now Master Fiore, I'm going to have to ask you to stay as calm as possible while I try to reconnect your senses." The voice held a thick British accent, prim and proper, but with the softness and monotone obviously making it a computer system. Aside from that, the voice was oddly familiar. Comfortably familiar.
Reconnect, he wondered? And suddenly there was blinding light and clarity, as vision returned to him. The luminescent of the control panel screens, brushed steel and plastics of the cockpit and the dull glare of the thick glass viewport. A massive blue and green planet took up half of the window, the other half a quick atmospheric fade to the stark black of outer space. He gasped at the beauty in spite of himself, hearing his intake of breath through the mic in the Portsuit.
"That should do for visual. And audio input/output should be up as well." The same disconnected British voice. "Can you hear me, Master Fiore?"
Fiore. That sounded right. There was a familiarity to that as well.
"Y-Yes. I am… I am having some difficulties." He said with a shaky voice, tinny over the Portsuit's microphone. “M-motor functions and… and I my, ah, my memory is - is blank.” He tried lifting his hand, looking down at his arm slowly responding, the sleeve of the Portsuit fading seamlessly into its bulky glove.
“Well, Master Fiore, you are a doctor of cybernetics returning from a long-haul run to an outrigger colony. Your full name is Amadeus Fiore, no middle name, the ship you are currently on is called the Impervious365-X4, and my name is-”
“Pervy!” Fiore almost shouted. “We called you Pervy!”
“Very good sir.” The A.I. stated dryly. “We had some complications upon the initiation of cryosleep whilst cycling up the hyperdrive. In response to that, you donned one of the ship’s Portsuits to use its hibernation function. Rather bold move, I do say, but at the time, the best option you had, Master Fiore.”
“Well thank you… Pervy.” Fiore chuckled. “I’m still having some issues with this suit. My mobility is shot. Can we maybe run a recalibration to the suit’s servos?” The Portsuit was a fitted spacesuit, meant to protect and enhance those on the longer trips into deep space. It was a fully enclosed suit, visor and helmet that could protect against the extreme negative temperatures, pressure differences and strains of zero gravity that travelers would come across. Not only that, the models that the Impervious365-X4 was equipped with also boasted full musculature support, full sensory support, full temporal uplink, and even a basic cryo-hibernation option. When equipped, the suit could jack into the brainstem access port all of the crewmembers had had surgically embedded into the base of their skull, at the hairline. All of the suit’s options, or whatever piece of equipment the suit was ported to, could then be controlled cerebrally.
“Certainly, Master Fiore, I have it running now. You should be mobile momentarily… But, sir, there are some other concerns that I should bring to your attention.”
“Oh yes, Ama, there are other concerns,” came a female voice, sultry, and as though whispered into his ear. He recognized the voice and the moniker. A memory of a feeling. On the tip of his tongue. He jerked his head towards the sound, of course, just the empty cockpit. Just him and Pervy.
“Of Course, Pervy. I-I appreciate your concern.” Fiore said, shaking it off. “It’s nice to know I have a friend such as you, if I know nothing else!”
“Sir, need I remind you, I have no real emotions or emotional attachment. I merely act on one of my prime directives as to the safety and welfare of the crew…” The A.I. responded cordially.
“Well that’s good to know too, Pervy, but it would have been better if you’da just taken the compliment.” Fiore laughed exasperatedly. Maybe he should have the A.I. run a SYS test on his access port. Or maybe the temporal uplink needed recalibrated? Who was that girl??
“Alas, sir, undeservedly so. It was all your idea to use the Portsuit – when all of the cryochambers were full.” The A.I. responded. “But, sir if you don’t mind, can I ask what happened just now? Your vitals spiked off the charts for a moment there…”
“Nothing, Pervy… Nothing.” Fiore knotted his brow and pinched his eyes shut trying to put it out of his head. “I’m fine now-wait!!! Chamber-s?! Pervy, cryochambers plural?! There’s more sleepers onboard??” Fiore shouted, leaping up from the chair. Was she there? Was there a She? “Show me!” He exclaimed, slapping the Portsuit’s gauntlet against the Open panel and rushing out the porthole as it slid open.
“To the left up here, Master Fiore,” The A.I.’s voice paced him as he ran down the curved-walled corridor. “Our course has us maintaining orbit for the next three hours until we reach our descent/landing trajectory… I will directly be beginning the rejuvenation cycle for the other passengers, but first, sir, I really need to-”
“Pervy!” Fiore shouted, halting suddenly in front of a labeled portal. “Open this damned door!”
“…yes sir.” The A.I. answered, the door sliding open.
Fiore scratched the back of his neck where the jack had been wired. It was still sore, having pulled the bandage off a day early. Kaela had gone with him, had had the same procedure. She sat beside him on the blanket, bare legs basking in the warm sun, her black hair tied back showing fair shoulders, olive skin kissed pink by the sun. He felt the heat, his shoulders already freckled and red, his auburn-red hair sweaty and tucked under a baseball cap. They would have to leave tomorrow, and she had so much left to tell him.
“Sir?” The A.I. asked, a note of concern in his voice. “Your vitals, sir!” Fiore shook his head to clear it, the tinted visor of the fitted helmet shaking in tandem. His vision making the dull blue lighting of the ship leave trails in the air.
“It’s nothing. I… I think it’s just a side effect from the long-term hibernation in the suit.” Fiore clutched his head and staggered into the hibernation room. The room shone antiseptically metal and white. Shower stalls and mirrored sinks lined one wall while the opposite wall housed personal lockers, airtight and secure for travel. Lined side-by-side the length of the room were the cryochambers, ten in total. All occupied.
“Master Fiore, there’s-”
“There is more Ama. You’re going to just love this.” The voice said teasingly inside Fiore’s head. He righted himself, shaking the helmet, trying to clear his head.
“Master Fiore, I must insist you pause for a moment.” The A.I. began. “Your vitals keep spiking, and there is a matter you must be made aware of post haste!”
“Pervy, I’m fine!” Fiore insisted, more to himself than to the motherly A.I. Was she in here? Was she in his head?! He headed towards the line of cryochambers, not sure which would be worse. “I just need to reacclimatize to being out of hibernation. Once that’s complete, my friend, I can doff the confines of this stuffy old suit and I will be as right as rain.”
The A.I. was silent for a change, to Fiore’s surprise. He glanced up at the row of dull blue illuminated tiles that ran the length of the ship (where they would all look when speaking to Pervy, as though needing a face for the disembodied voice) awaiting any sort of response. Having none, he shrugged and moved on.
Fiore stepped to the first chamber, peering into the translucent upper half of the brushed steel and glass sarcophagus. He didn’t recognize the middle-aged man in the chrysalis, nor the woman in the next, nor the next, or even the one after that. He stumbled to the next and stopped short, taking a second and longer look.
Grant took Kaela’s hand, interlacing their fingers and rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. They sat hand in hand on the public bench outside of the guest barracks, watching a stream of meteors flow in a belt around a titanic gaseous planet. Kaela glanced at the cybernetics guy as he passed, giving her a half-wave. That one was odd. He’d have to keep an eye on him. They were maybe a month into their sabbatical aboard the deepspace station, there to provide support, repairs and maintenance for the growing crew of the station. The crew of the Impervious365-X4 would be stationed there for just over a year, so he had better make sure to keep clear of the two of them.
“James? No, Grant. Grant!” Fiore said, slapping the glass of the cryochamber in triumph. “I remember that prick.” He slid his hand down the chamber and headed to the next.
The news had devastated him. Kaela had told him on the picnic they had shared, the day before launch. She had cried, and so had he, in spite of himself and perhaps in spite of her. She had said they could no longer see each other and begged him not to talk about it; not to talk to her any more. Despite that, they met again that night, in secret, and made love on the couch of his small rental, sparse of furniture and on its last day of the lease. She left as she had arrived, without a word, eyes sad and on the verge of tears.
“It was never meant to be – what we had.” She whispered bitingly.
He saw Kaela at launch, of course, but the formalities and preparations kept them apart. After the journey and the recuperation aboard the deepspace station, Fiore would see her in passing, usually with Grant. Her fiancé. Her fiancé. He had stewed about it for weeks on end, almost a month into their yearlong stint in deepspace. But then came the neuromail message, anonymous, that they should meet. That she needed to see him, now more than ever. That she had to see him in private; had to tell him something.
Fiore stroked the clear portion of the cryochamber with his thickly gloved hand. She slept peacefully under the glass, the memories falling back into place haphazardly. She was a beauty, silken raven-black hair down to her shoulders with contrasting olive skin, fair and smooth. Even after all she had done his heart still wrenched, trying to pull itself out of his chest, when he looked at her. There was only one more chamber left. His. Fiore plodded on, the Portsuit’s thick rubber bootsoles shuffling on the grated metal floor.
There had been the usual issues during the return trip takeoff, nothing serious, but now that they had cleared orbit and chartered a hyperspace course, chaos had ensued. The countdown had begun, and the cryosleep chambers were all but full, chemicals pumping and setting stasis for the crew. The last three pods were still open, hissing compressed air and other gases into the hibernation room. All three pods were buzzing warnings, touchscreen controls warning the occupant to initiate cryo stasis as soon as possible. The A.I. was there, obviously, and trying to placate the remaining crew. Kaela sat in her open chamber, shimmying up to the front in order to hop back out, shouting indecipherably. Grant stood over Fiore’s chamber, hands flying over the access screen. Fiore picked himself back up off the grated floor, rubbing his already-swollen jaw, murder in his eyes.
