© 2025 Bud Templin

ISBN: 979-83-1780166-3

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Dedicated to the bugs

We thoughtlessly tread on—

To the cosmos

We are all little bugs

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 - A Strange Fire

Chapter 2 - Waitin On Satan

Chapter 3 - Waterpik

Chapter 4 - Over The River And Through The Woods

Chapter 5 - Ottoman

Chapter 6 - Puppy

Chapter 7 - Cookie's Story

Chapter 8 - Carpet

Chapter 9 - Snake's Burden

Chapter 10 - Lunchtime Crowd

Chapter 11 - A Waste of some Fine Cigars

Chapter 12 - The Seven Shot Taggert

Chapter 13 - We Can Work This Out

Chapter 14 - Best Seat In The House

Chapter 15 - Amanda

Chapter 16 - The Fire

Chapter 1

A Strange Fire

Night. I am jolted, thrown against a fellow passenger, as the Humvee careens through the chill, damp darkness. She yells to the driver, “Hey! Slow down, asshole!

“Over the river and through the woods!” the driver whoops. “We’re coming, Granny!”

The Hummer skids to a stop. Another checkpoint. Guards outside shine flashlights into the interior of the Humvee. I shield my eyes. My companion is flashed— her hands jerk up. I catch a glimpse of a taut face with wide eyes. Very likely I look the same to her.

The guards wave the Humvee through. The driver guns it, spraying them with a rooster tail of gravel as they howl in anger.

“Ho, ho, ho! And away we go!” the driver laughs. “Don’t you know? It’s all a big joke!”

The Humvee’s headlights carve away the darkness, revealing a stark, muddy landscape— a jumble of hastily erected construction. The lights glint off the pools of scummy water and endless stacked coils of stainless-steel razor wire that line the road.

Bulldozers and cranes loom in the darkness, swept by tower searchlights slashing the night like sky machetes. Vast shadows wheel and dance. I pass vehicles parked haphazardly, engines running, guards afoot with dogs, running spot checks, their breath chuffing clouds into the cold, night air.

As I approach the inner circle, the most guarded section of the complex, the atmosphere becomes charged with unearthly energy. I feel a prickling sensation on my skin and a taste of metal in my mouth. The Humvee skids to a halt.

I climb down from the Humvee, my boots sinking into the damp, churned earth. Overhead, ragged clouds scud past a cold gibbous moon. The air is thick with the stench of diesel exhaust and the sharp tang of welding torches. Massive generators rumble, punctuated by distant dogs barking and the clang of metal. Helicopters whir and fret overhead. Workers, heads down, in hard hats and orange safety vests hustle past.

My papers are checked at the final gate. Then I am through. In the final compound, it is subdued. I enter a round area, about one hundred yards across. It is not so much lit by the circle of construction lights around the perimeter as by a strange, unearthly ball of light at the very center— the Fire.

The dozen guards hang back against the perimeter, but one approaches to escort me. “This way, nugget,” he gestures toward the center, toward the Fire and the silhouetted figures moving around it.

Halfway there, he halts. “Far as I go. You go over there, and you report to that big guy there. That’s Snake. Mr. Jake Peavy to you, nugget. You do what he says, and you’ll be fine.”

The guard waits until I step forward, then he walks hurriedly back to his post. That step forward leads to another. There’s no going back.

I approach the workers, a dozen figures toiling, lofting items of every description into the strange Fire. They are the Firefeeders.

The Firefeeders move methodically, their faces illuminated by the Fire’s ethereal glow. They grapple things from a row of carts— old books, clothing, electronics, building materials, toys— and feed them into the swirling flames with practiced efficiency. On one side, a large display board records the sphere’s size in centimeters, with indicator lights flickering from green to warning orange. Red lights remain dark. A steady parade of workers with hand carts, filled with an endless variety of any random material thing conceived in this world, trundle up to the Fire to leave them in a ready row, and another stream of workers with empty carts quickly leave through another gate.

It is the Fire itself that holds me spellbound. I am to be a Firefeeder now. Before me, a sphere of light, about eight feet in diameter, hovers above a dished, vitrified depression of black glass. I can’t tear my gaze away.

The Fire burns bright, a scintillating crystalline light that casts an eerie dancing glow on the figures toiling in its service. It is a light through the melting stained glass windows of a burning cathedral. Each flame has a life of its own, intertwining in a hypnotic display of ethereal hues, from the deep, electric blue of midnight radio static to the shimmering, metallic green of the first leaf of the first ancient summer, dappled with ghostly magenta and spectral golds.

The colors within the Fire are not static but writhe and shift in a constant, chaotic dance. Tendrils of pure, electric white lash out like solar flares, clashing with vivid, neon purple swirls, only to be reabsorbed into the pulsing There’s an eerie harmony to its chaos, a sense of purpose behind its wild, coruscating energy.

A thrumming hum resonates from the sphere, like electricity dreaming, hinting at a vast engine of incredible contained power interspersed with soft crackles and pops that echo in the stillness around me. Each sound melds with the flames’ colors, creating a symphony of awe inspiring and terrifying sensations. The light warps the air, giving the surrounding environment a shimmering, dreamlike quality, as if reality itself were being shivered by this hypnotic energy.

As I stand transfixed by the Fire sphere, my gaze is irresistibly drawn toward its central core. The colors within swirl in a complex dance, creating a world of luminescent liquid jewels pulsing with a life of its own. The deeper I stare, the more I feel the vibrant hues inviting me in, pulling me toward that mysterious heart where the light is most intense.

“Whoa. Easy there.” A heavy hand clamps my shoulder. Pulls me back. Jake Peavy, the one I was told is called ‘Snake,’ leans close, looking into my eyes. “Yeah. It gets you. Being up close. Seeing it in real life. Not like a video in orientation, is it?” Snake turns to the others.

“Hey! Listen up. New meat here. This nugget wants to be a Firefeeder. What say you?”

A torrent of jeers and catcalls erupt. Most of the work of unloading the carts and feeding the Fire halts.

A few of the closer Firefeeders advance, their expressions cold.

Snake looms. “Hey, nugget! Look at the board! What color do you see?”

“Um.., orange—?” I venture

“Orange!” Snake is right in my face, eyes bulging with rage. “Orange! Because you fucking interrupted us! Because you have the Goddamn nerve to imagine that you, of all people, could be good enough to be a Goddamn FIREFEEDER!”

Snake furiously manhandles a full cart in front of me. “You got us all behind; now you feed the Fire, you get us caught up!” The metal cart contains building debris, drywall, two-by-four lengths, and concrete chunks. Snake shoves me. “Take it out of the cart and throw it in!”

I grapple with an unwieldy section of drywall and lever it out of the cart.

“Up three centimeters, Snake,” someone standing near, mutters.

“Throw it in, nugget!”

I struggle to lift the drywall and awkwardly try to heave it in. It falls short, only half going in.

Snake explodes. “Jesus H. Christ on a cracker! Move closer!”

I try to choose a smaller piece, and this time, I succeed. The flat panel enters the Fire, curling and disintegrating in a cascade of impossible colors.

“Six centimeters.”

“Forget the sheetrock, nugget, go for the concrete! More mass! That’s the ticket!”

I dig down in the cart, nails and jagged masonry raking my skin. I lift out a heavy chunk of concrete, hug it, and stumble close to Fire. It is terrifying to be this close; my skin tingles and my hair stands up. The swirling mosaic of colors fills my vision as I heave the chunk in.

“More! Faster! Grab another!”

I wrestle a larger piece up against my chest, pivot staggering under its weight. I swing my torso to heave it in. It barely makes it, dissolving in a shower of luminescent tangerine fireflies.

“Again! Another!”

I grasp a smaller piece and can reach the Fire from a distance.

Snake is hovering, screaming in my ear. “That ain’t enough! Another! Make it count!”

I boil over with rage, I want to punch this ‘Snake” sonofabitch in the face, and I grab an armload of lumber and flail it into the Fire.

“More!”

The overwhelming feeling of the unfairness of the situation drives me to a paroxysm of crazed manic effort. I’m here to help these people, and this is how I get treated?! Well, fuck them fuck them all…! How about this! Is this good enough for you? And how about this! And how about this—!

I lift the last piece of debris from the cart, a massive piece of concrete. Staggering under its weight, my arms and back scream, and my legs feel like overcooked pasta; I’m stumbling, falling into the Fire.

A strong pair of hands catches me and pulls me back. I collapse.

Snake stands over me. He points to the indicator board. The lights are all green. He offers his hand and pulls me to my feet. He claps me on the shoulder.

“Good job, Probie.”

I peer about. The other Firefeeders are back to work, rolling carts and efficiently maintaining a steady material flow into the hungry sphere. Each, in turn, nods to me or gives a thumbs-up. A stubby bald man walking by smiles and holds out his hand.

“I’m Manny. Welcome aboard, Firefeeder.”

Dazed, I stand, shaking from exhaustion. Snake places a cart beside me.

“Take it easy for a while, Probie. This clothing is light stuff. Just take your time. Feed it in slow and steady. We’ll bring you up to speed soon enough. Get you introduced around. Get you your Firefeeder name. Okay. Get to work.”

I stare about, the utterly surreal nature of my circumstance making me light-headed. In front of me, the Fire hums and crackles, hovering above the glassy black depression, reflecting its otherworldly hues. Around me, under a ring of blinding spotlights, armed men in tactical gear, backed by a twenty-foot-high electric fence festooned with razor wire, stare back at me, stone-faced.

So. I get to work. I pick a tee shirt off the top of the clothing pile. It opens in my hands. The words ‘WAITIN ON SATAN’ are printed on it.

A middle-aged woman, wide face ruddy with the cold, walks past, carrying an end table. She nods at the tee-shirt. “That reminds me of a story that Cookie told me.”

“Well then,” says Jake ‘The Snake’ Peavy. “Let’s make this shift go a little faster. Let’s hear it.

Chapter 2

Waitin On Satan

It was the Jersey Pinelands. It was the dust, the endless green scrub. It was the heat, smothering the world like a vast panting dog. It was three old men.

The three sat in a row on a creaking wood porch hung on the front of a dilapidated General Store. They sat in the dappling shade of the paint-scabbed remnants of the porch’s once grand gingerbread. The available shade was less than usual, a section of lattice had come down in the wind night last. Now, a body with a little ambition might climb up on a stepladder and nail it back up, someone with a little get up and go, but no one like that here.

“Shame the way this place is goin to the devil,” said the first old man. His name was Peter Landes— Pete to the others. He spoke in the direction of the second old man, the owner of the place, and as such, by old man rules, responsible for the decrepitude. The second old man was named Francisco Balli, to the others, Joe.

The third old man, Andrew Pinchot, grunted and said, “And why the hell not?” He waved a soggy, unlit cigar.

“Whole world’s goin to the devil.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Joe groaned to his feet. “We’re goin to pot alright. Me an’ this ol place. Long as it don’t go ahead of me, that’s all I ask. I’m goin in for a beer. Anybody want something?”

Pete shook no. Andy waved off. “Have a ball.” The screen door twanged open and whacked shut behind Joe.

The day was devoted to testing new porch furniture: three Adirondack chairs skillfully constructed of varnished cypress. Joe had purchased the three that sallow morning off a battered old stake-body driven by a dark, ancient looking man and a dark teenage boy who had to weigh three of the man. Claiming to be Seminoles from Florida, they showed up now and then with a load of loungers and benches made by other Seminoles they claimed. Joe had always admired the Adirondacks, and he had always admired the price. This morning, he had taken the plunge. So three bony old fannies settled in, and the test begun.

So far, the test was going well. Pete leaned back against the glossy wood. He reached up and reseated the faded John Deere cap on his freckled scalp. “Florida Indians? What’d he say? Why they come up here all the way from Florida? More likely good old fashioned New Jersey Gypsies.”

“Cubans.” Opined Andy. “Maree-o-leetos.”

The screen door twanged and whacked. Joe popped a Schlitz and settled himself into the center chair. The three sat in comfortable silence. Without turning their heads much, they lazily monitored whatever came down the sun-blasted road. Joe sipped his warming beer.

“Mm-mm-mm!” hummed Andy. Something had entered his squinting sector of responsibility, something that caused him to swivel his head in that direction. The other two turned to see.

Sashaying down the narrow tarmac road was a bare foot teen aged girl. She had long, straight brown hair. She wore a white printed tee shirt and very brief cut-off jeans. She did not appear to notice the existence of the three old men who gazed at her so avidly at that moment. Nevertheless, she paused across from them.

“That’s Althea’s little girl,” whispered Pete, “from town.” The other two nodded without looking at him.

“Hey? Honey?” Andy Pinchot always fancied himself pretty handy with the ladies. “What’cha got written on your shirt?”

The girl turned. She didn’t seem surprised at having an old man call her from a decaying old porch. She smiled distantly and shrugged. She tugged at the bottom hem of the shirt to better display its message. In simple block letters, it said:

WAITIN

ON

SATAN

The three old men moved their lips as they read. “Waitin on Satan?” called Andy. “Is that what it is? Honey, you some kinda waitress for the Devil, or does it mean you’re waitin’ for the Devil to come?” the other two old men snorted. The girl shrugged. She only glanced vaguely in their direction, still a strange dreamy smile.

“Some kinda rap singer. Some band or something,” said Pete. “I seen every kid in towns’ got one of those shirts. It’s the thing nowadays; you gotta all have the same shirt on. It’s called doing your own thing, I believe.”

“The other two nodded in agreement. While discussing how crazy young people were was usually a surefire topic of conversation, they found examining the contours of the shirt in question more interesting at the moment than discussing its sociological implications.

A boy about the same age as the girl loped into view. He appeared to be a male version of the girl: same long stringy brown hair, printed tee shirt, cut-off jeans. He puffed to a halt before her. He held out something small in his palm, something alive. The girl reached out and petted it.

Their words were a murmur too soft for the old men to make out. The girl gently held the small brown feathered creature to her face, cooing softly. She brought it to her lips. Her lips drew back, teeth bared, mouth opening—

The boy slapped her hand; the small thing fluttered to the ground. The girl’s teeth came together with an audible click. She turned, hands out, looking down, searching. The boy’s hand darted to the v of her crotch. She shrieked, laughed, jumped back. The boy leaped forward, stamping the ground once— twice— The small brown thing fluttered about on the ground. The girl squealed, “No! Stop!”

Laughing, she tried to push the boy back. His foot came down on the small brown thing. He stooped and scooped it up. He threw it at the girl and ran. She gave another laughing shriek. She held up one finger. The boy laughed. She ran after him, and then the two were gone.

The three old men sat frozen. They stared at the small broken thing lying on the hot tarmac like a wadded cigarette pack. A few crushed feathers stirred in the breeze.

“Jesus.” Whispered Andy Pinchot.

“Ya know,” said Joe, “we were a little wild when we were that age. But we were never like that. Were we?”

“No. Hell no.”

“Things are different nowadays,” said Pete. “How about Carnie and his wife. Sleepin’ in their bed, and someone douses them with gasoline and lights ‘em up, just like that. They burn up in their own bed. I tell you, things are different today. Years ago, that would’a been a big thing, but now— “

“And old Mrs. Koehler.” Andy shook his head. “Goes out to her shed and whako! Somebody splits her skull with an ax. And why? Nothing gets taken. It’s for the sheer joy of killing. Buncha animals nowadays.”

“I tell you one thing for sure.” Joe gestured with his beer can. “You go and round up some’a those punks in town you’ll have your killers.”

“I think it’s total strangers.” Pete rubbed his scalp. He pointed his cap to indicate the direction of the trouble. “Come out of Philly, New York City, come through here, and keep on going.”

“But why? Buncha animals.” fumed Andy. “I say State Police should motor-vate their fat asses and go into town and clean house. Put an end to it. Those dirt-bags and all their dirt bikes and all that stuff goin on up at the Tea Table.” The three old men lapsed into a glum silence.

“Uh-oh.” Andy pointed with his cold cigar. “Look who’s comin’.”

A thin man stepped out of the dry green scrub on the other side of the tarmac. He was stooped, seeming to shrink away from the inside of his worn khaki work pants and faded plaid shirt. With his unkempt white hair, he reminded one of a stooped Andy Warhol.

“Oh, cheezy crackers,” groaned Pete. “Corley Ramp.”

Corley Ramp stood for a moment beside the road. He blinked as if surprised at finding himself in bright sunshine. He stood and examined the palm of his hand. From the porch, it appeared like he might have cut himself. Corley stepped out onto the road.

A dirty white Volvo bleated a warning. Brakes squealing, it swerved. The three old men thrashed half out of their seats—”Jeez! Look—Watch it! —out!” Corley Ramp glanced up, his expression an eloquent, huh? The Volvo clipped Corley on a bony thigh and turned him. It continued a ways and halted in a scruff of gravel.

Corley rubbed his thigh. He limped across the road. He climbed the three sagging steps onto the porch and announced, “Well, Joe, you finally got yourself a customer. I’m a needin’ a few things.”

“Holy shit, Corley!” swore Joe. “You o-k?”

“Yeah. Sure. How are you making out these days?”

“Damn, Corley,” said Pete, “in case you didn’t notice, you just got hit by a car!”

“Oh. Yeah.” He shrugged. “I guess I left my head somewhere else this morning. “

The Volvo backed and edged half off the road onto the shoulder across from the store. Andy vacated his chair. He gingerly grasped Corley’s elbow. “You sit down now.” He steered Corley to the chair. “Sit down and catch your breath. You’re bleeding.”