“I didn’t know though. You have to believe that I didn’t know what he had planned.”
Grant stepped away from Fiore’s cryochamber, the pod door closing and setting its locking mechanism. He roughly pushed Kaela back into her pod, initiating her pod as well. Fiore stood and swayed – he had not been punched in years, not since primary school... And never like this. The suckerpunch had knocked him down, his head connecting with the metal floor almost as painful as the surprise hard right from Grant. Grant looked at him contemptuously and sneered as he walked slowly to his own pod. Fiore staggered toward him, the room still spinning. Everything was muffled and fuzzy. He probably had a concussion from hitting the floor, and the throbbing in his jaw wasn’t helping. He could hear Kaela screaming at him, screaming at Grant. He could hear his heart beating inside his ears, competing for his attention. He could hear Pervy insistently in the background, urging him to do something, warning him of something… And there was another sound. Another sound most foreign to him.
“You’re almost there, love. Remember.”
The droll accent of the A.I. finally broke through the throbbing pain.
“Master Fiore, the jump into hyperspace is imminent. You need to prepare yourself. Your chamber has been tampered with, and I can no longer access it.” Fiore squeezed the bridge of his nose and pinched his eyes shut trying to push the pain away from his brain to make room for thinking. Grant had a smug smile on as his cryochamber latch locked into place, and Kaela kept screaming and beating on the curved glass of her pod. And that other sound... That other sound.
“Pervy, power up the cockpit support controls.” Fiore shouted, turning and running out the hibernation room into the curved-walled corridor. The A.I. paced him, a flash in the bluelit panel. “I don’t care about ship controls, but I want full access to UI protocols and Portsuit protocols.” He spun a corner, equilibrium still off, banging his shoulder into the wall.
“I want my Portsuit opened and powering up by the time I get to it!” He shouted, running full-tilt and leaping through the open port doors as they came. He was out of breath and panting wildly by the time he arrived at the Portsuit locker.
“Yes, but that sound. The other sound. Remember the other sound? Not me screaming, not the silly computer, not your half-assed survival plan… The other sound.”
Fiore had the suit on in no time and was doggedly running again, sprinting for the cockpit, attempting a software hack of the access screen on his left forearm that controlled the amenities of the Portsuit. He was already temporally jacked into the suit, but he would need a little time to create the uplink to the ship’s CPU. The A.I. had reverted to a calm countdown until the jump to hyperspace initiated. It would be close, if anything. It would be—
“The sound, Ama. Please.” She begged.
Fiore stood at the foot of this cryochamber, afraid to move to the head and peer inside. Afraid, and he didn’t know why. He gritted himself and prepared to move forward.
“Master Fiore.” The A.I. cut apprehensive silence so suddenly that Fiore jumped. “The matter we need to discuss. It will not wait.” Fiore sighed and stepped back from the pod.
“Go ahead, Pervy. Let’s have at it.”
“Your Portsuit, sir.”
“I know, Pervy, but everything seems to be intact. We’ll have to write the company a letter of commendation when we’re back on the ground, if they even still exist.” Fiore laughed lightly, trying to clear his mind of worry. “Who knew these dinky suits could hold out for that long, eh?”
“That’s the problem, sir. The support systems of the Portsuit such as the musculature support and the sensory support have maintained nominally, along with the temporal access port. However, the-”
“The hibernation function?” Fiore finished.
“…Yes sir.”
“Ama, please… It’s going to be okay.” Kaela whispered in his ear.
Fiore spun away from the line of cryochambers, making a beeline toward the shower area. The floor seemed to be swaying, like the old-time ships, the ones that floated on water. He almost fell onto the nearest sink, gauntleted hands gripping the white porcelain. He looked in the mirror at the Portsuit helmet, staring back at him: Tight-fitting helmet, airlocked at the neck, black visor, miniature auxiliary cameras at each corner.
“Pervy, what did you do?!”
“Master Fiore… Master Fiore, the hibernation sequence could only be held for a definitive amount of time. It was never meant-” The A.I. stopped speaking, hushed by Fiore slowly reaching for the visor release, a small catch at the base of the helmet.
“Master Fiore, perhaps-”
“Shut up!!!” Fiore shouted through clenched teeth, the mic gritty and screeching with his outburst. The A.I. fell silent again, and waited as the thick fingers of the Portsuit flicked the visor’s catch.
The visor slid up into the top of the helmet smoothly, revealing the interior of the helmet. Fiore gripped the porcelain hard, spiderwebbing the sides of the sink. An old blackened skull was nestled snugly in the confines of the helmet, dark gray and pitted with age. No flesh remained, just dusty bone. Fiore pinwheeled his arms, falling backward and landing with a thud on his rump. A skeleton. His breathing labored over the microphone. I’m all but a skeleton.
“Sir, perhaps I should…” The A.I. began. “When you were in stasis, I ran diagnostics on your Portsuit and found its… limitations. The temporal link to the suit allowed me to reverse engineer a new partition in the suit’s mainframe… Once that was complete and I could add to that partition with extraneous parts we had in the repair bay…”
Fiore was barely listening. He got back on hands and knees and began crawling back toward the line of cryochambers. Towards the last one. Towards his.
“Ama… Please, you need to understand. You need to remember.”
Fiore pulled himself up against the pod, and dragged himself toward its head. A skeleton!
“It took an extraneous amount of time, but I managed to copy over your entire memory catalogue, emotion directory and synapse response directory. And after that, it was quite easy to set up the musculature and sensory systems of the suit to respond to the suit’s cerebral controls.” The A.I. said proudly, as though expecting a pat on the back. Nothing but a bag of bones, in other words. Fiore cringed and pinched his eyes shut, realizing that he was not actually pinching his eyes shut.
“Ama, you need to calm down and think. Ama, please!” The voice crooned. But it was only a voice. Another ghost in his machine. Fiore took a deep breath (aware that he was not in fact taking a deep breath) and peered into his cryochamber.
A child, or a baby more like, was swaddled in a blanket sound asleep, frozen in time. It had smooth olive skin, an obvious attribute to its mother… And it had a light wisp of auburn-red hair, barely enough to be noticeable in the blue light of the hibernation room. The sound now echoed clearly in his memory as everything fell into place. Not Grant’s threatening rhetoric. Not Kaela’s panicked shrieks. Not the A.I.’s monotone warnings.
The baby cried, confused and frightened until the vapors from the cryochamber initiating its hibernation sequence lulled it into a doctored sleep. Fiore’s fingers flew over the access screen of the Portsuit, overwriting and rewriting new commands. He barely heard the damned A.I. begin the last minute countdown. He hashed out code and commands he knew by rote. His mind a million miles away. The baby. The baby was his.
Fiore fled from the room, before the rejuvination cycle could begin. He fled from the impending confrontation. He fled from the future he obviously could have no part in; from the past that he had just so recently discovered. He fled from the memories that were painfully searing into what his conscious still considered his brain. Fiore prayed that from the depths of the ship where he would hide that he would not be able to hear the cries of his baby as it awoke to a life back home. He fancied he could feel tears running down the pitted cracks in his ancient skull.
Once the Impervious365-X4 reached its target location, it began its trajectory descent back to Earth. The rejuvenation cycle began automatically, restoring the crew and awakening them - acclimating them back into normalcy. The crew of the Impervious365-X4 returned to Earth with the same number of human travelers it had left with, all those years ago.
Two Arrows - Zack Gardner - Fantasy - 1266 words - 2016
Jesse hefted the longbow and quiver back up onto his shoulder, the awkwardness of that, his scarf and his empty knapsack causing endless frustrations. It was all but useless now. He was a crack shot, but it would take both of them to restring it, and even then, he only had two arrows left, poorly fletched and jangling around the cracked leather quiver. By then any excuse for game in this wasteland would have scampered off to its poor excuse for a home. He glanced over at Fel, adjusting his scarf to better shield his eyes from the sun and the blasted wind. She was doing the same, rewrapping her shawl to maximize coverage; wispy blonde hair bleached by the sun fighting her every move. Thin arms and legs poked out of her father's serape, faded and patched from his years on the waste.
She looked up and smiled, seeing him watching her. Jesse stumbled and turned back to the road, his cheeks flushed. They continued down the windswept road, baked and cracked from the sun.
"You blush like a woman, Jesse." Fel laughed. They sat around a tiny fire, made from twigs and scraps collected as the sun began to set. The tiny fire was complimented by a tiny spit, adorned with an even tinier rabbit skewered and roasting. Jesse blessed the darkness and blushed further.
They had restrung the bow that afternoon when the small cropping of trees came into sight. That much green meant life, no matter how stunted. Jesse had pulled and let fly as soon as Fel had spotted the little hare, her hand raising to point even as the arrow found home. The impressed look on her face warmed him an infinite amount more than the little fire, nourished him more than the greasy meat and expired can of beans they shared.
"I said," Fel repeated louder, "you blush like-"
"I heard you," Jesse interrupted, blushing deeper, unnoticeable in the firelight. He had said that a lot louder than he had meant. Fel skootched from where she was opposite him clockwise around the fire to sit next to him.
"I'm sorry Jesse… It's a force of habit with me, the taunting." Fel began. She leaned over, putting her head on his shoulder. "Six brothers will do that to you…"
"You have six brothers?" Jesse asked, stumbling over the words, just like he stumbled over his feet. He could smell her hair; could feel her hand grasping his forearm through his ratty bomber jacket. "I never knew-"
"Had." It was Fel's turn to interrupt. "I had six. Now I have zero. Zero, Jesse, just like you.