Corley lowered himself into the Adirondack. He leaned back. “Hey, this is nice.”

“You’re bleeding,” insisted Andy.

“Oh.” Corley studied his hand. He rubbed it on his knee. It came away clean, leaving a red smear on the khaki.

The driver of the Volvo heaved out of the car. Warily, he approached. With the habit of years, he scanned the scene and saw that it was a run-down store of some sort: Coke- Briggs & Straton, Authorized Parts- Bait. He noted four men on a porch. Elderly. He relaxed a little. One of the men was seated, and the other three were standing.

The three standing men watched him with expectation as he mounted the creaking steps into the porch’s shade. They also watched the seated man, wondering what he would do. He wondered the same thing. Again, habit decided his course of action. He took charge of the situation. He addressed the seated man.

“Anybody hurt here? Are you injured?” He stood over the seated man. “You stepped right out. You’re lucky I didn’t roll right over you. Man, you gotta have your wits about you. You can’t just step out into a road without looking.”

Corley Ramp peered up, momentarily at a loss to explain the sandy-haired man looming over him.

“My name is Carl Doberman. Like the dog. My insurance company is Allstate— “

“OH.” Corley Ramp waved off any talk of insurance. “Well. No need for that.” He patted his thigh. “I’m okay. Your car’s okay? Well then—”

“I’ll be glad to take you somewhere, get that x-rayed.”

“Nahh! No need for any of that. I’m fine, your car is fine. I wasn’t thinking, stepping out like that. I apologize for causing you trouble like that—” Corley gaped past the sandy-haired man with an expression on his face like a swimmer seeing a dark fin knifing through the water toward him.

A sandy-haired boy of about ten climbed the stairs to the porch. It was obvious that the man and boy were father and son. The boy wore a tee shirt that proclaimed, WAITIN ON SATAN. When the boy saw the expression on the face of the seated man, he moved back a little behind his father.

“Who are you?” Corley Ramp gripped the arms of the chair, cranked tight enough to spring in any direction.

“This is Benjamin. My boy Benjamin.” He peered at Corley, trying to fathom his sudden agitation.

“Why is he wearing that shirt?”

Doberman stepped closer. He spoke in the firm yet good-natured voice he had used for eighteen years patrolling a district in South Philadelphia, his placate the nut case, listen to the guy’s beef, but stay in control voice.

“Whoa, hey, easy fella,” he said with careful good humor. “What’s the problem? Some kids were given them out back in town. Something for free, what the heck, right? Some rock band?” The seated man made no reply; his entire quivering attention remained riveted on the boy standing behind his father.

Joe Balli patted Corley Ramp’s shoulder. “C’mon Corley,” he coaxed. “Let’s go find that stuff you need. C’mon inside.” Corley Ramp allowed himself to be steered into the store’s dim interior.

“So,” said Doberman, “What’s his problem?” Andy and Pete craned their necks to peer into the dust-fogged glass of the store window. They waited until Joe and Corley had gone to the back.

“Well…,” said Pete in a conspirator’s whisper.

“Well,” chimed Andy. “Corley Ramp. Now, that is a subject. The thing is, though, it’s nothing personal with your boy, you understand. It’s just Corley’s got this thing about religion. All these shirts with Satan written all over them are pretty much driving Corley nuts, I guess. He takes that sort of thing real serious—”

“Corley’s got problems.” Pete tapped his forehead.

Andy eyed Pete. “Well. I wouldn’t call him crazy exactly—”

“I would.”

“— It’s people round here,” Andy continued, “always accusing him of… Well, you name it. We been havin’ a lot of trouble around here. Animal mutilations and things. Like that guy at the dairy, comes out and finds all his rabbits carved up. But he knows it ain’t a fox or something, because the parts are all arranged in a design— ”

“And right away, blame Corley,” Pete shakes his head. “Right away. People don’t stop to put their brains in gear before they start their mouths. And blamin’ him for that stuff at the Church. He’s the biggest Holy Roller around. He’d be the last one to do something as sick as that.”

“And that Brier woman, you know, with the road kill critter crucified on her front door. She says she caught Corley running away. And people listen to her.”

“She’s the one that’s nuts. Ain’t she been claiming the Jersey Devil and Bigfoot were walking down Route Nine like Mutt and Jeff.” The two old men snicker, shake their heads.

“Damn! “muttered Doberman with awe.

“Yeah. Well,” said Andy. “Like I say, we been havin’ our share of problems around here. Things ain’t what they used to be.” He craned his neck to peer into the store. “But the thing with Corley is, he wasn’t always like he is now. He’s a young guy. What’d you say, Pete? Forty, forty-five give or take?”

“That guy is in his forties?” Doberman shook his head. “Now that’s a guy who had a hard life. “

“He come around here, oh, I guess ten years back,” continued Andy in a low voice. “A different man. Just a different man. He moves in, has this fancy house, good looking wife—”

“Good looking woman—” chimes Pete.

“— and a little red-haired girl, pretty little girl like the wife. Same freckles and curly red hair. What’d he do?”

“Real estate. Something to do with relocating corporation hotshots. Something. Made good money though. Like I say. Had it made.”

“And then, ten years ago.”

“Yeah,” said Andy. “That’s when it happened.”

Doberman waited. The two old men turned and peered through the grimy glass into the store. “So? What happened? You don’t mind me asking?”

Pete continued to gaze into the store.

Andy turned to Doberman, his voice a conspiratorial murmur. “Well, what happened was, Corley Ramp and his wife and little girl went up for a picnic up at the Tea Table, and only Corley came back.”

Doberman searched their expressions. “You don’t mean he did them in or something?”

“Oh no.” Andy examined the cold cigar in his hand. “Well, there was all kinds of accusations of course. Still are. But nothing was ever proved.

“But the thing you have to remember,” said Pete, “is the storm. Man, that was something! Worse storm people remember around here. Blew off some roofs. Blew down lots of trees. Some people got hurt.”

“Yeah, see what happened was, Corley and his wife and little girl was up at the Tea Table for a picnic and that storm blew up. According to Corley, they got separated, and they, his wife and little girl, I mean, were never seen again. I don’t know the details. Corley’s story always was a little bit garbled.”

“I guess it’s understandable,” said Pete. “But he was just a different man after that. And ever since that day, he’s been comin’ in here for can goods and supplies and goin up to the Tea Table. Stayin’ out in the Pine Barrens for days at a time.”

“I don’t understand,” said Doberman. “You mean he lives out in the woods or something?”

“What I mean,” said Pete, “is that Corley is still looking for them. Even after ten years. He keeps goin up to the Tea Table, out in the Pineys. He thinks they’re still out there.”

“Damn,” muttered Doberman. In the silence that followed, the three men and the boy turned toward the screen door. The sound of Joe Balli’s voice and the sound of Corley Ramp’s answering laughter hung in the air.

“By the way,” said Doberman. “Don’t mean to be nosy. You mentioned a table or something. What’s that?”

“Oh,” said Pete. He and Andy glanced at each other. The two talkative old men were suddenly reticent. Pete took his John Deere cap off and studied it.

“The reason I ask,” pressed Doberman, “is I’m on the lookout for stories. Local attractions. I write articles, or I try to. I was a cop in Philly for years, I decided I needed a change, you know? Just got fed up. So now I write stuff or try to. A guy at Jersey Juice—” Doberman noted the blank faces. “—it’s an online thing. I guess you haven’t run into it. Anyway, he says he can use an article or two if I can dig up some interesting stuff. You know, historical stuff. Attractions. Local history. Like that. I mainly do landscaping, but I try to get out once in a while. Scout around a little. Hey, you never know, right?”

“Thought you might be a cop,” said Andy.

“Why do you say that?” Doberman was caught between being offended and being flattered.

The old man patted his own hip, in the same place that Doberman’s shirt rode up over an object. “The way you carry yourself.”

“Oh.” Doberman lifted his shirt and revealed a compact silver revolver clipped to his waistband. “Yeah. I still carry. I handle a lot of cash. I gotta pay a landscaping crew. You know how it is; not a lot of those guys have bank accounts. At least, not here in the United States.”

“Thirty-eight?”

“Thirty-two.” Doberman ripped the Velcro and slipped the revolver out of its nylon sheath. He swung the cylinder and dropped all five cartridges into his palm. He offered the pistol butt first to Andy. “Feel it. It’s magnesium or some sort of alloy. Feel how light it is.”

Andy Pinchot’s face lit up like a small boy. He took the pistol, taking exaggerated care to point the muzzle down. He hefted it.

“Wow,” he breathed. “Light.” He passed it to Pete. Pete hefted it, clearly savoring the feel of the grips in his fist. He passed it respectfully butt first to its owner. Doberman slid the cartridges back into the cylinder. The two old men watched the shirttail fall over the compact weapon.

“Yeah, I still carry a piece. What the heck, you know?” The two old men nodded in complete agreement. “So, you were talking about a table or something?”

“Oh yeah,” said Pete. “The Tea Table. What it is is a natural rock formation. Kind of looks like a big stone table. A stone slab balanced on four smaller boulders, like table legs. They say a glacier did it. Sliced it off flat on top. And there’s a rock shaped like a chair at one end. You could sit down and eat your lunch if you happened to be about twelve feet tall.”

Pete spoke up. “And that’s why they call it the Tea Table. Or some say the Table. It was once called the Devil’s Table, but you don’t hear it called that much anymore. Of course, around here, when people say the Table, they’re talking about the area. It’s like a grove on top of a hill. At one time, back in the twenties, this Italian fellow tried to make a tourist attraction. But it didn’t pan out.”

“How come?” asked Doberman. The two old men eyed each other.

“Well...” Began Andy. He studied the cigar. “Now, this is the part that makes people look at you funny when you tell it. But it is one hundred percent true. Ask anyone around here. The reason it never made it as a picnic grove is.., well, I don’t know how to say it exactly. But there is just a.., a wrongness about the place. Some say the place is cursed. “Andy laughed. “See, now you’re looking at me that way. Ah, I knew it.” All three laughed.

“No, no, no.” protested Doberman. “I’m not disbelieving you or anything. It’s only.., I don’t quite follow what you’re saying. “

Pete leaned forward. “He means the place is bad. Bad through and through. The animals know it. You never see any animals. Even insects run out of that place. Only the plants and trees stay. Guess they ain’t got any choice. But they grow in every weird direction, like they were trying to leave out. Like they’re all trying to pull up their roots and run.” Pete wiped his glistening forehead and reseated his cap. “And that ain’t the half of it. Sometimes compasses don’t work, they go crazy. And the smells that come up from the ground sometimes, whew! Horrible. And another thing, you take food up there, say, a piece of meat. It’ll sometimes rot in an hour, rot so bad you can’t go near it. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

“Yep.” Andy nodded. “That’s why those damn kids are so rotten.”

“Who’s that?” asked Doberman.

“Kids around here. You met some of them, I guess. Gave your boy that shirt. Well, they all hang out up at the Table— Have parties or orgies or whatever you want to call it. They really raise hell. If half the stuff I heard goes on is true, it’d make Sodom and Gomorrah look like Sesame Street.”

“Yeah, “said Andy. “Some real sick stuff. And that’s no lie.”

“Yeah, the Tea Table. It’s a hell of a place. You never saw such screwed-up old trees.”

“Who you callin’ a screwed up old tree.” The screen door whanged open, and Joe Balli stepped out with Corley Ramp, a paper bag in his arms, close behind. Corley spotted the boy.

“Hey, Benjamin, my man.” Corley wore a broad, friendly smile. He seemed a different person. “Hey, man. I am real sorry I jumped all over your case. I apologize.” He held his hand out to shake. Uneasily, the boy took it.

“Here, have a Clark bar.” He fished in the bag and found the candy bar. The boy murmured his thanks. Doberman chuckled, and he ruffled the boy’s hair. He pulled the boy into his hip. The boy grinned shyly and began to pull at the wrapper.

“Fine boy, Mr. Doberman,” said Corley Ramp.

“Sure is.” Doberman squeezed the boy and released him. “I have ‘em on certain weekends. The ex is sticking it to us both. She’s real big on court orders.” Doberman’s expression darkened. “God forbid I stick up for my rights; that’s called domestic violence. We can’t have that. Oh no, we can’t have that.” The three old men stared down then and away. Corley Ramp didn’t look away. He stared at Doberman with sympathetic fascination.

“So,” said Joe after a moment to break the awkward silence. “What were ya all talking about: screwed up trees? Gypsy moths?”

“They were telling me about that Table place. Sounds interesting. I’d like to try and get some pictures of it.”

“He’s a magazine writer,” explained Andy. The three old men were embarrassed to discuss the Table in front of Corley. They glanced at him from the corners of their eyes. Catching on, Doberman glanced at Corley. “Unless there’s a problem—”

“You say you want to write about the Table?” Corley seemed delighted by the idea. “Oh, you should! It’s incredible. Just amazing. I could take you up to see it!”

“I don’t want to be a bother—”

“Oh, no bother! No bother.” Corley turned to the boy. “I bet Benjamin here would like to see it, wouldn’t you, Ben? It’s really something.” The boy appeared intrigued. He shrugged and looked to his father. “Sure.” Insisted Corley.

“I don’t know…” Doberman put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

For the first time, the boy spoke. “I won’t tell mom.” That settled it for Doberman.

“Well, o-k. If it’s not too much trouble. Maybe you could show me where this place is. Sounds like something I can work into an article. I’m sorry, I don’t pay for information as a rule— “

“Oh no, no, no, I know that. I’m glad to show it. I’m happy to show it. There is definitely an article in this, I promise!” Corley Ramp hunched forward, on the verge of begging.

“O-k then.” Doberman faced the three old men. “Well, gentlemen, pleased to have met you. Hopefully, we can have a conversation sometime without me running somebody down.” He laughed.

The three old men didn’t laugh. They avoided looking at him.

Pete Landes again studied his hat. “Mr. Doberman,” he ventured, “I think that maybe it’s not such a great place for the boy.” Pete hadn’t been to the table in a few years, but he had a mental picture of a mountain of beer cans and used condoms festooning the trees like strange gravid fruit.

“Oh, come on,” laughed Corley, looking at Pete. “It’s just a picnic grove. It’s fine, I promise.”

“I wonder,” said Joe slowly. “Would you mind if we tagged along?”

“Well, sure.” Said Doberman surprised. “We can’t all fit in my car.” Corley Ramp’s face was an unreadable mask.

Joe Balli faced the other two old men. “I’ll go with Mr. Doberman. You two follow in my truck.” The other two nodded, an unspoken agreement between the three.

“Well, Joe, “said Corley, his grin tight. “You surprise me. I thought you said you’d never go near that place.”

“Hey, me and old Lamberi are Paisan from way back. I’m gonna find one of his signs. Put it in the window.” Joe turned to Doberman. “You ready?”

“Sure. Right.” Doberman stepped out into the afternoon glare. The others followed. Pete and Andy cut around the back to fire up the old red Ford one-fifty.

Corley hurried across the road and waited beside the Volvo, the grocery bag clutched to his thin chest. The sandy-haired man and the boy walked along with Joe. “You know somebody there?” asked Doberman. The old man looked puzzled. “You mentioned a name.”

“Oh..!” Joe laughed. “Old Lamberi. Lamberi was a guy from the old country, and he’s gonna make a fortune this guy. This was back in the nineteen twenties. So he comes here and he sees the Table, and he says, like Brigham Young, this is the place! Going to be a picnic grove. He’s gonna sell all kinda stuff, have food concessions. He has a whole load of lumber delivered.

Gonna build a bandstand, a gazebo—only one problem.” Joe Balli paused. He cocked his finger to his temple. “He blew his brains out.”

“Why’d he do that?”

The old man shrugged. “Ah, he was just nuts, I guess. Did the deed while sitting at the Table they say. That’s the story anyway. A few years back, somebody found one of his trail markers. He made these trails all over the place, and he painted these signs with some kind of phosphor, so they glow in the dark. They say, ‘This Way To The Devil’s Tea Table,’ stuff like that. You find one of those signs, people around here will pay all kinds of money for it.” The old man shook his head. “People are nuts.” They reached the Volvo. Doberman held the door open, and Joe struggled into the back. Doberman directed the boy back beside him. Corley ramp slid into the passenger seat. Corley twisted around to face the back.

“Hey, Benjamin,” he said in a conspiratorial voice. “You want one of those signs? I know where there are lots. I’ll show you.” He winked at Joe Balli. Joe turned to stare out the grimy window. The Volvo rocked as Doberman heaved into the front seat. “Okay,” said Corley. This is going to be amazing, I promise you. You will remember this day for a long time.”

The Pine Barrens were a dusty wall of green scrub on both sides of the road, interrupted here by a lonely house and there by an isolated tavern. Then the tarmac ended, and the long ribbons of ochre colored dirt began, crossroad after sign-less crossroad. But Corley Ramp needed no signposts.

The Volvo raised a cloud of dust that enveloped the ramshackle pickup truck that followed. Doberman said little, and Joe Balli said nothing. Corley ramp kept up a running commentary on the sparse local attractions to be found hidden behind the wall of scrub pines, a spiel interrupted by a ‘left here’, and ‘go right.’ Corley swiveled in his seat, reaching back to tap the boy’s knee. At his touch, the boy stiffened but smiled politely. “Be there soon, Benjamin.” The late afternoon sun slipped behind the clouds.