"You weren't the only one to lose people you know." She pressed her face into his arm and was quiet.
Jesse looked into the fire biting his lip, not sure how to proceed. Jakob would know how to talk to her. He'd know what to say to comfort her. He'd know exactly what to do. But, Jakob was dead, and apparently so were six of Fel's siblings. All in the fall of the city, the rise of the new Monarch.
It wasn’t the taking of the city that had caused the violence. The Monarch was ailing and weak, and the Viceroy of a neighboring city ambitious and looking to curry favor within his Monarchy. The Viceroy and his contingent flooded the streets and poured into the royal houses, slaughtering all that would not bend the knee. It took less than a day, start to finish. There was civil unrest before the regime change; the Monarch had been slipping, relying more and more on his council circle, a perfect storm for corruption. But now it was out in the open. No longer cloak and dagger, the masses could no longer ignore it. It started with the peaceful protesters with their signs and their "sit downs". But an angry spark had ignited the flames of discontent, and the entire populace was brimming with discontent. The streets had been chaos, just as bad in the poor districts as the palisades. Perhaps worse for the more fortunate, for they had more to steal. Rioting had run rampant, and the newly appointed city watch had only made matters worse.
Fel sniffled, bringing Jesse back to the present. She had been crying! Jakob would've known what to do. He put his hand over hers and she took it without hesitation, squeezing his fingers.
"We should go back," she said, barely a whisper.
Jesse scoffed, craning his neck to try and see her face.
"And do what?" he asked incredulously. "Knock on the gates of the city and apologize? Say, 'you know, you were right, it is better in here with the killings and the stealing and the raping'?!"
Fel was silent, her eyes glistening in the dying fire.
"Fel, we left. We escaped! We left all of that behind." She pushed away from him angrily, almost knocking him over.
"Yeah, Jesse, we left all of that behind!" She cried. "That was our home. It was shitty and it was corrupt and it was bad… But it was our home!
"It was our home, and he took it!" Fel wailed, sobbing into her hands and turning away from the fire. She stormed off into the shadows. Jesse watched her go, wishing he knew what to do.
The morning brought watered down coffee over the stirred up coals of the previous evening's fire. Fel stared at Jesse over her dented tin mug.
"What are we going to do out here?"
Jesse looked at her, chewing his lip. He wasn't sure. There wasn’t really anything they could do.
"We have one arrow to our names. This," she wiggled her cup, "this is it for coffee… I think maybe I have two more cans of beans.
"What are we going to do out here?" She asked again.
"Say we go back," he sighed, "Even if we manage to get back inside the gate, what do we do?"
Fel stood and dumped the rest of her coffee on the fire and brushed off her shapely rear. Jesse watched her and sipped his lukewarm breakfast. She looked past him and their shoddy campsite - looked off into the distance back the way they came, mulling over a thought. Jesse stood as well, brushing off and repacking their meager supplies, all the while keeping an eye on Fel.
"You still have an arrow." She finally said.
"That I do," he laughed, crouching down to fasten Fel's knapsack. "That I do." He stood, shouldering his bag and reaching out to hand her the other. She took the pack and moved into his arm, lifting his chin so they looked into each other's eyes.
"We should use it… We should kill the Viceroy."
Jesse smiled and then stopped, just looking at her. The wind picked up, tickling his face with her hair, his scarf struggling to escape. They stood there, eye to eye, at the cusp of a decision. Jesse bit his lip, mind reeling, staring into her eyes.
"It's a sad day when that's the best idea you can muster." He smiled at her, and she smiled back.
"Okay," Jesse said, resolved. "Let's go kill a Viceroy." Fel smiled wide and hugged him tight. They turned back onto the road, heading back the way they had come.
About half an hour into their march the two stopped briefly when Jesse took Fel by the shoulder and gently kissed her on the lips.
acts of man - Zack Gardner - fiction - 4069 words - 2016
1
The Bastard weaved through the swaying crowd expertly avoiding eye contact from any parties unwanted. He was more handsome than he had the right to be and an assuredness that women found alluring and men found as arrogance. That being said, the Bastard had many friends, couldn’t help but attract people to him. Everything he said was funny or smart or biting or deep. Everything he did he succeeded in. And everything he wanted, he got. He was listening to that band before you’ve even heard of them. He could mix drinks, any drink, and new almost, if not all, of those quirky cool pub tricks. And you know that cute girl from the coffeeshop that you were thinking about asking out? Yeah, he had that too. He was at every party that you’ve ever been to, and every party that your friends have ever been to, too. Wherever he was, music and laughter filled the air and the wine flowed freely, blah blah blah. He was the guy that you wished you were in college.
2
The Bastard worked his way toward the kitchen, away from the crowd. And away from what he was pretty sure was Mastadon on vinyl. Who bought metal on records? The crowd was heavy, but he could slice his way through it, parting the crowd biblically. Everyone he brushed against had a better time, a better story, a longer kiss, a harder orgasm. He stepped into the small kitchen, a group of girls gathered around the table in the apartment's breakfast nook, making mixed drinks with a blender. They all glanced up as he stepped into their peripheral. They were laughing and carrying on. The Bastard pondered what he was hungry for, perusing the selection. Pigtails, hmm.
3
The Bastard dressed quietly as… Kim? Kate?... the Girl slept unaware. Her unconscious unabashedness was a distinct contradiction to how she had acted at the party last night, her fit body sprawled out twisted in the sweat-soaked sheets. He pulled out his cell phone (the one you were planning on getting when it went on sale) and took a picture. Slipping the phone back into his pocket and smoothing his wrinkled shirt, he turned to the door. He wanted a farmboy special with an extra side of bacon and a strong coffee. And maybe a nap. Swinging the front door wide, the Bastard disappeared in the glare of the morning sun. The Girl rolled over and blinked away the sleep, smiling with a contented sigh. She stretched a full-body stretch, the blankets sliding down her bare flesh. She sat up, noticing that he was gone. Hm. What a wonderful night. She wondered when and if she would see him again. What a perfect gentleman.
4
A man handed him a pair of aviator shades as they passed on the street. Sure, they were his recently deceased father's, but this fellow seemed like he needed them, squinting in the sun. The Bastard strolled the three city blocks to the diner, stepping into the interior as an elderly husband held the door for his tottering wife. He took off his new sunglasses, hung them on the 'please wait to be seated' sign stand and sat at the nearest empty booth. A petit waitress, fresh out of high school greeted him with fresh coffee before he could even pick up a menu (not that he needed one.) She bit her glossy lip and asked him if he was ready to order, wondering how it got so warm in the diner all of a sudden and what her boyfriend would say if he knew what she was thinking about doing to this complete stranger. The Bastard ordered what he wanted, taking pleasure in the way the girl's cheeks flushed when he made eye contact with her. A couple walked in behind him, waiting patiently in the vestibule for a waitress to seat them.
5
It started as a muscle twitch down the Bastard's back (hairless, mind you, and not from waxing.) and progressed to a nervousness that he had never experienced. Now, it wasn't a great nervousness, it's just that he'd never felt nervous before and it was new to him. He was halfway through his massive breakfast when it hit him, wiping his mouth with a napkin the waitress had furtively passed to him, her phone number smeared with bacon grease. The Bastard paused mid-sip, his coffee still piping hot, his head cocked like a dog hearing a car pull into his master's driveway. Something was wrong. And that, unto itself was wrong. Nothing was ever wrong. Not to him. He turned in his seat, toward the wrongness, toward the hiccup in his perfect world. He didn’t notice the man. The man was inconsequential. The woman that walked hand-in-hand alongside him as they followed the waitress was the nexus of this… wrongness. She had short hair, a bob, reminiscent of the flapper era, complete with a lacy black band holding it in place. She had a full bottom lip and a thin top, curved at the ends with a promise of dimples on her fair cheeks. A long neck led down to her perfect clavicle, creamy and pure. Her white shoulders were bare; a cardigan bunched up at her elbows like a shawl offset the thin spaghetti string tank top that showed just a glimpse of her midriff with each step. The straps intermingled, somehow sensuously, with the straps of her dark bra barely visible through the lighter shirt. Her curvy legs were caressed as she walked by a silky knee-length skirt, the pleats revealing nothing but her striking outline. Argyle socks encased in tiny leather boots of some new fashion finished her look, clopping with each step. She let out a small laugh at something the man beside her said into her ear, and a sharp pain lanced into the Bastard's chest bringing him back to himself. Then they were past him, sitting two booths up, and everything was right again. The span of those five seconds felt like an era, like time had slowed to an excruciating crawl.