The dirt road dead ended. Doberman brought the Volvo’s bumper up to a log barrier. He killed the engine.

“All ashore that’s goin ashore,” said Corley as he fumbled with the door handle. The old red pickup pulled abreast in a cloud of dust. Corley strode toward a broken-down lattice wood archway. He peered back. Doberman was gathering a photo kit bag out of the Volvo’s trunk, the others stood grouped behind him.

Doberman squinted up at the graying sky. “I’d like to catch some shots. Seems like we might be rained out though.”

The others were too far from Corley Ramp to see the tremor that scuttled across his features like a furtive roach. Corley grinned. “Nah. I heard on the radio this morning, said it was going to be cloudy, but no chance of rain. Sun’ll break through by the time we get up there. It’ll be okay, you’ll see.” Corley passed under the rotting arch.

The others took that as a signal to follow. As they passed under the peeling lattice, Doberman paused to decipher a weathered plaque that hung skewed at the peak of the arch. ‘Abandon Care All Ye Who Enter Here.’ Below, someone had carved Pooky sucks sixty-nine. Another sign below proclaimed: WELCOM-- .

The old men labored to keep up. The path resembled an eroded stream bed, twisting and cutting back among enormous trees. After a time, in an unvoiced but mutual decision, the three old men halted. “Hold up a minute, Corley,” panted Joe Balli. Corley hurried back.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” Said Corley. He grinned. “You think I was gonna leave you here to die? I thought you guys used to be Boy Scouts.”

“I sold Girl Scout cookies,” puffed Andy. “It’s getting dark.”

“Well, let’s get a move on then,” said Corley. He still wore a grin, but his voice had an edge.

Doberman and the boy came back. “Hey, maybe we can do this thing another day. It’s really clouding over.”

“No!” Corley’s tone made the others look at his eyes. Corley recovered his grin. “Aw, c’mon now. We’re almost there.” He rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder, almost urging him forward. He took a step, and the boy moved with him. “C’mon now, you wouldn’t want to disappoint Benjamin here, would you?” The boy looked back. Doberman shifted his kit bag and followed, and then so did the three old men.

Doberman craned his neck as he peered into the dim reaches above. “Can’t be too many stands of trees as old as these left around.”

“Yes,” said Corley. “They’re old, all right. Older than you can probably imagine.” It was difficult to read his expression now. Only his shock of white hair stood out in the failing light. “We’re here,” he announced.

The trail opened out onto the crest of a hill. The crest was circular, about a hundred fifty yards across. The huge trees crowded the crest from all sides, but like a monk’s tonsure, the thick foliage stopped at the edge of the crown, creating a circular clearing. There were trees scattered in the grove, titanic gnarled forest masters, raking the sky with their claws, their massive roots clawing down into the bedrock itself. As for their shapes, it was as if the hilltop was a torture rack, and agony itself had taken root and fed by some ancient dark nutrient, flourished. If trees had voices, these trees were surely shrieking. The five men and the boy stood under the trees. Overhead, the lowering sky seethed and boiled with lead-colored clouds. The western horizon was black.

“Oh boy,” said Pete. “I knew this was a big mistake.”

“We’re gonna get soaked.” insisted Andy. “Hey, Corley, I thought you said no rain?”

Corley stood beside Doberman. “It’s fantastic, isn’t it? Have you ever seen anything like this?” Doberman fumbled his camera out of his bag. “Oh man,” he said. “I’ve got to nail some shots of this. This is scary.”

“C’mon.” pleaded Joe. “Let’s all go on back.” But Corley, Doberman, and the boy had already entered the clearing. “Shit,” muttered Joe. He followed them. Pete and Andy fell in behind him. A gust of wind stirred the great gnarled trees. The western sky flickered ominously.

“Looks like we’re gonna be rained out if we stick around too long,” said Doberman to Corley Ramp. “I’d like to take a quick look at that table thing, then we’ll head back, okay?” Corley smiled and nodded.

“Sure thing. The Table is right over there.” He headed for the center of the grove. Doberman and the boy followed. The three old men hung together back by the rim of the clearing. The wind sounded like rushing water in the treetops.

At the grove’s center, the Table rose black and cyclopean, a huge basalt slab supported by four enormous natural pillars. Doberman decided the ‘chair’ looked more like a huge jagged black fang than a chair. He sighted through the camera. “Holy Mother Macree,” he breathed.

“Well, Benjamin,” asked Corley. “What do you think?” The boy hung back, unwilling to venture closer to the massive balanced stones. His soft ‘wow’ was of unfeigned awe. Corley laughed. “Looks like it’s gonna fall on you, don’t it? Don’t worry about that, it’s been here a very, very long time like this. It isn’t going anywhere.”

Eyes wide, the boy stared up at the black stones. Corley nudged a beer can with his toe. He glanced at Doberman, preoccupied with his camera. The three old men stood back, huddled under a spectacularly gnarled oak. The sky rumbled.

“Hey, Benjamin,” said Corley, “remember how I told you about those signs? I know where one is right now. I’ve been keeping it a secret, but you can have it. It’s right by those bushes.” Corley pointed. The boy hesitated. He turned his gaze to his father, who was busy rummaging through his gear. “It’s okay,” said Corley, urging the boy forward with a light hand on his thin shoulder. “It’s right over there. Right there. In those bushes. You can go grab it and bring it right back. Get it for your dad. He’ll take a picture of it. It’s worth a lot of money.” The boy walked a short distance and glanced back. “Right there, Benjamin. You’re headed right for it.” Corley watched the boy pass among the dark, twisted trees.

Corley Ramp stepped close to Doberman. The two men gazed up at the massive black rock, Doberman, in a preoccupied way as he tapped the screen on the camera.

“Tell me, Mr. Doberman,” said Corley. “Do you believe in God?”

Doberman groped at the question. “Ah.... “

“When I was a boy, Mr Doberman— oh, I couldn’t have been much older than your boy Benjamin, I had a pet mouse. And I put that mouse in a jar. And it occurred to me, when I was a boy, that I could do anything I wanted to that mouse. I could drop food in. Or I could let the mouse starve. That mouse in the jar. I controlled the air that it breathed. When I was a boy, it occurred to me that, to that mouse, I was God.”

A sudden wind gust sprayed Corley’s hair. “I punched two holes in the lid of the jar, and I put my thumbs over the holes. And I waited, and the mouse in the jar began to pant and scurry around at the sides. And I thought that it was up to me whether that mouse would live or die. Up to me.”

“But then it occurred to me, when I was a boy, you see, that God might be the one who would kill or spare that mouse because God would control me. So I sat there, and I concentrated. Should I kill the mouse or not, God? And I waited and I concentrated, but not one word. Not a hint. And I waited, and I waited.” The roiling sky flickered in the west, and a moment later, it thumped. A strong gust shoved the two men.

“But the Lord doesn’t work that way, Mr. Doberman. Just when you are looking for the right hand of the Lord, just when you are hungering and searching and yearning to know the great giving right hand of the Lord— “Corley splayed his fingers, “—it is the left hand that hooks around and gets you.” Corley Ramp turned, and he gazed up at the gigantic balanced stone. “The vast mighty righteous left hand of the Lord. The taking hand.” Corley leaned closer to Doberman. He touched his arm. His voice rose above the wind.

“We must not put the Lord God to the test, Mr. Doberman. As some have done and were destroyed by serpents: one Corinthians ten-six. And it is written, you cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of demons. You cannot partake of the table of the Lord and the table of demons: one Corinthians ten twenty-one.”

Doberman stepped back. Looking into Corley Ramp’s eyes was like looking into a furnace. The first bloated drops of rain pattered the ground.

Doberman gave a start as Joe Balli shouted against the wind from a few paces away. “We better go back now. It’s gonna rain bad.” Doberman saw the other two peering from the edge of the clearing by the path that led to the parking area. Doberman looked around.

“Hey? You see my boy?” Corley Ramp’s eyes closed like shutters and opened to reveal the smiling, amiable man who had guided them to this place and was only too willing to help.

“He’s right over there, Mr. Doberman. Right there. See?”

“Where?” Doberman reared back, trying to spot his son among the wind-lashed trees. Pete and Andy approached as if to urge departure from this place with their anxious presence.

“We gotta get going,” said Pete. “C’mon.”

“Where?” said Doberman. “I don’t see him.”

“There.” Corley Ramp pointed. “Right there.”

“C’mon,” bawled Pete. He rocked on his heels as a gust caught him. “We can’t stay here. We got to go now!” “I’ll fetch him,” said Corley Ramp. “Don’t you worry.”

He made off toward the black writhing trees on the other side of the clearing.

Benjamin stood small in the distance, the sandy shock of hair and the bright white tee shirt that said, Waitin On Satan. They watched Corley wave and reach the boy. Benjamin had something in his hands; it looked like a board. Corley Ramp stood a moment with his hand on the boy’s shoulder and his other hand holding one end of the board. They seemed to be speaking.

Corley Ramp pulled the boy into the brush, and they were gone. Benjamin’s thin cry drifted back on the wind. For an instant, none of the four moved or said anything.

Joe Balli began running awkwardly. Doberman stared at him, and he stared at the distant brush line with stunned surprise. “What the hell—?” Then they all ran.

Doberman pounded past Joe Balli. It felt like a year to Doberman, a century before he reached the spot. He stopped, confused; the brush presented a thick green wall. Puffing, Joe Balli reached his side.

“That way!” He and Doberman plunged into the tangled growth; before them was a faint trail. They struggled through the heavy growth and then stopped.

They had come into a dim world, an undersea world, where color was driven out, and the grayness made distances wrong, like a trick of refraction. The wind slashed through the forest like a ravening wolf among a thousand quaking sheep. Lightning blistered their sight. The two men stared, blinking at each other.

“What’s he doing?” shouted Doberman. Pete and Andy caught up. Joe Balli didn’t answer. Vivid white light scarred the darkness, and the men glimpsed a flash of white ahead, moving away into the forest.

“There,” shouted Joe. The four men crashed through the brush. Like a taunting flag, the glimpse of white revealed itself, again and again, always slightly ahead, leading them down a route that was more a line of less resistance than an actual trail.

With a soft roar, the rain came, a great pounding Father of Rains. It was as though someone had hoisted a river into the sky, and the cable snapped. The deluge plastered down their hair and clothing, filling their eyes, nostrils, mouths, and shoes. The four men stopped. They stood in a miserable, sodden huddle, with so little light now that the four could barely make out each other’s panting streaming features.

“We ain’t never gonna find ‘em in this,” shouted Pete. “We gotta go back. Round up a search party together.”

“Pete’s right,” bawled Andy. “We ain’t gonna do the boy any good we get ourselves lost.”

Doberman leaned close to Joe Balli, gripped his upper arm, and leaned close enough to make out his face. “Listen, you know the guy; will he hurt my boy? Will he do something to my son?”

The old man opened his mouth wide, trying to suck in enough air. He shook his head.

“I dunno. I don’t think so. I dunno.” A glare of lightning lasted several heartbeats, illuminating the descending trail before them. The foliage closed in on all sides of the trail, the branches of the trees thick and low overhead.

“C’mon.” Doberman shoved past Joe. Reluctantly, the old man fell in behind.

“This is crazy!” shouted Andy. Pete brushed past him.

“I’m staying with Joe.” Pete Landis went a short way. He stopped and looked back. Andy hurried to catch up.

The rain stopped as suddenly as it began. The wind died, leaving only the sound of soft secondary rain, the countless patter of water from leaf to leaf to ground. It was getting dark now, the foliage so thick that the sky was lost, and flashes of lightning were fragmented and paled. A bright light flashed as Doberman manipulated his phone.

Andy exclaimed, “Yeah! We have to call for help! Get some help!”

The soaked phone flickered and died. Doberman swore and pocketed the useless device. Andy flicked his cigarette lighter. “Do you see anything,” asked Doberman. “Hear anything?”

“No,” whispered Joe Balli. With the sudden quiet, the men spoke in whispers. In the wavering light of Andy’s lighter, the dripping foliage overhead revealed an almost solid roof of tangled vegetation, the sides crowded in ever closer. There were only two choices now: to go back or forward— forward and downward. Doberman pushed on. The others stumbled along behind him.

“Ben!” Doberman called. “Benjamin!” There was no answer. The four stumbled on until they felt that they must have long since reached the foot of the hill, yet the trail did not level off but descended. The dense vegetation was interrupted more and more often by boulders. The path wound between enormous jumbles of ancient dark stone.

With a shout, Andy held his lighter up. “Oh no, oh lordy lordy! I knew we should’ve gone back. I knew we should’ve gone for help. I just knew it!” He thrust his lighter toward the sky, but there was no sky, nor even the thick, dripping vegetation overhead. Arching overhead, revealed in the feeble orange flicker of Andy’s lighter, was a rough ceiling of damp black stone. The men crowded together.

“It can’t be,” moaned Joe Balli, “it just can’t be. We wandered right into some kinda mine shaft!”

“Oh, this is crazy.” The lighter shook in Andy’s hand. “This is crazy. We gotta go back. We need to go find some help.”

“Andy’s right, Joe.” Pete rasped. “This is nuts! We gotta get out of here! “

Joe Balli gripped Doberman’s arm. “We can’t go in there. We got no lights or equipment or anything!” Doberman jerked his arm free.

“He’s got my boy.” Doberman turned and faced them. His eyes were lost in deep shadows. “He’s got my boy.” He stooped to one side. Andy’s lighter dimly revealed a jumble of old buckets, stiff paint brushes, and moldering bags of lime. Three rusted kerosene lanterns stood in a row.

Doberman fumbled with one of the lanterns. He snatched Andy’s lighter, and he clattered the glass up, applied the flame to the wick, and the lantern flickered to life. He lit the other two and shoved them into the reluctant hands of Pete and Joe. Doberman held his lantern out before him and proceeded farther into the depths. Joe and Pete fell in behind.

“This is a mistake,” insisted Andy. He fell into step behind the other three men, hurrying to stay in their light.

The men moved forward, each trying to muffle the sound of his steps and breathing. They walked on a hardpacked dirt floor in a large sloping tunnel.

The walls were about six paces apart, and the ceiling curved to a peak twice as high as a tall man. Tool marks covered the stone, all radiating in such a way as to give the impression that the mine shaft had been driven up from below rather than the other way around.

The men went about a hundred paces, and Doberman stopped and lifted his lantern. All around them, the light of his lantern revealed the walls and ceiling to be covered with hundreds of white patches. Against the wall was another jumble of buckets and whitewash bags. Joe Balli prodded them with his foot. “This is Corley’s stuff. He’s been buyin’ this stuff from me for years.”

“You think Corley did all this?” Pete lifted his lantern high. The white patches were so numerous that they almost completely covered the dark stone. Pete rubbed his palm against one of the whitewash patches. “There’s something underneath, some writing.” He rubbed, but the letters remained indistinct.

“C’mon,” said Doberman. He moved on down the tunnel, and the others followed. It seemed they went down an interminable time, always surrounded by countless white patches, with narrow strips of black stone showing between.

Then, the patches of whitewash ended. The last one had only been half completed; a bucket with a dried-out brush sat just below. Half revealed were large block letters written in a crude child’s handwriting with a sticky brown substance. The complete message was above it, below it, and for as far as the lanterns revealed. Over and over on the walls and ceiling was laboriously printed—

GOD LIES

GOD CREATED DISEASE

The four men stared with open-mouthed wonder, not daring to speak in the face of such an awesome labor of hate. As they pressed on, the same message repeated with the same maddening care and lack of skill of a small child filling in the lines of a school tablet with the alphabet.

Doberman pointed. “There!” Farther down the tunnel was a brief glimmer of light, a flash of white, and a hint of a dying echo. Doberman ran.

When the others caught up to him, they found Doberman standing where the tunnel widened out. The air here stirred, fanning a terrible rotting stench. By the light of their lanterns, they saw they were facing a vast space, its farther reaches lost in darkness. Unlike the tunnel, this place appeared natural. It was honeycombed with thousands of pits and holes, ranging in size from divots an inch across to holes the size of the tunnel.

Then they saw Corley Ramp. He knelt on a pitted mound inside the limits of the feeble light of the three lanterns. He gripped the boy tight from behind.

Doberman started forward. Joe Balli threw his arm out to bar the way. He pointed to the ground before them. It looked white. It was moving. Pete thrust his lantern close. Maggots. Millions of them. Andy turned away and retched.

“Corley.” Doberman’s voice echoed. “Corley Ramp. I don’t want any trouble. I don’t want to hurt you. I only want my boy out of here, understand? I’m not going to do anything to you. Let Benjamin go.”

Corley Ramp moaned. He shook his head. “Oh, Mr. Doberman, I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry. I can’t. It’s too late.”

“Corley,” shouted Joe Balli. “For God’s sake!”

“I mean business, Ramp.” Doberman hefted the silver revolver. “It doesn’t have to be this way. “

Corley Ramp lowered his face to the boy’s shoulder. He sobbed. “You don’t understand. It’s too late.”

Doberman started forward. His shoe sank into the maggots. A voice spoke a word.

“NO.”

Doberman halted. It was more than the word itself; the voice froze him. Andy choked, and Pete dropped his lantern. The voice was the sound of gold coins shaken in a child’s empty skull, the sound of joints popping on the rack. It was the death rattle of all hope, and it screeched like dark fingernails on the blackboard of their souls.

Waves of motion began to ripple through the mass of maggots in unison with the words spoken by the voice. The quaking men heard the voice not with their ears but

The voice spoke of pressing business elsewhere. But, said the voice, there was time enough to seal an agreement. And a bargain, it said, is a bargain. The sea of maggots became still.

Corley Ramp whispered the name of his daughter. A young woman stepped out of the darkness behind him. He turned. “Amanda!” She was naked. The unearthly pallor of her skin showed through layers of caked-on filth. Her red hair hung like matted seaweed down her back. “Amanda-manda-manda-!” Corley Ramp released the boy. He threw his arms around her, sobbing her name. He hugged her close, and he covered her face with kisses.

The girl wrapped her arms around his neck. “Daddy!” she cried. Her lips met his. “Daddy,” she whispered. Her tongue slipped into his mouth. Corley jerked back with surprise.

The voice howled with gigantic laughter. The sea of maggots heaved. Shadows wheeled like enormous bloated bats as the old men ran, Joe Balli swinging the single lantern wildly.

The three old men sat in the darkened store. They held their breath as they listened to the car stop outside. They listened to the sound of footsteps on the wooden porch.

“It’s him,” breathed Pete Landis. The door twanged open, and Doberman stood silhouetted against the hot red dawn.

“Hey?” he said into the dark room. Joe stood and moved toward him.

“We’re here,” he said.

“C’mon. We’re going back to find my boy.”

“We gotta go get some help, Mr. Doberman. Get some people together. I’ll phone for help— “

“We are going back. We’re going back now.”

The silence stretched out and hung in the still air.

“We can’t, Mr. Doberman…. “

Doberman reached under his shirt, and the silver revolver was in his hand.

“C’mon. We’re going back. Please.”

“Please.”

“I’m sorry,” Joe Balli answered a plea with a plea. “We can’t. “

Again, a long silence. A tattered window shade stirred and flapped. Then something inside of Doberman jerked. It jerked his arm, jerked his hand, and jerked his finger.

An awesome ball of flame blossomed from his fist. Joe Balli staggered back. The silence returned for a moment. “Please,” whispered Doberman. Pete’s chair scraped the floor as he and Andy Pinchot rose to their feet. Doberman turned. His eyes were accustomed to the darkness now. He looked right at them. He squeezed off four shots. Andy almost made it off the porch.

Doberman left the store carrying every can good he could cram into a carton. He dumped the carton into the Volvo. He took off in a spray of gravel. He drove deep into the dark Pineys, the darkest dark there is.

A battered old stake body truck piled high with Adirondack chairs passed the store. It backed up. In the cab, an enormously fat teenage boy pointed to Andy’s still figure sprawled on the porch steps.

“See?” he said.

A dark hawk-faced man swung himself down from the cab and came around. He stood a moment listening. He walked cautiously toward the store.

He stooped and peered at Andy without touching him. He stood on his toes as he tried to see into the dark store. The screen door hung open, skewed from a single twisted hinge. The fat boy started to say something. The hawkfaced man silenced him with a sharp hiss, an abrupt hand motion. He stepped over Andy’s body. He listened at the doorway and then he went in.

The boy heaved himself down from the cab. He padded over to Andy’s body. He heard the hawk-faced man exclaim in a reverent voice, “Whooee. Somebody did the dirty deed alright.” The boy cocked his head at the sound of a cash register being opened.

The boy ponderously lowered himself to sit on the step beside Andy. He marveled at Andy’s unblinking stare. He touched a fingertip to one of Andy’s eyes. The eyeball was firm and dry. The boy touched his forefinger to a pool of congealing blood. It was viscous and sticky. It had a distinct coppery odor. He spit to moisten the dried blood. He dipped and made a down stroke on the rough wood boards. Then an up. He held his tongue out between his lips as he concentrated on his work.

After a time, the hawk-faced man came out of the store in a rush, his arms full. He spied the boy writing. The boy had completed one word. WAITIN.

The hawk faced man swung his black engineer’s boot at the boy. The boy rolled off the steps with a howl of pain. The man scrubbed at the letters with his boot heel. “Ya dumb shit,” he hissed. “Git in the truck.”

The man dumped his plunder onto the seat, and he climbed in after it.

Rubbing his bruised shoulder, the boy shuffled to the truck. “Yeah, he waitin’,” he murmured.

The truck rocked under his weight. He slammed the door. The boy looked back at Andy.

“You just be patient now. He’ll be along real soon.”

Chapter 3

Waterpik

“You’re a glutton for punishment. Back for another?” As I draw close, a tall, thin woman with close-cropped gray hair grins. “I’m Waterpik. You are Proby, by the way. Don’t be offended. Everybody is Proby until they earn their real name.”

“Does that happen? People not coming back after their first time, I mean?”

“It happens.” She hands me a wicker basket full of scented candles and Hummel figures. “The hand-off. You know how this works, right? I say, ‘my burden.’ Then I hand it to you, and you say, ‘My burden.”

“My burden.” I’m surprised by a rush of emotion, mixed trepidation and exhilaration. The moment feels special. WaterPik shrugs, eyes dancing.

“Most don’t bother with it. It’s just a nice old custom, I think.” She gestures toward a cart. “There you go. Car parts. All chopped nice and small. Our complaints are getting through, maybe.” She looks pointedly at the basket in my hands.

“Oh. Right.” I turn and loft it into the Fire.

There is a brief flurry of scintillating golds and a faint scent of bayberry and vanilla. I tear away my gaze with some effort.

“Okay, Probie. You’re cool, right?”

I nod. I dig into the metal scrap in the cart, pull out a quarter panel.

She strides off with a backhand wave. “See ya’ tomorrow.”

I spare a glance as she goes out the gate. ‘WaterPik. Huh.’ I consider the possibility that I may already have a friend. The quarter panel folds like wet tissue in the flame. As I toss in piece after piece, the steel dissolves into deep red and orange embers. The work is hypnotic, and I only notice the cart is empty when it is whisked away and another put in its place.

It is glass bottles this time. I carefully loft one in, expecting it to smash and draw embarrassing attention in the oddly quiet scene, but it simply puffs out of existence, Fisch!, with a small crystalline flash. I find I can stand over the cart and sail them in, hand over hand. Fisch! Fisch-fisch-fisch!

“Hey? Ya, mind?” A short brown fireplug of a man holds out his hand. “Name’s Manny. Ya, mind?” He waves at the next cart over. I see a thick steel pipe embedded in a bucket-sized lump of concrete inside the cart. The two of us stand it up, but it is only halfway out, and we are losing it.

“Ah, ya wimps! Watch out.” Massive arms take the pipe and heft it into the air. Jake Peavy turns and heaves it in.

“C’mon Snake!” Manny complains. “Those people are getting ridiculous!”

“Yeah. I’ll have a talk.” Snake studies me. “Ready for your first full shift?” Claps my shoulder. “Okay then. Show ‘em how it’s done.” It leaves me with sort of a glow. I feel privileged to be here. A cart filled with vinyl siding is placed before me. I dig in.

“You’re late, Snake,” says a formidable Black Amazon in a bright yellow coat. “That has to be a first.”

Peavy laughs. “Hey, Cookie, would you believe it? They pulled us over... yanked that crazy shuttle driver off—”

“We’re comin’ Grandma! We’re comin’!” a voice calls. Laughter.

“Yeah.” Jake Peavy pauses and leans on his cart. “He’s in some trouble, I guess.” He pulls sections of metal shelving from the cart and, lost in thought, feeds the Fire. The general mood sobers.

“Reminds me,” says Cookie. “Over the river and through the woods to Grandmother’s house we go. Reminds me of a story.”

“Another Cookie story,” says Jake Peavy. “Okay. So. Let’s hear it.”

Chapter 4

Over The River And Through The Woods

Belinda Case knows from the jump that this day cannot be wonderful, not poolside with a frosty Mai Tai in hand, a true crime podcast on the earbuds wonderful. No, this day is Thanksgiving, and a one-and-a-half-hour each-way trip in the car with husband Frank to spend the day with his relatives kind of day. The best she can hope for this day is a bearable sort of day.

Past experience is not encouraging.

Yet, so far, things are falling into place. Belinda, after only four tries, settles on an outfit that not only highlights a gorgeous hand-dyed Marino wool shawl she just completed but also hides her upper arms, which she is certain would draw everybody’s eyes and reveal how long it has been since she has straddled the lonely rowing machine.

Frank is ready in twenty minutes, all rolley-eyed, and yeah yeah yeah, looks great. But he doesn’t understand what a woman goes through to look her best. He throws on the same sweater and slacks; that is that for him.

Belinda has to concede this time; for once, the mirror is supportive, assuring her that she is pulling it off. She has only minor things that can be remedied, perhaps different earrings, but, of course, Frank already has his coat on.

“You got the food?”

“Yeah. C’mon. Let’s roll.”

And that is another thing. The baked caramelized Brussels sprouts are a picture, but the pie somehow lost some of its crust rim.

“It’s fine. Jeez-Louise, let’s go. Okay? It’ll be fine.”

The heated seat feels good on her back. Behind the wheel of her personally adjusted Hyundai, Belinda is Master and Commander. Frank will drive the long leg home tonight, complaining about the ‘sight picture’ being wrong, and will dare to fiddle with the mirror, but for now, this is her domain.

The morning traffic flows like a dream; everybody behaves like sane adults. An easy hour disposes to pass without making itself obtrusive; the entertainment center delivers pleasant distraction, causing only one minor kerfuffle when Belinda tries to put the BeeGee’s greatest hits on. Frank’s groans and writhing put a stop to that. The cold autumn landscape slides friction-less past their cozy, warm cocoon. They settle on Leonard Cohen and are both content.

“So. Who’s all going to be there?”

Staring at a Tesla Cyber Truck in the next lane, Frank shrugs. “I don’t know. The usual crowd. Look at that stupid thing. I wouldn’t want that piece of crap if you gave it to me.”

“Is Ryan going to bring that Sheila this time or Tracey?”

“I don’t know. How the hell do I know? I guess we’ll find out when we get there.”

“That Tracey is a real twit. She is a total vaccine denier, going on about nano-trackers or some nonsense. How can Ryan stand someone like that? I thought he was smarter than that. I hope Joseph is there. He’s so interesting. I still find it amazing. All the way from North Korea, and he gets adopted into your family. How crazy is that? Not saying your family is prejudiced or anything, but, really, knowing your step-sister Cathy... did you see that coming?”

“I love the way you always have to say, step-sister. She’s my sister.”

“I just know she’ll have something to say about my shawl. Oh, isn’t that special? It must be nice to have something to do with your hands that doesn’t require any thinking—”

“Jeez, you two. Look, just don’t take the bait, okay? You get in your digs, too, ya know.”

“Oh. Fine. Take her side. You always take her side.”

“Oh, dear God, please.”

Frank watches a young couple on a red motorcycle pass on the right, the young guy with the world on a string, and a pretty girl clinging on tight behind.

“Boy, does he even know what he’s in for?”

“Hmmm?”

“Nothing.”

Belinda taps her brakes. Ahead, a few brake lights blossom into a vast lava field of red. The blue Hyundai coasts to a halt. Belinda sighs. “Okay. Here we go.” They sit.

“An accident, you think?”

“Beats me.” Frank reaches behind. “I’m gonna eat some’a those dates.”

“Don’t go crazy. They’re for the cheese tray.” Belinda cranes to peer ahead. They sit.

Belinda reaches for a date. “Shame. We were making good time there. We should call if we’re going to be late.”

“We’re not that special. They’re not sitting there waiting for us. Can you get over?”

Brake lights ahead blink out. Belinda eases ahead.

“Okay. Here we go.” Lights flare. Everyone halts. “Damn.” A car passes on the shoulder. Then another.

“Oh, look. The special people.”

Frank sighs. “Don’t worry. They’re the people crashed and burning on the side of the road. They got the rabid squirrels trapped in their skulls.”

A black car on the shoulder hesitates and halts ahead to the right of Belinda’s Hyundai. It starts to edge over.

“Oh, that bastard wants me to let him in.” Cars ahead start to creep forward. The black car darts its nose inches from Belinda’s front bumper. “Oh, you dirty son of a bitch!”

“Easy. C’mon. Just back off. He’s not worth it. Look, things look like they’re moving again.” The black car insinuates itself into line in front of the Hyundai.

They stop.

Belinda shakes her fist at the black car ahead. “Hah! You’re so smart. Didn’t get so far, did you, you piece of shit!”

“Looks like something’s happening up there. Looks like everyone’s trying to merge over.”

Belinda snatches up her phone. She thumbs the screen and plops it into Frank’s hand. “See if that traffic app says anything.”

Frank pokes at the screen. “So, what am I looking for here?”

“It’s that purple icon. With the arrow.”

“Shit. It went away. What’s your pass-code again—?”

“Gimme that.” Belinda snatches the phone. Dividing her glances between the phone and the packed traffic creeping fitfully ahead, she works the screen. “Damn. Nothing. It shows our route. We should be sailing along—” BUMP. The car behind thumps them.

“Whoa! Jesus!” Both turn and look back. The dim figure in the car holds up two hands.

BUMP. They tap the black car ahead.

“Babe, Babe, watch it!”

“Yeah, well, it’s his fault; he shouldn’t got in front of me!”

The mass of cars ahead shuffles.

“Everybody’s trying to get over to the left.”

They inch forward. The Hyundai beeps its distress at the proximity of the cars encroaching on its personal space from both sides.

“Can’t you make it stop that noise?” Frank sits rigidly forward, hand on the dash. His head swivels.

Belinda swears, slams the brakes. Horns blare. She pounds the wheel.

“Where the fuck do they expect me to go? Where the fuck do they expect me to go—!?”

“Easy, Babe, easy. They’re not beeping at you. It’s everybody. Try to edge over.”

“I can’t see if you keep leaning your head in the way.”

“Sorry.”

Belinda takes a date. “Here, put these back before we eat them all up.” They sit. “This is so annoying. We were making such good time. Now we’ll be late, and I just know Cathy will say something. It’ll be all my fault, you watch.”

“C’mon, stop. Why your fault—?”

“My bad driving or something. Oh, you wait.” Horns blare. Belinda leans hard on her horn. “Yeah? Yeah? How do you like it!?”

“Whoa, whoa, Babe, easy. That doesn’t help the situation. You need to take a deep breath.”

Belinda’s deep breath comes out as a furious snort. Frank continues. “That’s the problem with systems like this highway system. It depends on everybody going with the flow. All it takes is one person losing it, and we have an accident; everything locks up.”

“Yes, Frank. If everybody were as perfect as you, this world would run like a well-oiled machine.” They inch forward. Stop.

Frank sighs. “Ray and Cathy live two miles from the next exit. If everybody kept their cool, we would be there by now. Everybody could get to their destination, relaxed and happy. But no. Somebody always has to flip out and ruin it for everybody. All I’m saying is that crazy is catching. It’s like fire. It spreads.”

The packed traffic shuffles uncertainly. Belinda edges over. “You’re letting me go? Well, thanks. Thanks a whole million.”

“Watch it, Babe—!” Another car tries to dart into the tiny slot opened.

“GODDAMNSONAFA—!” Horns like to bring down Jericho’s walls deafen. Belinda leans on her horn button, arm muscles showing a definition she would normally appreciate. Two cars over, windows roll down, a shouting match starts.

BANG!

The two look at each other. Frank swivels to look out behind. “That sounded like a gunshot.” BANG! BANG! BANG! Horns.

The silver SUV on their passenger side looms into Frank’s view. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Thunk! Scrape! Frank rolls down his window, reaches out to slap on the SUV’s window. “Hey, back off, back off!” The silver SUV backs away, then CRUNK! Frank recoils, jerking his arm back.

The SUV window rolls down, revealing the gaunt face of a middle-aged woman, her eyes bugged out, her mouth stretched impossibly wide in a silent scream, staring straight at Frank. Her head snaps around to stare ahead, the scream coming out now. Her window rolls up. Frank turns to see Belinda, death grip on the wheel, mouth set in a tight grimace. A car is shoved up against her side, figures inside in the same rigid pose.

They are packed tight, the cars in front and back, side to side. All are suddenly shoved forward by a half foot, jerking everyone’s heads. Then again, SHOVE! Cars horns wail, a banshee’s choir. Overall, something else, a deeper note.

Frank reaches for and opens the moon roof. He sticks his head up, out, and looks about. They are in the center of a solidly packed sea of cars. His head is jerked back by a SHOVE! The entire mass of cars jerks forward, a shower of glass head and tail light shards falling to the concrete, bumpers groaning, and sheet metal crumpling.

A blare of truck horns, like the vanguard of a barbarian horde, snaps Frank’s head around. Behind the far edge of the traffic jam, a line abreast of tractor-trailers growls and chuffs black diesel, backs up, then charges forward, slamming into the packed cars before them. SHOVE! Frank sees a car, small in the distance, tip up and appear to fold in half.

Frank thinks of the young couple on the red motorcycle. My God, they’re somewhere out there in the middle of that. Something, a movement off to the side, catches his eye. A monster truck, a giant wheeled absurdity, bounds into view, somehow managing to climb onto and drive on top of the packed mass of cars.

Revving and roaring, it hobby horses as it rolls from trunk to roof to hood, wheels churning, bouncing. Roofs collapse as it rocks and veers crazily to avoid falling into pickup truck beds or coming up against panel trucks and vans. It appears to be coming directly at Frank now.

Then a miscalculation, a wrong decision, it tips, falls over on its side, rolls, and there is an explosion, flames only a few cars away. Fire!