6
She applied more lipgloss in the stainless steel reflection of the kitchen's oven, blowing herself a kiss. She tightened her bra-straps, lifting and adjusting her meager breasts, and stepped back out into the serving area putting on her best smile. She frowned at the empty booth, her excitement gone. At least she had his sunglasses that he had forgotten. She would cherish those… Maybe she'd have her boyfriend wear them later that night. She smiled at the thought and moved on to her next table, a couple that had just sat down. The Bastard walked hurriedly down the street, glancing backwards and fingering his collar. What the hell was that?! He mopped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, regaining his composure, his stride slowing to match. He finally stopped in front of a storefront, flowers and fresh fruit on a flat rack. He closed his eyes and let it out. It flowed from him invisibly, yet affected everything in a diminishing radius of the Bastard. Pedestrians smiled, knowing that where they were going was going to be fine, walking with renewed energy. The elderly shopkeeper in the store glanced at his wife of forty years and winked at her, nodding his head toward the back staircase. She shuffled to the door, locking it and turning the open sign. The flowers on the rack became fresher straightening and angling their now vibrant blooms toward him, the fruit losing any sort of imperfections, reverting to its ripest. The Bastard sighed and resumed walking. That's better. He passed a homeless man, crouched on the sidewalk, who handed him his begging cup with a smile. The bastard took it without question, jangled the coins and threw it in the next trashcan he passed, brushing his hand clean on his pant leg. A car pulled up beside him, the passenger door opening to reveal a man asking him if, hey buddy, did he need a ride? Sure, thought the Bastard. Why not.
7
Yes, he knew the band that was playing now. Intimately, I hear. They almost had to cancel last summer's tour, the bassist, she was bedridden. He also owns the LP they released under a different name when the lead singer went on hiatus. Yeah, he could introduce you, later at the merch table? The Bastard weaved through the crowd that thinned out the further he moved from the small stage at the back of the bar. His pilsner glass was perpetually three quarters full and never, never, spilled. Yes, he drank craft beer, and, yes, he could describe subtle nuances in the flavor. He felt more at home now, among his element, the morning's anomaly all but forgotten. The heavy base and the heavy alcohol content in his amber gave everything a fuzziness, and unclear edge. He pulled back and let the alcohol seep into his system, feeling the effects. It affected everyone near him as well; a circle within arm’s reach feeling more intoxicated than they had seconds prior. The Bastard had been here all evening, playing pool and darts, talking with the patrons, helping the band set up, exchanging tips with the bartenders (who he knew each by name) and drinking. He had even spotted this evening's conquest, a long-legged blonde that looked nothing at all like that girl from the diner. Nothing at all, he had made it a point.
8
They stepped out of the bar, and the blonde bent over to fix the clasp on her heel. The short dress she was barely wearing pulled up enough for the Bastard to know that it was going to be a fine evening indeed. She stood pressing out the wrinkles in her dress giving him a coy look that directly contradicted her panties. He put out his elbow and she took it. She whispered an urge to go back to her place, her free hand wandering down inside his suit jacket (the one you wouldn’t wear even if you owned it, out of lack of confidence). They began a stumbling stroll in the brisk evening, shadows waxing and waning with the passing of streetlamps. They passed an architectural firm, the smoked glass doors softly illuminated from inside. The doors banged open behind them, a man immersed in a phone call exiting, shouldering a messenger satchel and setting off at a brisk pace toward the Bastard and his consort. So familiar the man was… The Bastard watched him, brow furrowed, as he passed them unnoticing.
9
She smiled to herself assuredly, walking home alone. In the morning he would call, and maybe they would get breakfast… Maybe they could drive upstate and see her parents. It's been a while and they'd surely like to know that she'd finally found a good man to settle down with. The Bastard followed the man from the diner. The guy who had been with the girl. The girl he'd been forcing himself not to think about all night. Was he on the phone with her, talking to her?! Was he going home to her?!! It was infuriating. The Bastard's handsome features twisted in anger. How come this guy could be with her and he could not? He began walking faster, closing the distance. His hand was on the guy's shoulder before he knew what he was doing, spinning him around. The guy smiled at the Bastard and wished him a warm hello as the Bastard pulled back and punched him squarely on the nose. Now, the Bastard had never been in a fight, had never had to. His charisma was enough, more than enough to smooth over any altercation he had ever been in. And this didn’t count either. This was not a fight.
10
The guy looked up from the sidewalk, confused and smiling through the twin trails of blood pouring down from his nose into his mouth. This must be some kind of mistake, he was horrified that he had offended this fellow, his mind racing to think of what he had done, of a way to make it up to this nice man he had just met. A kick to the ribs (designer slip-on boots, elegantly stitched yet ruggedly fashionable) repeated and repeated again put that thought on the back burner, yet the man still tried to voice apologies for whatever he had done. The Bastard came to an awareness, his hands flat against a brick wall, the man from the diner curled in a fetal position below him, spitting blood onto the ground, trying to say something. The Bastard wiped a line of spittle from his mouth stepping back, aghast. He let it all out then, poured it out from the bottomless pitcher inside of him. The crumpled man leaned his head back against the brick, smiling contentedly, but the Bastard felt no different. Just numb, numb and disgusted with himself. He stumbled backwards from his fallacy, turned and ran without thinking.
11
The Bastard found himself in a nondescript alleyway, hands on knees and panting. What was wrong with him? He was not like this. He curbed the flow from within, holding it all in, trying to use it to make him feel better and knowing it would not. He stoppered it from the world looking at his shaking and bloody hands. He made a fist, clenching, trying to push out the adrenaline and regain his composure. The Bastard closed his eyes at took a few breaths, straightened himself and wiped his hands clean with a monogrammed handkerchief he had borrowed from someone who really thought he could use it. He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair and fixed his jacket as shadows fell across him from the mouth of the alley. A handful of jostling figures had been watching the Bastard's actions, drunken fraternity brothers out for a night, like every other night, on the town. An aura of cheap beer, chewing tobacco, homophobia and crass sexist remarks wafted to the now calm and collected Bastard. They came toward him menacingly, one of them actually cracking his knuckles stereotypically.
12
He finished brushing himself off, tossing the handkerchief onto the dirty alley and glanced up at the approaching crowd. He still held it all inside of him. The Bastard spread his hands wide, to the seven or eight husky college boys advancing on him. He smiled kindly and let it all out. It flowed from him like a dam bursting, having built up from bottling it in. The demeanor of the gang instantly changed, from an ass-whuppin' party to the home-coming of an old friend. They greeted the Bastard warmly and exited the alley with him at the center of their cluster, arms draped over shoulders. They were the best; the future held nothing but prosperity and luck for them. Tonight they would conquer all. They headed jovially on to the next pub, ready to take on the world.
13
Morning found the crew groggily waking up on the fifty-yard line of a high school football field, surrounded by empty bottles, pools of chunky vomit, and assorted souvenirs from the night before. The Bastard woke refreshed, six hours later and twenty-five miles away in a presidential suite of a luxury hotel. (Not the nicest one he's ever been comped, but much nicer than that one you've been to.) He showered until the hot water ran out, which coincided at almost the exact same time he decided to get out. He dressed and went down to the hotel's restaurant for breakfast, leaving his keycard and dirty clothes in a pile on the floor. After a nourishing breakfast, the best, the waiter confessed he's seen come out of the kitchen in years; the Bastard left the hotel and wandered back toward the city, getting picked up by the first car that passed him.
14
The wrongness started shortly after he was dropped off, the driver giving him the contents of his wallet and wishing him well. The Bastard knew it for what it was instantly and began turning circles in the semi-crowded street, craning his neck to find her. He pushed it from within, a torrent emanating outward, his thoughts a pinpoint focus on his recollection of her from those few seconds the morning before. A timid touch on his shoulder snapped him back to reality, reigning in the flow. The Bastard turned, and there she was. She took his breath away, staring into his eyes. She wore a light flowered sundress and clunky flip-flops. She wore a kerchief in her hair, tied back like a pirate, a small scoop of bangs tucked behind an ear. The nervousness was there tenfold, his neck sweating and his hands shaking. But she was looking at him. Gods, she was smiling at him. No, of course she had time to stop and get a bite to eat. She was only going to visit her fiancé at work. He had been mugged the night before, and she thought she'd surprise him and take him out to lunch. You know, make him feel better, show him support. But no, she could do that any day really.
15
They had a wonderful time. She laughed at all of his jokes; he said all the right things. The Bastard was enthralled. He'd never felt this… this need. The nervousness made him giddy and excited. Lunch turned to drinks, and drinks turned to dinner. They played a few rounds of trivia on the pub tabletop kiosk passing the little screen back and forth, fingers lingering for the touch. The sun had started to set, and they had moved to the open air dining area, as there had been a table cleared just before they had requested seats. The Bastard draped his jacket over her shoulders when he noticed her shiver, his hands giving a gentle squeeze before returning to his seat. She had turned her head, caressing her cheek against his hand when it lifted. She had made the request, not him, to go back to her place. She had, not him. He had made sure of it. The door fell open with them groping at each other, kissing the hard kiss that bruises lips and clacks teeth. Passion kept the key from turning the deadbolt until the third try, the Bastard's shirt all but unbuttoned, the straps of the girl's dress and bra hanging dangerously low on her arms. He pressed her against the wall, kissing her neck from jaw to shoulder, and lower yet. She kicked the door shut and pulled him into the darkened apartment, with the assuredness of one who knows where everything is.
16
He dropped his shirt and started on his belt (leather, adorned with silver workings), looking up at the view of the girl silhouetted against a window, the lights of the city detailing her dress sliding to the floor. They fell on the bed, the girl straining to flick on a side lamp. She moaned and arched her back as he unclasped the front of her bra, the Bastard leaning down on her. They moved together, flesh on flesh, the salty taste of sweat and synchronized heavy breathing punctuated by gasping and two sets of groping hands. The sound of the apartment door swinging open and the sudden light from another room cast over them froze them both in the act. They were nose to nose, and the girl giggled nervously, mischief in her eyes. The man, her fiancé, stepped into the light of the doorframe and dropped his bag. The Bastard wasted no time, hopping up from the rumpled bedsheets and striding over to the man he had beaten to a pulp the night prior and shaking his hand heartily. The man smiled back through a bruised face, taking the extended hand and allowing the Bastard to lead him out of the room. He cast one confused glance back into the room at the writhing girl on the bed, his thoughts muddy. The Bastard led the man back out to the front door, letting it flow out, soothingly assuring him that he could come back later, no problem. The man thanked him and wished him a good evening.