Frank drops down into the Hyundai. “Belinda! We have to get out!” She turns to stare at him. She doesn’t seem to recognize him. “Babe, we have to get out!”

The black car ahead moves, and a gap opens in front of the Hyundai. Belinda guns, and with the vehicles tight on both sides scraping, grinds forward, slamming up against the bumper of the black car, and they, agonizingly, are moving.

“Yah!” Belinda shouts, “Yahhh!” The tires squeal. The car behind slams into them, locking them against the black car. The cars tight on either side smoke their tires as the tight-packed mass creeps forward.

“Babe Babe, ease on the gas, ease on the gas—!”

A blue cloud, an acrid stench of burning rubber rises, cars braking, accelerating, lurching, inches at a time.

“Go you bastards, go go go—!” Belinda shouts.

Frank reaches, slams the shifter into neutral, as Belinda’s heavy foot makes the engine howl.

“Take your foot off the gas!” Frank pummels her shoulder. She turns to look at him. Their car, in neutral, is carried along in the packed river of metal, glass, and flesh.

Belinda’s face crumples. She dissolves into wracking sobs. She flails, punching at Frank as he clumsily tries to hug her from the passenger side.

“This is all your idea! We had to go be with your family! You don’t ever care about what I want to do, you never care,” Belinda shrieks, “ you fucker!”

“Hey, c’mon, that’s not fair. It was your idea—!”

They are slammed from behind as a gap opens between them and the black car ahead. The vehicles, tight against either side, scrape and knock. Belinda grabs the wheel, shifts into drive. Seeing the car behind approaching for another knock, she gives the Hyundai some gas.

“Easy, Babe, easy. That’s good. Go with the flow. We’re gonna get out of this.”

A giggle bubbles up in Belinda’s chest. “Oh my God, we’re moving, we’re moving. Everyone, keep moving!” THUNK! The silver SUV sideswipes the passenger side slowly, staying only inches away.

“Son of a bitch!” Belinda white-knuckles the steering wheel. “They’re right up my ass—!”

“Easy, easy, Babe, you’re doing great. Look at that! Twenty miles an hour! We’ll be there in no time!”

“They’re too close!”

“You’re doing great. Easy does it. Doing great!” Frank hoists himself up through the moon roof. He drops back.

“Looks like everything is being directed over to the right side now. See if you can work your way over—”

“I can’t go anywhere. They’re up my God damn ass. I got no room!” All around, the cars hem her in, barely inches away. “I hate this!”

“We’re movin’ now. Things’ll open up—”

Thirty miles an hour. Thirty-five. “Yah!” Belinda cringes back as the car beside her swerves and looms. She swerves and taps the silver SUV, which swerves wildly. Horns blast.

Forty, forty-five miles an hour.

“I can’t do this—!”

“Just stick to the car in front, just tailgate, match his speed best you can! Don’t worry about the others!”

THUMP! Both heads snap back at the push from behind.

“Stop it, stop it, stop it!” Belinda rams into the black car ahead and punches the gas pedal. The tires scream, smoke. The car behind pins them. Frank, yelling something, grabs at the shift and shifts to neutral.

Fifty. Sixty miles an hour.

Belinda takes her hands off the wheel, covers her eyes. The other cars packed tight around her are steering now.

Seventy. Eighty. Ninety. The wind howls into the open moon roof. She can’t hear what Frank is yelling, but it doesn’t matter. She wishes she has two more hands to cover her ears.

One hundred. One hundred ten miles an hour. All around, tortured metal and rubber shriek.

Something, a tire, a person, slams off the windshield, careens away.

Belinda hears, out of the mad hurricane of noise, a little, calm voice, a vaguely cultured English woman’s voice. The GPS app on her phone, down under a seat somewhere.

“Your exit is coming on your right, in four miles. Right turn in four miles. Exit Thirteen.”

Belinda has to laugh, so she does. Eyes still closed, shaking her head, she laughs— a calm, quiet, mad laugh.

She opens her eyes. The Hyundai is shaking and rattling— it is never built for this. Frank is struggling to close the moon roof. Belinda feels a stab of concern. Would he be blown away? He gets it closed, falls into his seat, and snaps his seat belt on. That is Frank for you, she thinks. Always does the proper thing.

Belinda sits with her hands folded on her lap. Is this what riding in a self-driving car is like, she wonders? Also, “I wonder where we’re going?” Frank unbuckles, reaches to open the moon roof. The wind howls into the car like a jet engine tearing itself apart.

“No! Frank, what are you doing!?”

“Grab onto my belt. Hold on!” He stands, bent back by the blast. He shields his face. “Grab the wheel! Steer to the right! Push’em if you have to! Steer to the right. The exit is coming up! We’re getting off!”

As if to confirm Frank’s decision, the calm GPS lady intones, “Your exit is coming on your right, in one mile. Right turn in one mile.”

Hanging onto Frank’s belt, she grabs the wheel with the other. She stomps hard onto the gas pedal, pulling the wheel to the right with all her strength. The engine, in neutral, howls. ‘Shift’, she remembers. She releases her grip on Frank and slams the shift handle to D. Something clank bangs deep in the car’s guts; the Hyundai shudders in agony and crashes against the silver SUV on the right.

Belinda sees Frank’s feet leave the seat, his arms flailing, body jack-knifed against the edge of the moonroof opening. She claws at his leg, snagging his pocket, “Aarrggg!” Belinda’s vision goes red with the strain of her effort. Frank’s pocket tears, his pants leg raveling down in her grip. Then he is down, pushing frantically at the moon roof control.

“Your exit is coming up on your right, one-quarter mile. Right, turn, one-quarter mile.”

Frank joins Belinda in turning the steering wheel. The silver SUV gives way, slamming up against the guard rail. “Go go go go!!” Sheet metal tears as the Hyundai grinds ahead against the silver SUV, then it is past, swinging over to smash against the guard rail.

“GO GO GO GO GO!”

“Your exit is one thousand feet ahead. Take the next exit.”

The silver SUV slams them from behind. The Hyundai swerves away from the guard rail and snakes. Belinda screams, hauls the wheel right to the limit of her human strength, feeling the steering wheel bend under her grip. Like a train returning to its track, the Hyundai rides the steel rail, sparks spraying.

Then, ahead, short of the exit, the guard rail ends, blown out by the weight of hundreds of cars, its stanchions uprooted, bent over twisted stubs. A flood of cars, trucks, and vans tumble over a steep ledge to roll down a steep hill.

Over they go. Belinda and Frank’s screams are just two small notes added to the symphony of agony on the hillside as vehicles pile higher and higher.

Inside the Hyundai, Belinda watches the cherry pie with the damaged crust sail by her. “Well,” she thinks, “That solves that problem.”

CRASH! Something hits the Hyundai and pinwheels it in a new direction. The silver SUV rockets past, to be buried in the smoking junk pile, but the Hyundai rolls through a gap, flips one more time, and ends right side up on a road running along the bottom of the hill.

Belinda sits, her hands still grasping the wheel in an iron grip. Frank, snug in his seat belt, looks over at her. A cultured woman’s voice, by virtue of its calmness, cuts through the cacophony of screams and crashes.

“Follow this road for two miles. Then you will have reached your destination.”

“You have reached your destination.”

The blue Hyundai rolls up to a medium-sized, well-kept suburban house. It sits, running rough. With a sickly cough, the engine quits. After a time, the passenger door starts to open but appears to be stuck. Moments pass. The driver’s door creaks open. It falls half off its hinges and hangs askew.

A middle-aged woman climbs out and falls to her knees. A thin middle-aged man crawls out behind her. He helps the woman to her feet. Together, they turn toward the house. The woman stops and turns back to the car. She reaches in and retrieves a plate with a tattered shred of tinfoil on top. She carefully corrals the few caramelized Brussels sprouts remaining on the plate. The man gently takes the plate and puts it back into the car.

The man takes the woman’s elbow, limping, and steers a path to the front steps of the lively-sounding house. A woman comes out the front door, the man’s stepsister, Cathy.

“Hey, you finally got here! So? How is the traffic?”

The man shrugs. “Ahhh. Usual.”

Chapter 5

Ottoman

The mood as we ride through the checkpoints this night is dark. The new driver drives carefully and says little. Little need be said; everyone in the Humvee knows that people go away these days.

I hurry through the last check, almost breaking into a run to rejoin the Firefeeders on the Fireline. Only the suspicious glares of the armed guards slows my step.

The truth is, since I left at the end of my last shift, I could think of nothing else but the hours and minutes to go before I was once again bathed in the shimmering light of the Fire.

A Cart-Coolie smiles knowingly at me as he places a laden cart before me, but I can’t stop myself from simply standing, staring into the coruscating light.

“They use it against you, you know.”

I turn to see a skinny young guy in a black hoody. He reaches into the cart, which I realize is full of wall-mount hand dryers. Startled into motion, I begin tossing them into the Fire. He reaches out his hand. I pause to give a brief shake.

“Ottoman,” he says.

I hesitate. “Um. Probie. I guess.”

“They use it against you.” He gestures. “This. They know how we feel, how we want to be here. They use it to jerk you around. Believe me. I’ve been around the block.”

“So, how long have you been at this—?”

“Well, I was here a year, but they tried to farm me out to a different team. A bad team. Doin’ real bad work. The stuff no one wants to talk about. Uh uh. No way, man. And so I got sent back down to the ‘Gathertards.” Ottoman grinned. “Hey, no offense. You weren’t a Gatherer, by any chance?”

I shake my head no.

“There I was. They were gonna punish me, make me a Gatherer. So I go. And there I am with those Gatherers, and there is no way, just no way how I can tell them about what it is like to work the Fireline.”

“But all the stuff, I’m going into homes and stores, and I would look at all the stuff being gathered up, and I knew where it was going, and I was jealous. Can you believe it? Jealous of tables and lawnmowers.” Ottoman chuckles.

“I even thought once how I could hide in a refrigerator, but you know, everything gets chopped to fit in the carts, so...”

“Then, I’m back. I’m a Firefeeder again. I coulda cried. Right then.” Ottoman leans close. “And it was Snake got me back.”

Ottoman balls his fist. “Snake got me back. Listen. Whatever you do. Do not leave this Team. As soon as they know they can push you around, they start moving you, and they threaten to take this away from you, figure out maybe you will work the shifts that nobody else will work. Work the places nobody else will work. And you know what I’m talking about. Special Administrative Shift.”

Ottoman glances around at the ring of guards. “Listen. Anything you need, don’t hesitate to check with me. Or Snake. Remember what I said. Together, we survive. We got each other’s backs.”

Ottoman throws the last hand dryer into the Fire and swivels the empty cart toward the Cart Coolie. Another cart immediately takes its place. “All yours, my friend.” Ottoman goes to his cart and makes up for lost time.

The cart in front of me is packed to the top with large paper sacks, each with a picture of a cute puppy on the front. The short, stocky man named Manny hustles past.

“Aw, look at the puppy! You’re feeding the Fire with Puppy Chow, maybe teach it tricks, hey?”

Ottoman raises his arms. “Everybody. I propose! I propose that the Probie is called, from now on, Puppy.

Cookie chimes in. “I second.”

Snake’s voice booms out, “What say you all? Aye?” There is a ragged smattering of ayes, a whoop. Snake shakes my hand. “Puppy it is. Your Firefeeder name. Back to work, Firefeeder Puppy.”

I wait until I think no one is looking to wipe my eyes, pretending it is sweat from leaning close to the Fire. Could these people be friends? I had once been part of a family, once had a home, once I had friends, but it was taken from me. This wounded world took it all from me. Was this a new chance?

Manny thumps his cart for attention. “I got a story for yuns. I dedicate it to Puppy. It’s called Puppy.” Laughter ripples. Manny begins.

Chapter 6

Puppy

Looking up. Who was looking up when it happened? Hardly anyone. When it happened, twenty-three-year-old Jimmy Petijohn was working for minimum with some old guy scrapping old appliances. He didn’t look up much; the sky was the sky. So what. A few miles away, Bobby Linden hung out in a basement full of Russian vacuum tubes, building old-style guitar amps. He made a few bucks. He didn’t think about the sky; he seldom left the basement. Bobby Linden didn’t know Jimmy Petijohn from Adam. Had it not happened, the two might have met or not. But it happened. Up in the sky, it happened.

The Wagon Wheel. Bam, so there it is. The Wagon Wheel; a ginormous, rough-looking brownish copy of the 2001 Space Odyssey space station we never got around to building, tucked into Low Earth Orbit, so slick and clean that to this day, debate continues as to how long it was before anyone noticed it.

HOLY SNOT! WHERE THE HELL DID THAT

THING COME FROM? SOUND THE WHOOP WHOOPS! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!

Scared the living bejoobers out of everybody. A-M radio talk show hosts blamed the liberals, and all over the world, itching trigger fingers stopped itching and became tumescent with a throbbing desire to meet that one special button.

Remarkably, very remarkably, the sane people of the world, such as they were, managed somehow to keep a lid on all the nut-bags, whom they only slightly outnumbered. Helpful to their cause was the fact that apparently, so far, no brain-sucking squid creatures were roaming the streets shooting subsonic gay rays at impressionable children, at least, no more than usual.

With all the jokes about it now, it’s easy to forget how scared people were. Yet it was recognized almost immediately how thoughtfully, one might say politely, the Visitors had taken care not to interfere with any of our satellite corridors. It was later calculated that they had chosen the absolute least desirable orbit as far as any future telecom revenue development was concerned. They went right to the end of the line and stood off to the side to wait their turn. We now understand, of course, that this is just the way they are.

So it was a good thing we didn’t go all medieval on their ass; it reflected well on us. Of course, maybe they caught us on a good day. So, BAM! The Wagon Wheel.

Wow. Finally. Visitors. From Out There.

The Box Train. Hours, days, weeks, no Visitors come out of the Wagon Wheel. Plenty of friendly chat, though, back and forth. Hello. We are the Velveeta. Late night talk shows fired their writing staff. The jokes wrote themselves. Kraft Foods stock goes through the roof. Right away, we see what they look like, friendly, rolly-polly people with two arms, two legs, and one head, all made of grapefruit-sized ping-pong balls. It’s an exoskeleton. Thank God, certain deplorables are heard to mutter; thank God they’re white! They’re not Christian or anything like our religions; they’re just very good-natured. Thank Gods, the religions of the world mutter; enough barkers already on this here midway.

It turns out that no Velveeta is actually in the Wagon Wheel. It is full of stuff. Listen, say the Visitors, we sent it all along so that we could get to know each other.

Um. What kind of stuff?

Oh, lots of stuff, everyday sort of stuff. Lots of your stuff. And lots of our stuff, we put it all in together to see how well it all fit, what got along, and what didn’t.

When the first Human mission to the Wagon Wheel arrived, they found what looked like the hellish Heaven hoarders go to when they pass on. Mind-boggling stacks of old People Magazines, socks, string-less weed whackers, gallons half full of beige paint, tangles of Christmas lights, woks, cases of Nigerian Primus beer bottles, both full and empty, stacked resin lawn chairs, old dried aquariums, faded surfboards, Bollywood movie posters, chopsticks, and endless coffee cans full of assorted screws, nuts, bolts, and old washing machine knobs. The first artifact removed: a small red microwave with the remains of an exploded bean burrito inside.

Among all of this, intermixed, was their stuff. Well, that’s a container.... Of some sort. And that’s used to hammer. Something. And that.... That…. Um. May we remove some of this to study it? We ask.

Sure! Knock yourself out. That’s what it’s for. They were quick with Human vernacular. So, with great care, we start unpacking the Wagon Wheel, mission after mission. Things get rolling when we build the Spaceline tether. And it was a beautiful thing, breathtaking to see from miles away, a graceful twisting silver ribbon flashing back the sunset, stretching up into the infinite limpid indigo.

It was so marvelous that we built more of them. Humans began to travel by the thousands into orbit just to gape. And they liked what they saw. Of course, Humans, being the way we are, all the usual Negative Nellys had their say.

So, what were we trying to do, impress the Pongs? Pongs being the least offensive non-PC reference to the Velveeta; much worse circulated in low places. Who gives a crap what they think? The Velveeta seemed to understand how funny their name and appearance were to us. They swung their arms forward, their version of a shrug, and bobbed their heads side to side.

Hey, you folks aren’t exactly Farlans yourself, you know.

Oh? Farlans?

Oh, you’ll adore them. They’re beautiful. Of course, you Humans are not Pipicools.

Ok. Pipicools?

Avoid them if you can. The Pong mouths go oval, and the heads bob. One Pong covers his olfactory orifice. Hoopa hoopa hoopa! Say the Velveeta.

So, that was the deal. We had yet to meet any Velveetans in the exoskeleton; it was all video. Now we know about others out there, too. Were we being tested? Challenged to step out into the void for the first time in a big way to prove ourselves worthy of association?

Nah, was the consensus of experts who studied the growing mountain of stuff brought down to the surface; they figured the Velveeta were pretty nonjudgmental as a rule. Saying hello with stuff was just the way they did things.

Not the way we’d do it; we’d fly in, announce our good intentions, shake whatever appendage was offered, and start checking out the local real estate situation. See if anyone was interested in selling a Continent for some beads.

No doubt that boorish behavior lay in our future, but for now, everyone bathed in the invigorating broth of a new age of discovery. Lines formed at the Spaceline centers. People couldn’t keep from craning their necks to gaze up and up the magic silver beanstalk as they boarded the gleaming Pods.