17
The Bastard returned, the girl sitting up on the bed, coaxing him with one curled finger. Initially she had a look on her face like she was trying to remember something, something important. But that faded as he came closer, letting her guide him on top of her. He felt wetness on his neck and pulled himself up to look at her in the stark reading light. She tried to pull him back down on top of her, but he could see it. She was crying. She embraced him, raking her nails down his back and moving her hips with his. Joy and arousal and lust and… and a forlorn sadness. The Bastard sat back in the bed, that nervousness, that wrongness, returning in a crushing wave. She sat up, perfectly nude, glistening sweat and leaned forward to touch his knee, asking what was wrong. She looked at him lovingly, understandingly, yet eyes still glistening with tears. He stumbled backwards out of bed, avoiding her touch, appalled at their tableau. He apologized profusely, gathering his discarded clothing hurriedly, doing his best to avoid eye contact. He fled the apartment, ignoring the heart-wrenching pain.
18
The Bastard ran and ran, unsuccessfully trying to flee from himself, slowing finally at the mouth of a familiar alleyway. He turned down it, much like he had the night before, hands shaking and out of breath. This was new to him too. Damn her, what did she do to him?! He drew a ragged breath and held it in, trying to slow his breathing, his hammering heart. The pain was still there, the pain of what he did mingled with the pain of being away from her. Tears brimmed over his eyelids and tracked down his cheeks. This was new for him too. He let it flow from him, head in his hands like a child. He pushed it out trying to get rid of it, knowing it would never comfort him, trying to empty out the endless pitcher inside of him. He peered through blurred eyes as footsteps from the street brought another familiarity from the night before. The college boys rounded the corner, almost drawn to the torrent he had released, shouting greetings to the Bastard and clapping him on the back. They put their arms around him, hoisting him out of the alley with promises of the epic evening yet to come. The Bastard was dragged along for half a block before he realized what was happening, and when he did, a sudden realization came over him.
19
The Bastard pulled it all back into himself. He drew it in like he had let it out so many times before. He drew it in and he stoppered it again, sealing the endless pitcher. It took a few paces for the crew to realize the change in the atmosphere… and to wonder who this stranger was amidst their band of brothers. All it took was a salacious wink directed at one of the larger fellows to spark the fire. He was down before he knew it, his former friends surrounding him and throwing punches and kicks and anything that would connect. The Bastard shielded his head with his hands, curled up prone in the fetal position gritting his teeth, immersed in pain. He could feel ribs breaking, and knew like he knew anything else, that he was bleeding on the inside, somewhere near his liver. His cheekbone may have been cracked, but he wasn’t sure as the swelling from that eye was commanding all of the pain in that area. He bled from his nose, mouth and oddly his left ear, multiple cuts and gashes on this face, back and hands, and a pretty nasty gash on the back of his head where one of the good ol' boys smashed a discarded vodka bottle.
20
He lay there long after they lost interest and wandered off in his pooling blood. The Bastard whimpered, tears still streaming from the one eye that wasn’t swelled shut. The greatest pain was still her.
The hop the bitch had hooked Milo Turnkey to was starting to wear off. He couldn’t move but his mind was starting to make a little more sense of things and his eyes could finally focus. The skin around his eyes tightened as Milo tried to will them to move. He gave it the ol’ college try, but the best he could muster was the equivalent of a twitch. Phenomenal.
Having never been paralyzed, Milo associated the sensation with that of a sleeping limb - devoid of any feeling save a constant numbing tingle. That, along with an immense feeling of vulnerability made a perfect breeding ground for panic. But, if there was one thing Milo prided himself on (other than borderline alcoholic tendencies and the skill to make a decent burger), it was his ability to stay calm in situations of intense bullshit.
And this, he deemed as his eyes slowly panned the room, was a situation of intense bullshit.
A low wattage pullchain bulb above his head cast mean shadows as he pulled his tired eyes over the surroundings. With his chin on his chest, Milo lay strewn in an antique overstuffed chair, trimmed in mahogany. His left leg was thrown over one of the plush ornate arms while his right was splayed out to the floor. His shirt was half open bunched at the shoulder and coated in dried spittle. He still had his favorite suit jacket on, the one Darcy had gotten him for a birthday or Christmas or something. It was blue-black with red stitching. The matching pants, along with his socks and shoes were thrown in a pile a few yards off. No wonder his lower hemisphere felt a bit chill. Smooth Milo. She got you good.
The back of his head rested against a metal IV rack, which sat flush to the right arm of the chair. He couldn’t see the drip bag hanging from the stand, but in it he knew was some of the foulest shit that he’d ever had the pleasure of ingesting. On the floor by the griffin-clawed foot of the chair lay Milo’s battered houndstooth fedora. It had landed there after sliding off his brow... After sliding off his brow and popping the IV needle out of his outstretched arm.
There was nothing else in the room other than Milo and his throne, and it was cold, maybe a basement. The ceiling was a halfhearted gridwork of spackled drywall, polkadotted with screwholes and stained with years of water leakage. Milo’s eyes scanned the cinderblock walls, from left peripheral to right peripheral. There were no windowwells to let light in, but a steel door set into the wall let a soft glow in from the gap at its base. The floor looked to be tiled marble, but was revealed to be adhesive-backed vinyl squares. He could feel the rubbery almost leather finish under his right foot. Milo could vividly remember stocking them on the shelves of his father’s --
He could feel.
That realization snapped him out of his childhood daydream, and suddenly Milo could feel everything: The fading scratches on his back, the sting in his throat during each ragged breath, the constant throbbing emanating from the hardened knot on the back of his head, and the wincing pain on his left side - two, maybe three cracked ribs. The sensation seemed to give his body the motivation it needed; the paralysis was slowly fading. Milo chuckled at the amazing feat of being able to shrug his shoulders and push his hips. Still laughing like a simpleton, he continued his two favorite skills - the apathetic shrug and the enthusiastic hump, until his weight shifted, and he fell face first onto the floor with a muffled thud.
“You classy fuck,” Milo muttered with a mouthful of linoleum.
With his brand new arms, Milo army-crawled over to his pants, gritting his teeth as his ribs dragged the floor. He fumbled through the empty pockets for anything useful - a handgun, a knife, hell, a paperclip would grant some sort of reprieve... to no avail. Frustrated, he cast the pants aside, revealing a few empty IV bags of the bitch’s hop and a handful of sealed sterilized needles, each attached to a few feet of thin rubber tubing.
Milo laid his forehead on the cold vinyl and cursed quietly.
2. How One Gets Oneself Into Such A Predicament
or
2. Our Story Thus far
Amy Cobbler had been crying her eyes out. She wasn’t sure about the seedy pub she was in, with its walls made from lay upon layer of show flyers like a peeling onion, its smoke-hidden ceiling, and its sticky bar. She wasn’t sure about the situation -- going under the radar for help from a legally (and now obviously morally) devoid party. And she wasn’t sure about the man that had sat down in the booth across from her. Strickland had said that he was okay, that he was on the level, and Strickland never lied. Still wary, she eyed the man in the beat up fedora while fidgeting with her almost untouched scotch rocks. He did have a handsome face, but he succeeded in ruining it with an almost constant leer. He had lines under his eyes, a sharp nose, and a mess of disheveled black hair, which ended in unkept sideburns. None of this helped his case.
Milo peered across the table at the Cobbler sister that was still alive. Amy had straight long dark hair like her sister. She was pale and thin-framed and just a little too tall, just like her sister. She had a pretty face, perhaps a little gaunt, also like her sister. On the other hand, she was still warm and hadn’t OD’ed on some pharmaceutical smack, unlike her sister.
“So will you help me?” She stammered through light heaves. Milo Sighed.
“Amy, listen. I read the coroner’s report... The tox-screen was repeated with the same --” She let out a sob and covered her face, her shoulders hitching. Milo fidgeted, looking from his empty glass to her full one. Would she notice if he... He was never that great with human interaction.
“There were other girls, you know!” She wailed. People were glancing at their table in time with her syncopated outbursts, “All RN’s, with no, NO, past record of drug use. One from every major medical facility in the city.”
“Amy...”
“All within the past two months. Four before Angela and two after.”
“Amy... It could just --”
“Don’t you dare tell me it could just be a coincidence,” she snarled. “That’s the same bullshit excuse that the officer gave me.”
“I wasn’t going to say that," Milo crooned soothingly. (He was going to say that.)
“Please, Mr. Turnkey, Strickland said you would help me. He said you and him go way back.”
“We do, we do. It’s --”
“He said that I should say that he’s calling in his favor...?” Milo’s ears perked, and he leaned over the table, leering under the brim of his fedora.
“What exactly did he say about this... favor?”
“He said that he was calling in the favor you owed him,” She incorporated finger-quotes, “the BIG favor.”
Milo leaned back in the booth chewing his bottom lip. So Strickland was calling in the BIG favor for him to take on the Cobbler girl’s case, gratis. If that is what it took for Milo to be square with him, then so be it. He didn’t like owing a guy like Strickland anything.