Even Jim Petijohn looked up. It never got old. Jim Petijohn waved to a tall, thin, head-shaved man. “Yo, Bobby! They got us riding caboose again.”

“Sure.” More than waving back, Bob Linden waved the whole thing away. “Figures.” He and Jim Petijohn usually worked together, and they usually got the shit.

“Hey, Bob-bay!” Petijohn held aloft a space helmet carrying bag. “New head pot. Custom.”

“Isn’t that special.”

“See ya topside .”

“Yeah.”

In four hours, they would all reach the top, Pinnacle Station. The tourists would mill about oohing and ahhing, buying t-shirts and mugs. Jim Petijohn and Bob Linden would catch the orbital bus out to Outpost Station. Then, they would board the Box Train.

The Box Train was simple: a long line of large brown metal boxes strung together and winched out from Outpost to the Wagon Wheel. Then Gatherers, like Jim Petijohn and Bob Linden, survey compiled lists in hand, would go into the great brown wheel, try to find the stuff on the lists, and put the stuff into the ‘Boxcars’. Then the whole thing, the Box Train, was winched back to Outpost. On a good day, they didn’t lose anybody.

After all these years, we were still studying the stuff brought down from the Wagon Wheel, the juxtaposition of the objects, the Visitors’ things. Technology was gained that catapulted us forward decades. The Visitors had accumulated so much of our stuff it was as if we fascinated them. And though we hadn’t yet met in person, they had come to seem like old friends. The public couldn’t get enough.

For instance, any good cross-section of Human junk, and the Velveeta had amassed a superb cross-section, a certain not insignificant portion would inevitably consist of sex toys. So, to cover our collective embarrassment, there was much public speculation as to which of the Visitor objects would in the same way embarrass them. Asked about this, one Pong being tele-interviewed held up a dirty, half-deflated Human soccer ball.

Hoopa hoopa hoopa! He had been waiting to uncork that one for a long time.

Those of us who had championed the belief in UFOs for lo these many years could finally claim rights to a big fat I Told You So. Those of us who did all the scoffing had to admit, well, you were kinda right, I guess. But only kinda sorta. The Velveeta, it turns out, had never run into anyone like the Grays or any of the rogues gallery of ET suspects so beloved by UFOlogists everywhere. Men in Black? Perhaps, said the Velveeta, they are men. In black clothing.

Oh yeah? Well just look at all the stuff taken. Aliens walked among us; we were right about that.

Turns out, the Velveeta have never been here.

We are sure it is very nice there, they explain, but we sent many artfully designed mechanical probes. To demonstrate, they sent one down. They ran it like a contest. See if you can spot it. Could be anything; a garbage truck, a tree, a bicycle. It’s easy to spot it if you look right at it. Our trick is, they say, we send something that Humans do not tend to look at.

Sure enough, we Humans finally give up, and the Velveeta point out the probe. It looked like, but not really, if you looked right at it, an old homeless bag lady with a shopping cart. Full of stuff, of course.

Jim Petijohn and Bob Linden didn’t pal around out of work. Pinnacle Station wasn’t roomy; they tended to run into each other waiting for the Orbital Bus. Bob Linden leaned back against the rail circling the observation deck, twelve-dollar latte in hand. He watched Jim Petijohn make his way through the tourists, helmet bag casually slung by his side, causing a ripple of side glances and nods. That guy’s one of them. That guy’s a Spaceman. He goes out there. Jim Petijohn ate it up with a ten-gallon spork.

“Yo.” Petijohn hove to against the rail. He faced out to take in the vast kaleidoscopic sight of an entire planet roaring by. “Wow. What a view.”

“That ain’t the real view. They don’t have a clue.”

Jim Petijohn turned to face the excited families milling and gesturing. “Jeez, Bobby. What’s got you all crankified and testy? They’re havin’ a good time.”

“They’re so clueless. It makes me sick.”

“C’mon, Bobby, give ‘em a break. Course they don’t have a clue. Ain’t their fault. They ain’t seen what we seen.” Left unsaid: How could they? They never rode Caboose on the box train.

Puppy. On the Box Train are certain traditions. It used to be traditional that the Hunter Gatherers riding the tow line out to the Wagon Wheel would take turns singing old obscure TV themes so everyone else could try to guess the source, shows broadcast decades before most of the Hungats had been born. Then, some A-Hole in Command decided that frivolous chatter on the comcom was hazardous for some reason, and a new tradition was born.

The Box Train was a little odd to Human eyes; it was, after all, a Velveetan design meant to mesh with the workings of the Wagon Wheel, sixteen square brown metal boxes strung together, each with a place like a small porch on the end. We would have likely designed something a little less exposed, something we could climb inside for the ride from Outpost Station out to the Wagon Wheel, something with rockets. Something with a bit of style. This contraption wouldn’t have looked out of place at an Old Wild West silver mine. The Velveeta didn’t care if anyone thought they weren’t stylish; they only cared that it worked. Compared to us, they were pretty secure. Maybe it was the exoskeletons. They had built platforms on each box with room for only one; we enlarged them so two could ride together.

So it was, that the Box Train neared the Wagon Wheel with Jimmy Petijohn, and Bobby Linden sitting together on the platform affixed to the front of the first box. The Caboose. The Caboose was only the Caboose on the way back to Outpost since the boxes were winched back in the same order they went out.

Ah-a-ah-a-ah! Someone yodeled on the comcom. They were all nearing the Wagon Wheel. It was time for the new tradition. Ennio Morricone. The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. No one had to guess anymore; it was the same every time. Wa-Wahhh-Wa!

“Ok. Knock it off.” The Gunbarski barking at them; this also was tradition. The Wagon Wheel loomed like a small planet, the grandeur of the sight nicely accentuated by the respectful silence of proper radio procedure.

The boxes lined up to mate with a line of square apertures that would seal, each to its own box, and a small airlock beside, for each pair of Hungats to go through into the Wheel.

Ah-a-ah-a-Ahh! Giggles. Wa-Wa-WAH!

“KNOCK IT OFF! Wanna lose your ticket? I can arrange it.”

Old hands like Petijohn and Linden knew that the trick, when confronted by the bewildering chaos of a filled compartment, was to stand back, take a breath, and strategize before plunging into the towering heaps of stuff. Scrutinize the list. Scrutinize the stuff. Nearby things popped right out. It saved a lot of pointless digging.

“Item four, Bobby, glowing blue disk. Hard to miss that.”

“Got it.”

“Survey says go straight back, Item five: Pipe Fan. Pipe Fan? What the hell is that?”

“O-k, I see it. A fan made out of pipes sorta thing.”

Anymore, most of the items specified by Survey were Velveetan stuff. The novelty of hauling back things that could be found at any Human flea market had long since worn off.

The comcom crackled. “Bingo, air one hour fifty minutes. That gives you twenty minutes, folks. Get a move on.”

“Jimmy, check this out!” Linden struggled to hold up an old pressure suit, complete with helmet. It weighed as much as he did.

“My God, look at that. How old you think that thing is? I bet it’s Soviet— an old Orlan. My God, you know what that thing is worth?”

“Ain’t on the list, Jimmy. Damn shame.”

“Eighteen minutes, people.”

“What’a ya know?” laughs Linden. “Gunbarski can tell time.”

Petijohn laughs. “Boy, what a hard job. Looking at a timer. I wouldn’t want the responsibility.”

“I can hear everything you ladies are saying. If yer yappin, you ain’t workin.”

“Item twenty-two...Huh.” Petijohn chuckled. “That’s an odd one. Stason Jar containing blanket and old shoe. What the hell..?”

When the Wagon Wheel first showed up, a question occurred within days of discovering that the Velveetans had collected so much of our stuff— not that we begrudged them any of it. After all, they were giving it all back. It was just that…, well, we said, um, this is kind of awkward, but did you guys ever collect any people? Cause, the thing is, a lot of us down here think that— and you’re going to laugh— but a lot of us Humans believe that, you know, people, from out where you are, have been kidnapping people from down here for probing or genetics or who knows what all, but anyway. Any ideas on that?

Oh, we would never collect people, say the Velveeta. That would be awful. However, it is true that we have collected examples of the many fascinating animals and plants that dwell on your world. Such variety!

Your world is quite amazing in that respect. We promise none are harmed. Observe, please.

The odd string of pearls fingers of the Velveetan deftly flips the four latches on the lid of a clear cylinder.

A small motionless Velveetan creature within stirs to life and clambers out. The Velveetan gently corrals it back into the cylinder, latches the lid on, and the small creature freezes in place. Latches off, and the little bugger is back in action, waving its beady little eye stalks at the camera.

We would be very grateful if you would return the creatures in the Stasis Containers to their proper habitat, say the Velveetians.

Be happy to, we say, and of course, we go back on our word; all of the worms, beavers, ants, blackbirds, jellyfish, grasshoppers, catfish, bats, amoeba, and hundreds of other critters went straight to various laboratories.

There were exceptions. A small calf with a name tag was returned to a farmer near Barcelona, and El Espacio Vaca became a world celebrity, his owner a rich man.

“Oops.”

“Oops?” Bob Linden looked over.

“I think I busted a latch on this Stason Jar. These damn issue gloves. That’s my next investment, a nice pair of Nike Airgrips.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. A blanket. Maybe it’s bedbugs.” Linden maneuvers the cart. “In it goes.”

“Five-minute mark. You’re headed for the exits. Five minutes, people.”

“O-k.” Linden horses the cart around. “We did pretty good. Let’s throw this stuff in the Box.” The two work their way back through the heaps. Inside the clear cylinder, the blanket moved. It was the cylinder shifting on top of the pile. It had to be. Except... it kept moving. A moist little black nose poked out from the blanket, followed by two bright brown eyes in a ball of fine tan fur. Bob Linden brought to bear his entire store of zoological and taxonomic expertise and applied it to the identification of the creature sleepily crawling from the tangle of frayed blue blanket.

“Holy crap, Jimmy! A puppy!” Bob Linden yanked the cart to a sudden halt.

“Wah-?”

“In the Stason. A puppy, a puppy! Look!” The two men looked. The puppy looked back. It wiggled its furry rump.

“Ah jeez, latches must be open.” Linden fumbled at the latches. “I don’t get it; they’re down tight—”

“Oh man, oh man, I knew I busted something. Let me try.” He pressed all the latches. “Goddamn gloves.”

The puppy spotted the shoe and pounced.

“Damn it, Jimmy—”

“Hey, I’m sorry. It’s these stupid gloves. They’re like steam shovels. So? What’a we do?”

“Four minutes, chumps, four minutes. Train leaves four minutes.”

Linden taps the comcom. “Hey, Gunbarski?”

“The Guns’ busy. This is Axel. That you, Linden?”

“Yeah. Listen, Axel, we got a situation.”

“Enlighten me.”

“We got a Stason Jar with faulty latches, the animal inside isn’t hibernating.” Linden waits. “Axel. You there?” Linden can hear the other man puff out his cheeks.

“Hey, Linden, what can I say? Tough break. One less centipede, or garter snake—”

“Axel, it’s a puppy.”

“Say again-”

“Puppy. Puppy. Woof-woof. Goddamn it, Axel, a Puppy.”

“O-k, hold on.”

“Gunbarski here.. Hey, everybody, pipe down. Let me get through to those guys.”

“Gun, we got a Stason Jar here with a puppy that’s awake and active. We can’t secure the latches to shut this thing down.”

“You got a what?”

“Jesus H Freakin Christ— A PUPPY. A P- U—.”

“O-k, o-k. Let me check with Outpost. Hold on.”

The two men wait. They stare at the puppy. The puppy scratches his ear.

“How much air do you think he’s got?”

Linden shakes his head. “Dunno, Jimmy. Gotta be getting low—”

“Hey, you guys.”

“Yeah-yeah-, Gunner—” Both men speak at once.

“They got groundside workin’ on some ideas. They’re asking what kind of puppy it is.”

“What the hell does that matter? It’s some sorta like a Lab or Setter, I don’t know—”

“It’s got big paws,” Petijohn interjects. “It’s those kind gets big—”

“O-k, hold on.”

“Ahhh…” Petijohn pounds his new custom helmet with both hands.

“No- no, Gunner, we ain’t got time for this—”

“Hey, you guys? Axel here. You loaded yet? Everyone else is loaded.”

“Jeez, Axel,” Petijohn’s voice rises to a squawk. “Give us a break. We got a problem here—”

“Hey, Axel.” Linden waves ‘shush,’ at Petijohn. “Yeah, we’re all loaded. Any word from Outpost on our situation?”

“No. The Guns still talkin’ it over with them. Get a move on; you got three minutes.”

Linden hand-slash-motions to Petijohn. Cut your comcom. The two put their helmets together.

Linden’s muffled voice comes through into Petijohn’s new helmet. “Listen, Jimmy, fast as you can, dump all that crap into the Box. I got an idea. I’m goin’ back for that old Russian suit. Take care of Puppy till I get back.” Bob Linden returns, panting from the exertion of dragging the hundred-sixty-pound suit, to find Jim Petijohn panting from the exertion of heaving the cart’s contents into the Box. They check the Stason Jar. The puppy is also panting. Not good. The two bump helmets.

“O-k, Jimmy, this’s the plan. Jar won’t fit, but we can put Puppy through the back-hatch— he’ll fit in the suit fine. Trouble is, Puppys’ gonna go from fifteen psi down to the ambient eight soon’s we pop the lid. Little guy’ll catch the bends for sure.”

“Hey, Linden! Petijohn. Yer off com. What the hell—”

Linden switches the comcom on. “Hey, Axel, listen, we got a plan—”

“NO, you listen, Linden. You and Petijohn are coming out the airlock NOW.”

“We can save this little guy, Axel. I know we can. It’s a puppy, for God’s sake, Axel. People down there find out we abandoned a puppy; they’ll be waiting for us with pitchforks we get down ground side.

“Linden, you will put that Stason in the Box now or so help me—”

“We can do it. We gotta old pressure suit. I’ll put my crash bottle in there with the valve just cracked open. It’ll pressurize the suit, and we can bleed the excess—maybe rid some of the CO2. The O2 will be a little rich; we’ll have to watch the pressure—”

“Linden, I’ll say this, and I’ll say it once. You take off your crash bottle, and you’re finished. You won’t even work ground crew, you’ll be cleaning toilets—”

“Hey, Linden, this is Gunbarski.”

“Hey, Gunner.”

“You guys think you can work this?”

“Yeah, Gunner, we really think so.”

“Outpost ain’t on board with any of this. You two guys ain’t the only ones’ll be chopped; it’s me and Axel gonna be out a job, anything goes wrong. Anything goes wrong out here on the Train without a crash bottle; you’re gonna be dead, Linden.”

“Yeah, Gunner. Like I say, we gotta try.”

“Make it happen. We’re coming up on rotation; we’ll hold the Train as long as we can.”

“YEAH!” Petijohn hugs the Stason Jar upright.

“Jimmy, this is what we do: you pop the Stason and wrap Puppy up tight in that blanket. I’ll get my bottle ready.”

Petijohn twists off his bottle. “Here, use mine.”

Linden pauses. Takes it. “O-k. Ready? Go. Go, go, go.” The latches flip up; the lid pops open. Linden fumbles with the crash bottle valve as the Puppy, lolling, spills out. Petijohn tries to gather it and hold it. “Goddamn gloves.” Petijohn can’t feel the soft fur or the shivering terror. He can see it, though.

“Get’em wrapped, Jimmy; I’m ready.” Linden holds the suit hatch open. Petijohn scoops the Puppy into the blanket and rolls it up. In one motion, into the suit it goes. Hatch closed— “Dog it—dog it!” Frantically, they work the fastenings. Got it.

“Gunner we’re comin’ out.”

The Velveeta are shorter than us. They call us the Big Galoots, (hoopa hoopa hoopa). Humans generally like being the Big Galoots. It could be worse; we could be the Big Stinking Meatbags. Being Big Galoots, though, we prefer a certain amount of elbow room, something the Velveetans didn’t appear to understand for all their knowledge of us Humans. Their natural frugality and lack of need to impress anybody meant that Velveetan accommodations tended to be a little low rent. It took a good bit of teamwork for both Gatherers to fit in the airlock at the same time. Cripes, you think they could spare it? Was the refrain, and the answer: probably not. After all, it would take away space in the Wheel for stuff.

Petijohn and Linden know the drill; they have the airlock thing down to a science. The Russian spacesuit doesn’t, and it is also not much of a team player. As soon as the airlock depressurizes, the Russian suit assumes the pose of Leonardo Da Vinci’s Vitruvian man, arms and legs akimbo, as stiff as boards.

“Jimmy, I’m stuck!”

“Push, Bobby, push.”

The Russian suit slowly, inexorably pushes Jim Petijohn off his ladder.

“WHOA. Bobby, stop pushing stop pushing!”

Below Jim Petijohn’s feet, the outer airlock door swings open.

The tremendous brown Wheel turns ponderously imparting a simulation of almost one gravity in the rim, enough to keep all of the stuff stacked where the Velveetans stacked it all.