* * *
Milo got off the elevator on the top floor of the Harrington Apartments Building. He shifted the grocery bag to his other arm and knocked on the door marked P1. It was the larger of the two penthouse apartments in the Harrington taking up over half the fifteenth floor. The peephole hummed like a focusing camera and a loud electronic snap preceded the door swinging open on its own accord. Milo strolled in, tossing his Fedora onto a nearby plush leather sectional, and saluted hello to the massive apartment’s sole occupant, Carrot.
The main room (and only one Milo has ever been in) of Carrot’s home was a colossal open space with the sectional couch dividing it in half. The left side was a living room; huge flat screen, plush pillows, and a wall entirely composed of shelves of silver vertical slits - thousands upon thousands of duped CD’s and DVD’s. The right side was a techie’s wet dream. A U-shaped executive desk was butted up against the back of the sectional, its twin facing the other way creating a makeshift command center. The rest of the room was a jumble of hard drives, servers, and a rat’s nest of network cables. On the far desk were a few computer screens each showing half a dozen progress bars and pads of paper with names and numbers. On the couchside desk were three widescreens. The left showed a few IM windows and a couple progress bars. The right was a fullscreen of some MMORPG, and the middle was a white screen filled with html code, scrolling faster than Milo could keep up.
Carrot sat, shoulders hunched, like the Phantom of the Opera, controlling all three computers simultaneously. He was a small guy, orange-red hair, pale to the point of albinodom, and introverted. He never left the apartment; had somebody bring him up all he needed. He was a genius, extremely ADD, and a world class hacker. He made a constant living off of selling pirated porno to minors and pervs.
“Did you get my info?” Milo asked, breaking the silence.
“Did you get my stuff?” Carrot rebutted. Milo nodded and emptied the grocery bag onto the back desk. A six pack of Yoo-Hoo, a pint of apricot schnapps, a dozen or so new release comic issues, and the sushi takeout platter #6 from Shipaida’s Hibachi. Carrot snuck a glance from his screens to his newly acquired items and smiled. He hit Ctrl+P on one of his keyboards and an inkjet printer near Milo hummed to life, spitting out a hefty stack of paper one sheet at a time.
“Coroner and police reports on all seven suicides, cross-referenced with each hospital they worked for...” Carrot gloated.
“How sweet. You made me spreadsheets,” Milo sneered, flipping through the stack.
“Fuck you. It helps me think.” Seventy-five dollars’ worth of basic commodities just bought Milo a hack into the Central Police HQ’s network.
* * *
Wendy Gallatin - Crossroads Center for Oncology
Crossroads was the first logical stop, only a few blocks from Carrot’s abode. It was the majority of a business complex, surrounded on three sides by a wraparound parking lot. Milo hopped off the sidewalk and strolled diagonally through the parked cars toward the back of the building. He shimmied between an SUV and a cleaning van that were parked too close together and rounded the corner of the building. As he had hoped, a solitary picnic table sat near a fire exit. Milo perched on the edge of the table and fumbled in his jacket for a Black & Mild. Unlit, he chewed on the wood filter and waited.
Not five minutes passed until the fire door silently opened and out came two people clad in scrubs, a short fat man and an even shorter bat-faced girl. Fatty blocked the door with a brick while Batty made a beeline for the picnic table pulling out a crumpled pack of menthols. She pinched a gas station lighter from the pack and, after three tries, expertly lit her stick. Fatty followed suit, casting Milo a distrustful glare as he sat between him and Batty.
After a couple of furtive glances, Batty asked, “Do you need a light?” Milo smiled - he had an in. He slid around the table towards her, ignoring the dagger-eyes, courtesy of Fatty. Milo leaned forward and puckered his little cigar into Batty’s cheap lighter. It caught and he thanked her... Time to go into his spiel.
“Can I ask you a question?” Milo leaned over the table towards Batty, oozing with charm.
“Sure,” she stammered, blushing. Fatty got up in a huff and stormed away. This was not his ideal smoke break.
“Did you know Wendy? Wendy Gallatin?” Milo almost whispered.
“I did. Well, a little bit. She-- why?”
“Oh, I’m her brother.”
“Wendy didn’t have a brother,” Batty’s demeanor changed.
“Wendy’s sister’s husband-- her brother-in-law.” Swoosh. Batty was back to lovey-dovey.
“Oh! You’re Danny? Wendy would just go ON about you and Doris!” Great. Suddenly married to a Doris.
“So you were friends?”
“We hung out a little. Went to church group on Wednesdays. I even tried to get her to go to that bar on 34th for my birthday, but you know Wendy.”
“Right.”
“Not a drop.”
“Straight-edge much?” Milo scoffed.
“I know, right? Bit of a fuddy-duddy,” Batty said. She suddenly dropped the smile, sobering.
“It’s a shame. No one saw it coming.”
“Yeah,” Milo stood up, flicking his snub into a sandbucket, “Maybe she didn’t either.”
Batty started, “Wait... What?” But Milo was already walking away.
“You know, smoking can lead to cancer.”
* * *
Lisanne Beaulieu - South Bolton General Hospital
Milo backtracked to his Camino and drove east, hopping onto the southbound highway for the first exit onto Bolton Street. He turned off a block past Bolton General onto Caru, a dinky one-way alley. An ex of his ran a steakhouse on Caru and he was just in time to make lunch. With a stomachful of pub sandwich and a heady buzz from their draught heifeveissen, Milo strolled down Caru turning onto Bolton.
A We Cleenit panel van turned hard into the hospital’s main entrance; the shrieking of tires giving Milo enough of a heads up to avoid being clipped by hopping up onto the curve. He readied a formidable profanity, but the van was already disappearing into a parking structure. Muttering to himself, Milo entered the hospital and headed toward the elevators.
* * *
Rita McCann - Greenwich General Hospital
Lindsay Lawrence - Open Hearts Prenatal Care
Joanie Fischer - Memorial General Hospital
Gretchen Rogers - CherryHill Medical Center
The sun was all but set when Milo exited CherryHill Medical Center. A breeze rattled through the main drag of the CherryHill district, forcing him to pop the collar of his jacket and shove his hands into his pockets. Nothing. The same story for every girl. All clean, no one saw it coming. Of course, you can never really know a person...
He strolled past the small maintenance parking lot and hoped onto the sidewalk, north on Washington, heading toward his parked car. Milo froze and turned slowly back toward the parking lot. Sitting in one of its five spots was a We Cleenit panel van.
* * *
Milo’s office was the front room of his apartment, converted into a storefront. The marbled glass door read “Turnkey Investigations” followed by a phone number in black paint. The inside was small; a desk with an outdated laptop, pen set, and table lamp surrounding a blotter calendar filled with doodles and coffee cup rings. Behind the desk was a blown out office chair and a table covered with stacks of documents making no attempt to appear in order. The other side of the desk sat two mismatched chairs for clients just as much as for holding the ratty braided carpet down. The walls had wainscoting below the hip and were filled with framed pictures above.
Milo stood in the interior doorway behind the desk, which led into his quaint apartment. He had his cell phone set on redial, smashed between his ear and his shoulder, and his lips were wet with half a pint of bourbon that matched the other half in a bottle he held tightly in his hand.
“Carrot?”
“Yuh.”
“Jeezus, what took you so long?! I’ve been trying to call you for twenty minutes.”
“Oh Milo! Man, I was up against this Level 30 Minotaur, and I haven’t been to an Inn in like two --”
“Carrot. Shut the fuck up.”
“...”
“Okay?”
“...Okay.” Carrot moped.
“I need you to pull your shit together and get some info for me. The seven hosp--”
“Whoa whoa,” Carrot interjected, “Are we on a secure line?”
“No Carrot, it’s my cell.”
“Your CELL?!”
“Okay. Enhance your calm. The seven places we spoke of, yeah?” Milo began pacing.
“Yeah.”
“Do those seven places have the same cleaning crew?”
“Hold on. I’m checking.” Milo took another slug of his whiskey. He needed some better friends.
“They do indeed --”
“We Cleenit.”
“We Cleenit. I’ll email you a -- uh... cast of characters?” Amidst Milo’s pacing he stopped, in the bathroom and cocked his ear. There was a timid knock on the door.
“Fine, Carrot. Whatever. Listen, I have to go.” Milo hung up without waiting for a reply, set his bottle down on the bathroom sink and strode toward the door. Believe it or not, he seldom had visitors, especially visitors after midnight.
Amy Cobbler looked a hell of a lot better than the last time he saw her. Her hair was pulled back into some kind of clip and a low cut black dress that showed off absolutely nothing between her decent cleavage and her upper thighs.
“And here you are!” Amy scoffed. “I assumed, obviously a fault on my end, that when you said you would take the case that you would actually, you know, do something.”
Milo signed and walked into his apartment from the office. Perfect. Strickland must be pleased. Not giving up so easily, Amy followed Milo down the hallway toward his kitchen.
“Don’t you dare walk --” She stopped, staring into his tiny bedroom. A card table had been erected beside his bed and both were covered with the files Carrot had procured for him. Many were dog-eared or sticky-noted with chicken-scratch in the corners. Taped to Milo’s wall were seven photos of seven very dead girls.
She closed her mouth mid-sentence as her eyes filled with tears.
“You--” She turned toward the kitchen, and Milo was there, next to her.
“I’ve been to and investigated all the hospitals except your sister’s. I’m saving that one for tomorrow.”
“...and?” Amy squinted hopefully.