When the Box Train docks, one climbs up into the Wagon Wheel, and when leaving, one climbs down feet first from the airlock. Now and then, there were those who liked to drop the last few feet onto the box train platform, the Porch, just for kicks, and this was called a Geronimo. This could earn one a reprimand or worse. There was also always the chance one could lose their grip on the ladder and miss the Porch on the way down. This earned the poor jamoch their own personal orbit, and if the tugs didn’t spot the suit beacon, a chance to go out in a blaze of glory when, a few weeks hence, the orbit decayed in the upper atmosphere. Ma! A shooting star! This was called ‘Down The Whoops Chute.’ Jim Petijohn looked past his boots and saw too little of the Porch and way too much of the yawning black void, which was everything else.

“C’mon guys, move it. We’re reaching rotation limit. Lines’ll start braiding any minute now. Move yer asses—!”

“Gahh..!” comments Petijohn, who is busy falling. He has a death grip on one leg of the Russian suit. The Russian suit makes up for being difficult in the lock by dragging its’ arms on the hatch rim as all three fall out.

Petijohn sees the Porch go by as he flails one arm. It isn’t even a close thing. “BOBBYYY!”

Linden still has a grip on the Russian suit and an iron grip on his ladder. He grunts and drops the last two feet onto the Porch, a perfect Geronimo. Back and arms screaming with the effort he pulls the Russian suit up. Petijohn is scrabbling like a demented monkey up the suit toward him with eyes behind the visor of his new helmet like saucers.

“Go, Gunner, go,” Linden gasps as he grips Petijohn. Gunbarski doesn’t answer. Axel can be heard cursing a blue streak. But the Box Train shudders and drops away from the Wagon Wheel.

The Box Train yawls, the tow lines starting to twist. Linden and Petijohn struggle to sit themselves and yank the seat belts on. They drag the Russian suit between their suits, and they brace themselves. Above them, a world crashing down, the great brown Wheel looms. They are going to hit it. No one says anything.

Then, the shuddering stops, the Box Train straightens. The vast brown world starts to move away.

The Caboose. The Velveetans announced they would drop in and visit soon, this after an enormous load of Human noodging; so, when will you visit us? Every interview— We don’t have cooties, you know, hah hah.

Well, the Velveeta always had some excuse. We would love to come visit, and we will. There is a matter of vast distance.

No, really. When are you coming? We were more than a little pushy, truth be known. We wore them down. So, at last, they were on their way.

Say, said the Velveeta, please don’t make a fuss on our account when we arrive. We much prefer to keep things as informal as possible. Sure, we Humans replied. Low key. We’re cool. Fat chance. We went happily Pong Crazy. Cities competed for the privilege of building a welcoming venue. It was like the Olympics, except it was something new and exciting. Not everyone looked forward to the occasion; there were those who insisted that all the friendliness was an insidious con job, that the Pong were going to show up promising to ‘Serve Man’ and leave a cookbook on the table. Those who stockpiled guns and gold put in a new supply for the basement bunker. Yet, for most folks, tinfoil hats never quite caught on like bubble-shaped Pong hats.

The funny thing was that whenever the subject of getting an introduction to some of the other civilizations, the Velveetans became uncharacteristically cagey about

the whole thing. A Saturday Night Live skit mainly went unnoticed, but it gave voice to something in the air at the time.

We humans were depicted as some total newby twerbs entering a new high school, our only friends, the Velveeta, turn out to be the lowest rung of the social ladder, the Galactic Ham Radio and Chemistry Club. And we’re beneath them. But hey, that was us humans, insecure to the bone and darn proud of it.

“Hey Jimmy, I think we got a problem here. Check that wrist gauge.”

Pettijohn bent the Russian suit’s arm, now suspiciously soft and pliable, over his shoulder. “I don’t know. It’s in some kilograms per centimeter.., something point twenty-five—”.

“Crap, Jimmy, that’s only like three or four psi!” Linden twisted and grappled the old suit out from between them.

“Ah, no-no-no- Bobby.”

“It’s gotta be a blown o-ring, something. Check for frost.”

“Ah, no-no-no, Bobby, it’s leakin’ like a bastard, down to point twenty.”

“That’s it then.”

“Ahh, Puppy ah Bobby… Jeez no—”

“He’s gone, Jimmy. Let it go. Like that guy Genardi. Wasn’t a thing anybody could do.”

“Booby, we can put your bottle in. We can crank it up. Sure, he’ll decompress, but if we crank it open—!”

“Hey, Linden?”

“Yeah, Gunner?”

“Listen. There’ll be a stink we get groundside. Everybody keep their traps shut, let me an’ Axel do the talking, this’ll all turn out alright. Anybody got a problem with that? O-k. Then you don’t have a problem from me. Linden, tough luck. Ya did the right thing. Ya tried.”

“Yeah, Gunner. Thanks.... Just thanks, man.”

“Ah, Bobby, Bobby.., poor, poor Puppy. I can’t see’m in there.” Pettijohn pressed his visor against the frosted Russian visor.

“He gets groundside, they’ll give’m a nice burial—”

“No, they won’t! No, they won’t! They’ll take’m to some frankinlab somewhere and cut’m up!”

The great brown Wheel continued to recede. No one spoke. Jimmy Petijohn unbuckled his lap belt. “Grab hold’a me, Bobby.”

“What’a ya doin—?”

“Hold on.” Petijohn grasped the old Russian Orlan suit. He slowly twisted his torso, swinging the ponderous mass of the suit to one side. Then he twisted hard the other way.

He opened his thick standard-issue gauntlets, and the Orlan flew majestically off on its last space mission.

Linden pulled him back down onto the bench. “Buckle up,” he said. The two men sat still, staring out at the view from the Caboose. Linden bumped Petijohn’s shoulder.

“You o-k?”

“Yeah.. but just… jeez… ya know?”

“Yeah, Jimmy.”

So the gigantic brown Wheel showed up one day, and we Humans had a right to be proud of how we handled it all, much better than anyone would have predicted. People still marvel at how fast we took it all in and got with the program. The Spacelines were erected, and Outpost was built in no time at all it seemed. We strung the towlines out to the Wheel and got the Box train running regular. We were a young race, we were made to understand, and we were so full of piss and vinegar; we were in a hurry; we had places to go and non-human people to meet.

It would be understandable, then, that certain stories, which one would expect to be widely known, weren’t. They didn’t quite fit the narrative we had chosen. For instance—

When the first Gatherers traveled from Outpost to the Wagon Wheel and back, fifteen faced the Earth on the way out, and one, sitting alone on the narrow platform on the front, faced out there. Then, on the way back, fifteen Gatherers faced the Earth, watching their home draw near, and one Gatherer, sitting alone on the platform at the rear, the Caboose, gazed out at the great, endless out there. Gatherers started to refuse to man the Caboose. It was after one dozen trips that a Gatherer named Marsha Vendick, sitting alone on the brown bench at the end of the Box Train, opened her faceplate to the vacuum. The platforms were widened to accommodate two after that.

Individual Velveeta had names, of course, but it was confusing to us Humans since their names changed completely according to their age and sometimes circumstance. When dealing with us, they adopted a name and stuck with it for our benefit. So it was that Terry Gross, on the NPR show Fresh Air, interviewed a Velveetan named Linda Leaf for our benefit.

“You ask, Terry Gross, what I think is most important for the Humans to prosper, out here. Well, for one thing, you must have friends. We, Velveeta, have learned this lesson well. You will need to be brave. You Humans are impressive in this respect. But most of all, Terry, you need friends. You need all the friends you can get out here.”

Looking up. The story ends as it began, with the simple truth that sometimes looking up at the sky isn’t just looking at the sky. Sometimes, it’s looking into an abyss that’s been waiting since before the first star ignited. And sometimes, if you’re very lucky, you find friends to stand with you against that pitiless void.

Chapter 7

Cookie’s Story

My fourth night on the Fireline begins, and I find that I am not relieving Waterpik, that she is to work beside me this shift. I start to suspect that much is going on among the Firefeeders hidden from the ring of armed guards and the constant surveillance from above. With no sign of conversation or planning obvious to me, Ottoman and Waterpik had arranged the shift change. Ottoman called out sick, and Waterpik worked a second shift in his place.

“Puppy!” Waterpik greets me warmly. “Here. You’re working with me tonight.” The cart between us overflows with fabric— curtains, bed sheets, and towels. These prove surprisingly awkward to throw.

“Watch.” Waterpik deftly ties the cloth into bundles, and I toss them in. The cloth flaps and melts into lemon colored sparkles.

Despite her cheerful mood, I notice the lines of fatigue on her face. “Two shifts. You must be tired,” I said.

Waterpik glances about, checking who is watching. She lowers her head and leans close, tying a bundle. “Something you should know. They can’t hear us near the Fire; it interferes with their equipment. But they’re watching.”

Another glance around. “Otto’s got a family thing. So we worked something out. Talk to Snake if you ever have a problem like that.” Waterpik winks. “We have our ways.” She gives the now empty cart a shove.

“Okay,” she laughs, pulling the next cart close. “Let’s see what we got. Office furniture. A nice workout.”

I fall naturally into Waterpik’s rhythm, tossing items with a casual grace born of long practice.

“Watch the patterns. The Fire talks to you if you listen.” The flame swirls emerald, then settles to a shimmering gold. She nods. “Listen to it purr. I never have to look at the board. I know when it’s happy.”

Cookie pushes an empty cart, almost knocks down the Cart Coolie going for it. She snags another full of of big screen televisions. “Lookin good, Puppy.” Then to Waterpik, “You teachin’ Puppy right now?”

“Yep. Can’t have any more weaklings like Manny here on the line. Things’re hard enough.” Manny, ‘haw—haws!’ makes a thick bicep dance under his sweatshirt.

Snake passes by. “Lookin’ good people. Steady green.” He catches my eye.

“You got the best teacher there is, here. She’s skinny, but she’s wiry.” Snake helps lift a big screen and toss it.

Waterpik laughs. “On the other hand, Snake here may look dumb, but he kinda is.”

Snake laughs and rubs her back as he passes.

“Okay.” Waterpik pivots to a new cart placed before us. “What do we have here?” She wrinkles her nose. “Carpet. Ick. I hate carpet. It can be nasty.”

Cookie lays into her cart, pulling out short carpet rolls, pitching them like basketball free throws. “This reminds me of a story about carpet.”

Waterpik rolls her eyes. “But of course it does. Well then. Carpet story. Lay it on us Cookie.”

Chapter 8

Carpet

Must be great to be Jimmy Carter. Must be great to be sitting back in that fancy Aeron chair, sucking in all that fine air conditioning while his peons go schlepping off into the wet-dog summer heat to craparamas like Lemondell Nursing Care Facility and have to park all the way out in West Japip, and have to walk half a mile with their shirt sticking to their back, and one of their damn socks all soggy from stepping in a puddle with a pair of cheap Wallmart sneakers with a row of holes in the sole from a goddamn tack strip.

Must be nice.

“Ah, Red Hair Peter Taco Eater, your life is so hard?” (Says Jimmy Carter.) “I spent years of my life in places a lot worse than Lemondell, places make Lemondell look like a four-star hotel. I humped carpet up flights of stairs on my shoulder, places never heard of a freight elevator. And after years and years of that, when I blow out the disks in my back, many the day I cried from the pain, but I humped them rolls.”

“You guys call Lemondell Jimmy’s Gold Mine. Okay. What I carried out all those other places, those old people warehouses, wasn’t gold; it was shit and piss-stained carpet, enough to cover Rhode Island.”

“All that carpet came out the same way the new carpet went in, on my shoulder. I put down enough God damn tack strip to reach the moon.”

“So yeah, after years of that, I got myself a carpet business. I got commercials on cable with me as a cartoon character. And yeah, I got lots and lots of money. You know why, Pete? Why I work all my life in shit holes like that, seein’ all the stuff I seen with all those old people? I did it so’s I never ever end up in one of them places. And I’m here to tell you what, Peter, my friend. If you have any brains at all, you’ll do the same.” (So said Jimmy Carter.)

Peter Takinopolos had no intention of ending up in one of those places. He also had a plan. He planned never to become old and sick and helpless and stuck in Lemondell or any other place like Lemondell. I’m twenty-two years old, strong and bad as a Tyrannosaurus Rex. And I plan to stay that way. That was his plan. He couldn’t see going the hoarding his pennies for a rainy day route like Jimmy Carter. If Jimmy Carter was spending any of his money and having any fun at all, he was doing it in secret.

Peter passes under the peeling portico of a sprawling three-story yellow brick structure, its design reminiscent of the public housing aesthetic of the nineteen-sixties.

Would it kill them to invest in a gallon of paint, he wonders. You’d think they’d want to make at least a decent first impression. Don’t have to paint the back if it’s such a big deal, just..,, you’d think.

An ancient Black man sits slumped in a plastic chair beside the entrance.

“Hey! My man, Cur-tisss.”

It is hard for Pete to guess what Curtis sees or hears; the opaque eyes focus on nothing in particular, and the nodding, liver-spotted head does not turn toward Pete’s voice and deliberate tread. But a dry, wrinkled hand rises to meet the general vicinity of Pete’s offered palm. Pete completes the slap.

“Girl watchin’ again, Curtis? Any new talent?” No answer. But then, perhaps the vague wavering descent of the desiccated corded hand is an answering wave. Hard to say.

Pete puts his shoulder to the stiff glass door. Boy, that’s got to be a violation of half a dozen state regs. Or maybe I’m just getting weak, he thinks, in my old age. Pete pauses at the cactus garden just inside the entrance. Or as Prendergast puts it, the Minimal Care Garden, pretty much summing up the business model of Lemondell itself. Lois is there, as usual, with her water can, killing the garden with liquid kindness. Pete swivels toward her in passing.

“Hi there, Pickles! How’s the pickle crop?” With Lois, it is always pickles.

Lois doesn’t turn to look at him, but her stiff shouldered posture shows she knows he’s there. She speaks. “Why? Why did you come back?” Her voice is constricted. Something is wrong. She whips about to scowl at him, face contorted with unhinged fury.

Pete stops short. Lois? Instead of the usual pursed Lilian Gish smile, laughing eyes like two polished garnets, Lois glares, one eye shot blood red. “The broth will boil! There will be no mercy!” She pokes a bony finger like a bent stiletto, like to put his eye out. “You are uncooked living meat FUCKER!”

Stunned, Pete falls back a step. He struggles to recognize the Lois standing before him; this is not the Lois he knows.

“Wha— Lois..!” Pete laughs. But he is not getting the joke. Lois turns away to furiously pour water onto the sodden cactus. Pete studies her clenched figure. Then, he does get it. And it is not a joke at all.

“Oh no. Lois….” A blood vessel. A small blockage. Such a small thing. And yet, the person who was once is no more. Pete is torn; he wishes to touch, to carress the arm of the shell of the person who once was; he wishes to walk away as fast as his legs carry him.

Lois turns. And it appears to be the real Lois then, that sly pursed smile.

“You don’t think you belong here, Peter, but you do. You came back, didn’t you?” Lois closes one eye, the red bloodshot eye: a wink. “You’re back home now.”

Pete does not recall wheeling away, only that he is careening down the central main corridor between rows of doors, like tombstones on either side, journeying deep into the bowels of Lemondell.

“FDR knew the Japanese were coming; he let them bomb Pearl Harbor—” Prendergast’s voice booms down the hallway. A pause; Dan Porter interrupting, trying to introduce some sense; Prendergrast rarely paused in midrant for no reason. It only sounded like a pause, since Dan’s voice didn’t have the same Prendergast-carrying power. “—Then, how come he sent all the carriers out to sea if he didn’t know the day?” Pete can hear Dan’s voice now, not the words, but clearly the tone of exasperation. Pete shakes his head. Debates didn’t get the carpet laid. He should put those guys in separate rooms, he thinks.

Lemondell stretches before him, a long corridor ending a distance away in a stairwell, wan sunlight filtering through tall blurred windows above the first landing. Pete passes his hand over his eyes; the light begins throbbing, the overhead light panels buzzing like flies on a corpse.

The world yawls, Pete stutter-steps, reaches out. His fingertips rest against the brittle curl of an opening seam in the faux natural wall covering. A gabble of noise rises in the corridor behind, so he turns, shaking his head, trying to shake away the vertigo.

As if by a prearranged signal, the doors up and down the corridor fly open, figures shuffle out, faces stretched flat with rage, like bad charcoal drawings, hollowed scribbled black holes for eyes, mouths like smeared slits. Pete jumps at the shrill yip of a dog run over by a truck, but no, it is the laughter of an old crone, Mildred Rose; yes, only Mildred laughing. The graveled croaking of a garroted prisoner is only Ben Keller coughing into a paper towel.

Peter shakes his head. He wants to bang his head with his palms to knock whatever is loose back into place. Then, whatever connection is loose is jogged back into place. The hallway before him is filled with regular old people, people he knows by name.

“Yo. Pete.” Kroger, John, ‘call me Kroger’, pistol points a finger at Pete. Pete nods.

“Kroger.”

“Another day in paradise.” “Don’t get any better than this.” “Yeah, man.”

Prendergast’s voice booms. Pete shakes his head. Time to go deal with the Prendergrast and Porter morning zoo. Pete stops in his tracks. Coming toward him, seeming to fill the corridor, is the most obese old woman he has ever seen.

“Wub wub wubby wummy yum yum-”

She wears not clothing so much as a flowered blue tent. Her pumpkin-sized head pokes through the top, bald but for a twist of dry gray hair gathered by a dangling pink plastic beret. Bulging yellowed eyes pushed into moldering pumpkin flesh bicker as to which way to look, over a vast yawp of toothless mouth wub— wubbing out the moist declaration: “Yummy! Oh, Yum Yum Yum!”