“And,” Milo said, “I might be on to something. I might have a lead.” Might. Might might might. He also might have three balls. Give the girl a little hope. Let her get a decent night’s sleep.
“You did all of this, for me?” Sure. And that bastard Strickland. Square.
Milo leaned forward in a shrug, planning on saying something non-committal, and she kissed him. Amy Cobbler had Milo by the nape of the neck, pressing her lips so hard into his that his teeth hurt. Surprised, he pitched forward and stumbled into his bedroom. She held tight and even moaned a little when his hip caught the card table causing him to turn and fall onto his back half on and half off of his bed with her tumbling on top of him. Pages fell around them as her tongue explored his mouth. Milo put his hands on her sides to pull her back. She arched her back to meet his touch, and that was the last chance Milo’s conscience or inhibitions had. He never prided himself in doing what’s right and figured now would be a ridiculous time to start. He craned his neck toward her, returning the exploratory tongue. She pressed herself into him, obliging.
Amy pulled up, perhaps for air...
“You smell like bourbon.” She chuckled.
“It’s a new cologne I’m drinking.”
She smiled and began to say something, but froze, mesmerized at a spot on the wall behind Milo’s head. The seventh photo. Her sister, Angela.
She got off of Milo, robotic.
“I-- I have to go.”
“Amy--”
“No, it’s okay. I just-- have to go.” She backed out of the bedroom straightening her dress. Milo got up as soon as she was out of eyeshot, adjusting his pants and untucking his shirt.
“Hold on now,” he said, catching up to her at the door to his office. She spun to face him almost nose to nose. She pulled a photo, a Polaroid from her purse pressing it to his chest.
“I just came to give you this. I’m sorry I kissed you; I just felt--” And she turned and walked out into the night. Mid-sentence.
Milo stood in the doorway feeling like a dog, a pig, a chauvinist. He would’ve taken her on top of all that paperwork, in front of all those pictures. He went to the bathroom after the half bottle of bourbon, but not before taping a Polaroid of Angela Cobbler laughing at some sort of bowling party over top of her autopsy photo.
* * *
He hoped that she wouldn’t come back because he knew exactly what kind of person he was.
* * *
So, seven girls, all clean as a nun’s panties, end up OD’ed on homebrewed smack? What was the lead? Somebody with a hard-on for shooting up church girls and a job as a janitor decides to pick one from each place he cleans? Thin Milo, thin. No proof, even if it could be true. Seven angels sullied by a guy who cleans up their shit for a living. Seven perfect... Oh, hold on.
Milo nearly dropped his bottle, scrambling for the Cobbler girl’s file. He snagged it and flipped past the Coroner’s report and the autopsy report to her priors sheet. Well maybe not so perfect: busted for possession of marijuana first year of college. Milo leaned back. Weed? Angela Cobbler smoke weed in college? Really though, who didn’t?
Milo scowled. Here were six girls who didn’t.
So Angela had some secrets her sister didn’t know about... Maybe her weed bone was connected to her heroin bone, and her heroin bone was connected to her drug cocktail bone? Milo flipped forward to the Coroner’s report again. Almost the exact same drug used. He spun like a dervish snagging all seven coroner’s reports and laying them side by side. Six of the EXACT amount, the EXACT mix of pharmaceuticals. One that was almost the same.
So why was Angela an anomaly?
* * *
Or was she just a coincidence?
* * *
Thin Milo. Really fucking thin. So Angela Cobbler accidentally kills herself while a serial killer janitor is bumping off girls of the same profession with almost the exact same method? Thin indeed.
Milo shuffled into the kitchen to brew some coffee. This made no sense drunk, and he needed to see if it made more or less sense sober.
He sat with the Polaroid of Angela in his hand staring at her face, sipping a strong black Columbian and trying to think of what he was missing. On his third cup, he finally got it. He jumped up and rushed out the door putting on his hat and jacket, retucking his shirt.
If Angela was a coincidence, then there was one more victim to be had.
* * *
Angela Cobbler - Hutchens Health Free Clinic
Milo’s heap shuddered to a halt in the free clinic’s parking garage. He strode toward the elevator, breaking into a job when he passed a We Cleenit van, backed into a space near the exit.
He wandered the hospital for maybe twenty-five minutes before finding what he was looking for... Gray coveralls with the pink and green “We Cleenit” logo embroidered across the back, slowly trolling a mobile mop bucket down the deserted hallway. He was a tall man, maybe six-four and built no thicker than a linebacker. He had a thick caveman brow partially hidden by a mop of long greasy hair and a glazed look in his eyes that made Milo believe that he was either mentally retarded or just not all there.
Hearing voices behind him, Milo ducked into a darkened exam room, leaving the door cracked. Two female nurses came into view, each holding a stack of files, chattering quietly to each other. The idiot darted a quick glance up at them as they passed him, and once they had their backs to him, a dopey smile played across his big crooked teeth.
The two nurses passed the room where Milo hid and stopped at a nurse’s station to organize their paperwork. The idiot inched closer, wiping at imaginary marks on the wall, licking his lips and staring intently at them out of the corner of his sunken eyes.
Milo returned his attention to the nurses. The gal on the right was a tanned brunette, sporting a tight ponytail and a set of Scooby-Doo scrubs, while the other was decked out in the classic white nurses’ dress, a blonde slicked down pixie cut, and a light smattering of freckles on her pink cheeks. They chatted for a few more minutes, wrapping up their paperwork and continued down the hall and out of sight. Milo chewed his lip and thought over his next move. He positioned himself again to be able to see the idiot... who was gone.
Shit. The big retard must’ve slipped away when Milo was eyeing up the nurses. He craned his neck out of the doorway to a deserted hall. Shit, shit, shit. The idiot unintentionally got the best of him. So, tail the nurses or the idiot? Shit, shit, shit. Milo trotted off in the direction of the parking garage.
* * *
The sporadic blinking of old fluorescents kept the parking structure well lit, but at two in the morning, shadows were abundant. The elevator chimed and wearily pulled its doors open, revealing the aforementioned blonde nurse. She took in a deep breath and let out a long sigh, exiting the elevator. She unbuttoned the top button of her bleach-white uniform revealing just a hint of cleavage and pulled the headband from her hair. A smile played on her lips as she passed a backed-in panel van, scanning for the location of her car.
A shadow peeled itself from the darkness and silently followed her. The idiot, cloaked in darkness, quickened his pace to catch up with the unsuspecting nurse. He matched pace, flashing a dopey smile, almost directly behind her, and reached out with his massive hand toward her shoulder.
Milo stepped out from between two cars bringing himself side to side with the gargantuan simpleton and with all his might, roundhouse punched the idiot right in the neck, just under the chin. The idiot choked out a cry and stumbled backwards, hands at his throat.
“What the fuck?!” The nurse shouted as she spun around finding herself not alone, “What the hell are you doing?!”
Milo’s attention shifted to her for a split second, and the idiot strong-arm shoved him onto the car behind him, cracking his head on the windshield. Milo fell forward and crumpled, clutching the back of his head. Wincing, he looked up at the idiot who looked back and forth between Milo and the nurse.
The idiot turned and fled.
“What is happening?” The nurse panicky shouted.
“Ow! Shitshitshitshit!” Milo replied, peeling his fedora from his head.
“I said, --what is happening?’” The nurse repeated, stamping her foot.
“No, that’s okay. I’m fine.” Milo said, slowly getting up. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
She looked at him, confused.
“That big bastard is going around bumping off nurses, and it looks like you were next.”
Milo let her chew on that for a minute while he inspected the knot forming on the back of his head.
“How... How do you know?”
“It was just a hunch,” Milo stated while poking at his head. “Y’see, I’m a P.I., and I was just following up on a hunch... Right place at the right -- oh fuck!” He had found a sweet spot.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he winced, “The windshield caught my fall.”
“Let me see,” She pulled his head forward, “I am a nurse, you know.
“Hmm. Hm hm hmm. Okay. I can’t see a thing with this lighting.” She fiddled through his thick mop a bit more.
“Yeah. Um, why don’t you come with me back to my apartment? It’s only a few blocks away, and I have an EMS kit there. Besides, if what you say is true, I’d rather not be alone right now...”
With that kind of logic, Milo couldn’t help but oblige.
* * *
She said her name was Kay (actually “Kay,” not a shorted version of something else) as she roughed up her slicked down hair and pulled a blue EMS duffel bag from the top of her closet. Milo had taken his jacket off and was sitting on her bed located in the corner of her small studio apartment. An antique wood folding partition cordoned off the room from the rest of the apartment, which was tidy and scantily decorated except for a multitude of small brick-a-brack like Legos, army men, and other tiny keepsakes arranged on most level surfaces.
She came back and sat beside Milo with the medical kit between her legs. He couldn’t help but notice that another button of Kay’s dress had been undone and that now visible was just the very edge of the black lace of her bra.
They made small talk while she inspected, cleaned and disinfected his aching head, none of which Milo retained because his mind was set on catching another glimpse of that brassiere.
Kay left his side to return the kit, and Milo ogled the curve of her backside in the tight white dress as it swayed toward the closet. She came back and stood at his leg.
“Can I mix you a drink?” She slowly spoke.
“Y’know,” Milo interjected, “I know it’s cliché, but I’ve always had a thing for nurses.”
She smiled sarcastically.
“I’m actually studying for my doctorate.” She said, moving closer, fiddling with the collar of her dress and biting her hip.
“Well, this doesn’t have to be long-term.” Milo smiled and craned his neck to kiss her. She returned, pushing him back onto the bed, and picked up where Amy Cobbler dropped off.
* * *
Her dress hung by a prayer on the corner of the bed, while Milo’s clothes were on a pile on the floor. He was sitting up on the bare bed with Kay on top facing him. She had on only her pink and black lace bra (which left nothing to the imagination except what wasn’t facing him) and that just barely so. She moved forward, her pink freckled skin against his pale flesh. Kay was scratching the hell out of his back, but as she arched her back and moved in time with Milo, he decided that he was not going to worry too much about it.
And suddenly-- the pinch. Everything was going just fine until the pinch. She had finally stopped that damned scratching and was doing some kind of twist thing with her hips when Milo felt a hard pinch at the top of his back.
He jerked and shoved Kay off of him, knowing exactly what it was. She fell back on the bed as he stood up, a picture of beauty and sex, her bra holding on for dear life. In her right hand she held a syringe, the plunger sunk home. She smiled like a hyena and licked her lips, lying back on the bed.
Milo’s eyes suddenly focused, and it dawned on him. She was promiscuous; she wasn’t shy. No crosses or religious artifacts adorned her apartment. She had asked if he had wanted a drink, for Christ’s sake. She wasn’t the next victim at all.
He growled and turned, prepared to run from the apartment ass-naked and put as much distance between him and this crazy bitch as possible before whatever she dosed him with took effect. He took a step, and a step, and another step, and then fell to his knees, the drugs containing some form of Ketamine, numbing his appendages. He tried to talk, say something relatively rude and nasty (which seemed like the best course of action at this point), but it was to no avail. He was frozen.
Milo could hear the bedsprings creak with Kay getting off the bed, and she came into view, still 95% nude, and walked over to her front door. She turned the deadbolt, unlocking it, and trotted her bare ass over to the couch, flopping down on it. His eyes followed, even at a time like this. He sighed; his dick was his downfall.
The front door opening derailed his train of thought, and lo and behold, there stood the idiot. The big bastard’s gaze panned the room. He smiled sheepishly at Kay and stopped at a coffee table to reposition a G.I. Joe and two Lego men.
“Don, honey,” Kay said almost motherly from the couch. His eyes immediately went to her, and she nodded her head toward Milo. He flopped his head in a goofy nod and trotted over to Milo, picking him up by the shoulder as though he were weightless. The last thing he remembered before blacking out was the idiot pulling back one mammoth fist and sinking an anvil into Milo’s ribcage.
3. A Tidy Resolution
The syncopated thud of approaching footsteps snapped Milo back to reality. He peeled his cheek off of the basement’s vinyl floor and did his best to get up. The hop the bitch had hooked Milo to was still in his system, but he found it slightly easier to control his movements and drag himself toward the reinforced steel door.
He flopped against the wall on the hinged side of the door and pulled himself to a standing position. Milo unwrapped the IV needle and tube from its hermetically sealed wrapping that he had laboriously dragged along with him as the light beam under the door flickered and a deadbolt lock shifted and clicked.
The door swung inward, hiding Milo, and the idiot lumbered in with a snub-nosed revolver, which looked like a tiny toy in his massive hand. He looked at the empty chair and then around the room, confusion turning to slight distress. He took a few more steps into the room, and that’s when Milo attacked.
It was more like a fall than an attack, but he did manage to land on the idiot’s wide back, his arms around his neck. The idiot squealed in surprise and bucked like a donkey, firing a wild shot into the concrete. The discharge of the cannon in the confined basement was deafening, but Milo paid no mind. He was busy - his right arm was wrapped around the flailing idiot’s thick neck; his left held the needle end of the IV tube; the other end, the non-business end, was held between his gritted teeth. All the while, he repeated the mantra, “C’monyabassard. C’monyabassard. C’monyabassard.”
The idiot continued wailing and thrashing, the sweat beading at his brow, the vein (or artery or whatever it was) pounding in his neck. Milo jabbed the little needle into the idiot’s neck, praying he hit the vein, and blew into the IV tube with all that he could muster.
That stopped the shrieking, but the idiot continued to flounder about, piggybacking Milo around the room. And then, the idiot abruptly froze, made a few quiet popping sounds (his lips opening and closing), and pitched forward falling with a wet smack onto his face.
Milo rolled off of the idiot, spitting the tube out, and heard a clamoring of someone running down a staircase outside the steel door.
“Donny? Donny? I heard the gun go off. Are you okay?”
It was Kay.
“You Motherfucker. What did you do to my brother you cold son of--”
Milo lifted the idiot’s heavy arm and grasped his hand tight around the idiot’s. A second deafening boom filled the little basement, and the top of the bitch’s head evaporated in a mist of blood.
* * *
Milo took a wide step over the mess that used to be Kay and out of his basement prison. He had managed to get dressed and wipe down anything that he had touched. He left the revolver in the idiot’s hand, and jammed the non-business end of the IV tube into the idiot’s now silent mouth. Sister, brother, murder, suicide. It sounded good to him, and Milo doubted either of the two bodies that were keeping him company would complain.
The room he groggily stepped out into was still basement, but refinished in the semblance of a small den or rec room. The floor had cheap carpet rolled over the concrete slab, while the walls were coated in posters of cartoons, Power Rangers, Ninja Turtles, and even some provocative Japanese prints from some indecipherable anime.
Milo limped over toward the staircase, pausing to lean on the back of an overstuffed recliner facing a corkboard tap-conned to the wall.
He froze.
On the bulletin board were six pictures of six girls. The same six girls that were tacked to the wall in his apartment. On the floor beside the chair was a tissue box and a wastebasket full of balled up tissues, mostly dried, but some at the top still sticky and wet.
The stink from the trashcan was familiar, and Milo had to hold his breath to keep from vomiting. He decided it was high time to get the fuck out of this basement.
Before he did, he tacked a seventh picture to the board - a smiling girl at a bowling alley.
* * *
“North Avenue Animal Shelter.”
“...Darcy.”
“Hello?”
“Darcy.”
“Milo? It that you, Milo?”
“I -- I needju you ah... I need yoota gimme thuhh.”
“Geez Milo. You sound horrible. Are you on a bender? I swore I would never pick you up again after last time.”
“No - not... Uh. Fifth and Martin. Payphonnne. Hhuhhh.”
“Milo - what happened? Listen, I close in like half an hour. Are you-- Milo? Milo?”
Darcy Altmore hung up the phone by the register and tucked a rogue corkscrew of curly strawberry blonde hair behind her ear. She chewed her bottom lip and considered her next course of action. Darcy knew and had been friends with Milo for a couple years now, since a chance encounter that she’d rather not recount. They were both lonely people (her because of a deep-seeded shyness, and him because everyone thought he was an asshole), so they would meet up on holidays and such occasions to eat and drink and talk and laugh and pretend they were both happy. If Milo could say that he had a friend, it would be Darcy.
She sighed, flipped the open sign, and locked up her shop. She walked to the back of her building, past the kennels and operating room, shrugging out of the apron she wore. Darcy grabbed her van keys hanging by the back door and flicked off the lights.
* * *
Darcy had found him exactly where he had said, lying on the sidewalk, arms wrapped around a payphone, and sweating profusely. After loading him into the front of her cargo van, he explained the whole (at least almost) story to her in a shaky voice as he lay on the bench seat with his head resting on her lap.
The rest of the drive back to the animal shelter was silent, Milo dozing in and out of sleep with a worried Darcy keeping a hand on his chest, making sure he kept breathing.
* * *
“Hello? Carrot?”
“...Wow. You just don’t even bother with secure lines, do you?”
“No, shithead, this is the phone you gave me.”
“Oh. Oh. Okay then, we’re fine. What’s up?”
“I need you to hack back into the Central PD’s network. I need--”
“Whoa. Wait a second,” Carrot interrupted, “My work isn’t free.”
“I’ll--” Milo started, “I’ll owe you a big favor.”
“Pff! And, what could I possibly need from an alcoholic narcissist such as yourself?”
“Carrot! Dammit!” Milo held his tongue and counted to ten. “...The next time you need to leave your apartment, I will personally escort you there and back. No questions.”
“...”
“Carrot?”
“You would do that?” He replied, quietly.
“Yes! Now...”
“Sure. Sure. Go ahead.”
“Okay. The seven girls. The ones you looked up for me?” Carrot grunted an affirmative. “One of them, the Cobbler girl, has a few differences on her Coroner’s report. I need that one to match the other six. Verbatim, yeah?”
“Sure.”
“I also need you to eradicate any record of her prior arrest... These seven need to be identical. Are we clear?”
“Crystal. That it?”
“One more thing... I need a 9-1-1 call to go in... Untraceable. Two shots heard from 521 West Martin Street. Can you do that?”
“Sure Milo, no problem...” Carrot paused. “And Milo? You-- You’re serious about taking me... outside?”
“I am, Carrot.”
“...”
“And Carrot?”
“Yeah?”
“Sound panicky. I need a lot of cops there.”
* * *
Milo hung up on the phone and poked at the fresh bandages Darcy had patched him up with, deep in thought. That was it, right? Milo’s head was spinning. Everything cleaned up neat and tidy? Two fucked up dead siblings killed. Seven girls instead of six? Sure. Why not? In the least, Amy Cobbler should be happy.
Milo closed his burning eyes and lay back down on the little couch in Darcy’s empty waiting room.