GAH thinks Pete. What he says is, “Um… pardon..?” He doesn’t want to be rude; the last thing he wants is to be rude. But just... GAHHH. He tries to calculate a way around her. He ventures a tentative sidestep, but she is heaving from side to side like an overloaded hay wagon with a bent axle. Wub Wub Wub! Her arms reach wide, great swinging satchels of raddled flesh, small stubby child’s fingers like sun-maddened grubs, grasping and pinching the air.

Pete stands rooted by indecision, and in a great rolling lurch, she is on him, pinning him to the wall, pressing over him like a huge dough.

“Ah… whoops… pardon… sorry—” Pete hugs himself, tries to sink back into the scabrous, unyielding wall behind. Her muddy eyes, face inches from his, focus. Her large gaping toothless mouth writhes, curves up at the edges. “Hey Peed. Yoo Gudda Laf!”

Then, she has rolled past, and Pete glimpses, or thinks he has glimpsed… but it isn’t possible… deep down back in the darkness of that gaping maw… a second mouth, a round sucking hole lined with hundreds of hooked needle sharp teeth. Instead of banging his head with his palms, he shakes it, shakes it hard. He gapes at the old woman moving away down the corridor; not so huge now, just a fat old lady in a blue house dress.

“Hey Peed… Pete? Pete rubs his temples. Hey Pete. You gotta laugh? She knew his name. Well, she would; he was in here all the time. He had never seen her before, and that was for sure. Hey Pete. You gotta laugh. Pretty sure that’s what she said. Yoo Gudda Laf! Hey Pete… Hey Pete… You coulda left!

“You had your America Firsters and yer Bunds; FDR hadda rile us up behind the whole thing fast.” Prendergast has twisted up his volume knob. Pete moves toward the doorway with the carpet scraps heaped outside.

“Hey, you guys, Jimmy catches you throwin’ the scraps in the hallway, the shit storm will float us all away. C’mon, you know better.”

The two men in the room, one standing, the other kneeling over a kicker, turn. The short, slight one, Prendergast, stands. “Jimmy?”

“Yeah. Jimmy. Jimmy. The guy who signs our paychecks. Jimmy Carter.”

“Jimmy Carter.” The two men in the room look at each other. “Well, I don’t know about that,” says Prendergast, “I get my paychecks from Herbert Hoover. You probably remember him—”

Pete raises his hands in surrender. “Look, you trip some old people; it’s on you. That’s all I have to say about it. And by the way, I could hear your big mouths all the way out by the entrance, so. Anyway, I gotta check a job on the fourth floor.” Again, the two glance at each other.

“Fourth floor?” Prendergast is smirking now. “Fourth floor? You sure you didn’t mix your meds up this morning?”

“Hey, c’mon Will, shush.” admonishes Dan Porter, “Don’t be mean. Someday, you’re gonna be like that. Show a little respect.”

Pete shakes his head. He didn’t have time for their nonsense.

“Look. O-k, monkeyshines are over. Get that crap in the hallway picked up. When you’re done, drop the truck off at Jimmie’s. He needs it later.”

“And that would be… Jimmy Carter now—?”

Dan Porter pats Pete’s arm. “Pay ‘em no mind, Pete. We’ll pick up the scraps. Don’t give it another thought. You go ahead and get about your day now.”

“On the fourth floor.” Prendergast snorts. Dan Porter gives him a look.

Pete twists, steps over the pile of carpet scraps with exaggerated effort, but the two in the room have already returned to their debate. Pete shakes his head. Didn’t think it was possible those two could become more annoying, but, there it was, a new record. Two old coots didn’t take to being bossed by a young guy. Well, too bad, that was their beef stew.

Pete glances back. This is what comes, he thinks, of paying them by the hour and not the square yard. He’d do things a little differently if he sat in Jimmy’s chair, that was for damn sure.

The light at the end of the corridor shifts. The tall windows above the stair landing are frosted with dust, more translucent panels now than glass windows. Vast, indistinct shapes move outside, clouds moving in, maybe rain coming. Pete fingers the tape measure clipped to his belt. O-k, then. This measure won’t do itself.

Pete mounts the half flight of stairs leading to a small landing, lit by the fretful light like a deserted stage or an expectant scaffold. His long stride jells into a stolid trudge by the stair treads’ inordinate width and low rise. Made you walk like an old person, Pete fumes. Dang it! He grins. Gol- Dang it!

The following short flight doubles back to deposit him on the second floor. Pete squints down the long corridor, his eyes adjusted to the brighter stairwell. The corridor is a copy of the one below, a little dimmer.

Arthur Pennybrook, ever the comic, shades his eyes and peers back at Pete as if he were a distant shoreline. “Pete! Where have you been? Vacation? Ah, you rich guys—!”

“Hi, Arthur.” Pete waves, pivoting toward the next stairway. “Can’t talk right now, man. Got a measure up on the fourth floor. Catch ya on the way back, okay?”

“Fourth floor?” Arthur’s shout follows Pete. “Fourth floor?” Pete gives another wave and steps as lively as possible up the dim stair flight. Old linoleum shifts and cracks beneath his feet. The ruddy light through the tall, begrimed windows looming over the next landing seems to boil; a real gully washer was upon them. Pete hopes it brings some coolness; the air feels baked and dull.

The third floor stretches into a darkness relieved only by a fluorescent fixture, flickering in the further reaches like a dying moth. Figures move in the dimness, indistinct like creatures at the bottom of a deep, still lake.

A figure, closer than the others, seems to peer back; a dim white featureless lozenge of a face is cocked, two bone white hands held out at an odd angle. Pete nods and gives a small wave. “Hey.” The staring figure doesn’t move. The head tilts a fraction. Now, the others farther down the corridor have stopped.

“Soo.., okay.” Moving right along. A person could get depressed in a place like this; how could they not? How about fixing the lights— fluorescent tubes cost that much? Pete is steamed. It wasn’t right. Jeez! Look at this stairwell! In the roiling red light of the storm, the steps look scabrous with linoleum shedding black scales, the handrail as attractive to hold as a skin disease. Pete rubs his hand on his pant leg.

Red sky at morning, sailor take warning! But it was late afternoon, so, sailor take… what? Pete reaches the landing. His crackling tread is softened, dulled. Pete bends down, feels about, feels carpet.

“Huh.” Strange. Who carpeted the landing? Something huge moves close outside the glass panels, thumps the glass, presses— The wind. Of course. Of course. The light so red.

The stair treads are also carpeted. Thick, damp, swallowing Pete’s tread; he rises to the fourth floor. His legs move, but there is no sound now but the howl outside the glass.

The final stairway. A thick, damp pile swallows Pete’s tread. He rises to the fourth floor. His legs move without sound. The demented wind howls outside the shuddering glass.

Oh man, Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. You don’t pay me enough. You most certainly do not. Oh, unhappy day. But, of course, Pete can hear Jimmy Carter. Picture him with that smug look, leaning back in that stupid chair. That right, Petey? I pay you what you’re worth. No more, no less. Where you are right now is your doing, Pete. You’re the one who used up your years, not anyone else.

But I do not like it here, oh I do not.

“Where I send you is exactly where you belong, Peter Takinopolis.”

But.. but I can’t find my teeth. Pete’s tongue scours the smooth cave of his mouth as he tops the stairs. Before him is the fourth and final floor. Get a grip. He runs his tongue over his teeth. Get a grip. Get in, get out. Get this measure done.

The fourth floor is closed. Before him stretches a crude barrier of carelessly fit boards and plywood. What the heck?

Pete’s feet sink into the floor. Layers and layers of damp molding carpet. My God, the smell. Pete peers through a gap in the rough boards. The corridor beyond, lit by uncertain florid light from windows at the far end, is still and empty. Pete tugs a board. “Oh, perfect.”

Okay. Creeped out here. Got the willys. Not ashamed to admit it. So how to get this measure over and done with? Can’t even get in there. Bag it, then. Call it a day. Come back when they get it open, get some damn light in there. Oh, he can already hear Jimmy.

Then again— Pete can dimly see the windows at the other end. He could go down a floor or two and come up that end. Okay. Bite the bullet. Go around. Wait... Something moved. In there. Hard to make out. A door opening?

A figure, amorphous, a shadow, is back-lit by pulsing red storm light. Shifting. Coming. It blocks the light now. The sound of it approaches, soft, indistinct sounds, sloughing against the walls, the ceiling.

Pete’s breath is trapped in his chest. His heart pounds in his throat. The… something falls silent. It is listening. It is very close. It’s breathing. It’s right there.

Pete wheels, headlong down the stairway, stumbles, his knees sink deep into sodden rotting carpet. Behind, there is the sound of cracking, splintering wood. Pete whineys in terror, thrashes to his feet. He barely knows where the stair treads are; the carpet is so thick.

Wub wub wub! Yummy! Just behind him, something huge. Oh, Yummy, yum yum yum!

Pete falls forward, trying not to fall, trying to fly. The handrail is carpeted. The walls—thick, disintegrating carpet. Oh, the ceiling, Pete thinks crazily. The ceiling is carpeted. He can span the width of the stairway with his arms, his fingers sinking deep into the sodden nap. The ceiling presses down; he is crawling now. The red maniac storm outside shrieks, laughs, and pounds the glass with joy.

Wub wub, yummy! Yummy yummy!

Before him, the world funnels down. Reeking soiled carpet, roiling with corruption, narrows down to a funnel, then a roll of disintegrating carpet. Pete feels brittle. Weak. His joints ache. His hair is gone. Pete hears a chittering sound right behind him, the sound of a thousand needle sharp teeth around a vast sucking mouth. The stench of the carpet pressing in on all sides is overwhelming. He can barely fit. He can’t fit, but he has no choice. He can’t go back. He has always gone forward in time. There is no going back. Pete claws forward as far as he can.

Chapter 9

Snake’s Burden

I’m running late. I hurry from the Dormitory under lowering clouds scudding the night sky, their distended bellies lit sulfur by the restless searchlights. When I reach the first gate, a gust shoves me.

The guard’s flashlight wavers over my I.D. card. He takes a long time comparing my badge to a list on his tablet. Behind him, a loose tarp batters against the fence like a trapped bird. I feel flutters of disquiet in my gut. I look past, imagining that I can see, through all of the barriers and gates, a glimpse of the Fire from here. He waves me through, and I have to keep myself from running to the Humvee.

“Sorry, I’m late.” I hasten to join Waterpik at a cart full of wooden chair parts. “The Greenies seemed all worked up about something. They took forever.” Waterpik’s face is ashen. Despite the cold, her forehead glistens with beads of sweat.

The Fire flickers deep violets, shot through with something that looks like black lightning. Waterpik glances uneasily. “It’s in a mood.” She looks up at the threatening sky. The wind ruffles the fringe of flame playing on the Fire’s surface.

We finish the chairs, and a cart of red bags labeled medical waste is wheeled before us. Waterpik leans on the cart. I grasp her arm, steady her.

“ You need to rest. Pace yourself, and I’ll carry you until the lunch break. You need to lay down, catch your breath”

Manny, passing by, halts. “You take my break, Pik. It’s too early for me anyway. I just got here.” He calls to Snake.

“Hey, Boss Man. Pik just volunteered to take your break for you. I know how much you hate slacking off—”

Snake hurries over. “Pik? You don’t look good.” The older woman smiles weakly.

“Oh, stop fussing.” She waves Snake away.

Cookie pipes up. “You take my break, Pik. I hate lunch breaks. Let me tell you a story about these two guys—”

A guard approaches uncertainly and halts a few paces away. Two more behind shift nervously, fingering their weapons. “Hey? Everything okay? You got orange on the board.”

Snake shouts, “C’mon people. Up six. Bring’er down.” To the guards, he speaks. “Yeah, we’re cool. Everything’s cool. See? Nice and green.” The guards back uncertainly to the perimeter. The guards under the lights heft their weapons and whisper.

Manny leans in. “A lot of new faces. I don’t like it.”

Snake murmurs to Waterpik.

“You take it easy, Pik. You go first break, so just hang in there a few.” He raises his voice.

“Hey, Cookie. What about that lunch story? Those two guys?”

“So, anyway,” Cookie’s voice booms, “these two guys go to lunch—”

Waterpik stumbles as she throws a bag. She grips the rim of the cart. She pants, one hand pressed to her chest. The Fire pulses with that strange black lightning again. Overhead, the sky flickers, threatening a storm.

“You Okay?” I reach for Waterpik to steady her.

“Yeah, sure. Just need to catch my breath—” She gasps, doubles over.

“Snake! Mr. Peavy!” I shout and reach for her as she slumps. In an instant, Manny is by our side, supporting her.

Snake kneels. “Pik! Pik!” Her breath comes in short, desperate gasps.

The guards rush forward, weapons shouldered, surrounding us. One, a young officer is shouting, voice wavering with panic. “Return to work! Back to your stations!”

Snake easily lifts Waterpik in his arms, stands. Her head lolls against his shoulder.

“This woman needs medical attention!”

“Sir! I will order you to be shot! Get back to your work station!”

The board alarms, lights orange. The Fire is growing.

Snake, carrying the now unconscious Waterpik, walks straight at the officer. The guards point their rifles at Snake, glancing nervously at the officer. Snake halts, towering over the young man. The Fire hums and pops in the sudden stillness. The officer yields, steps aside.

Snake strides to the gate. There is a rapid crackle of radio traffic— the gate swings open and then clashes shut behind Snake and Waterpik. The guards train their weapons on the Firefeeders.

“Get to your work stations! Now!” The officer’s voice is shrill. Two helicopters roar in to hover close overhead.

“Okay, people!” Cookie’s mighty voice is easily heard over the din. “We’re up fourteen! That is unacceptable! Let’s bring it down!” She turns to Manny. “Manny, you and Puppy dig in, get these two carts done.”

“No talking! Go to your assigned station!” The officer steps closer than any guard has come to the Fireline. He takes a shooting stance, aiming a pistol at Cookie.

Cookie reaches into a cart filled with gallon jugs of antifreeze. She tosses in a jug. “As I was sayin—” She tosses.

“There were these two guys—” Toss.

“No talking, I said!”

“And they went to have lunch together—” Toss.

The officer stands uncertainly. Then, he motions the guards to lower their weapons. They move back warily to their accustomed post under the ring of spotlights. Cookie watches them go.

Toss. “And it did not go well for them.” Toss.

Chapter 10

Lunchtime Crowd

It was a gorgeous spring day; the sun beamed softly overhead, a ripe tangerine in pale blue spring water. Spinrad arrived at the Laughing Monk two jumps ahead of the lunchtime crowd and found his favorite table free for the taking. Straight back, he went through the brick arch, past the Miro print, to the table farthest from the street. He settled back in the dim coolness under the baleful gaze of a ten-gallon snapping turtle in a twenty-gallon aquarium.

“Hi Fred,” said Spinrad. The turtle rolled his eyes and made a bubble. A short time later, a very large man named Paxson loomed. Spinrad half rose from his chair. He reached across the table and shook the baseball mitt of a hand.

“Ah, Mr. Paxson. So, you’re not wearing your MAGA hat. I guess congratulations are in order. Things went your way. You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t join you in celebration; I’m in mourning. You see, my country just died.”

“Hey man, I understand. Feelings a little raw. I know the feeling, believe me. You should have seen me in ‘twenty”.

“Nope. No. Not the same! Not even. A rapist! A felon—!”

“Doctor Spinrad, please. Believe me when I say I understand things look a little dark to you right now, but please believe me, from the heart, things will work out. You’ll see—”

“Well, on the bright side. I got to vote in the last real election. But, what the hell. Bring in the clowns. There ought to be clowns. Let the shit show begin.”

Paxson chuckled, shook his head. “Doctor, c’mon now. “

“Two hundred and forty years of democracy. Hey, what the hell. It was a good run while it lasted.”

“Doctor Spinrad, I respect your opinion. And I’d love to get together over some beers and talk this out sometime, but—”

“Oh, sure. Sure. Kumbaya. Let’s all fall into line behind the Fathead Fuhrer now! See this brick wall behind me? I’d have better luck talking sense into it than—”

“Okay, enough! Jeez, Louise! I came here in good faith to try to see if we can work together and figure out why a good man, a colleague of mine, and I thought, a good friend of yours, died. So, if you’re not interested….”

Spinrad sighed. “Of course I’m interested. Ben Quillem was a close friend.”

“Doctor, I promise you, I, and I think I can speak for the entire board, want nothing more than to get to the bottom of this terrible tragedy.”

Spinrad eased back in his chair. “Okay, reset. Of course, I care; otherwise, I wouldn’t have agreed to talk to you.” Spinrad held up his hand to signal to a waitress. How about I order you something for lunch? The scallops are crazy good here.”

Paxson took his thick forearms off the table, shifted back in his chair. “Oh, no thanks, Doctor, I’ve eaten. Please order something for yourself. My treat. On the Institute. I appreciate you taking the time to meet like this.”

“Sure. Always anxious to help the Thought Police. Anybody expresses any concern for the Earth’s environment. Human rights, stuff like that in my presence, you can depend on me to report them—”

“You know, Doctor, contrary to popular opinion, the Evaluation Board doesn’t get any weird kicks from torpedoing projects. At least, not all the time.” Paxson gave a wicked grin and waggled his eyebrows up and down.

“But seriously, we only want to discourage anybody from taking advantage of all those juicy opportunities to make dishonesty pay. Not to mention incompetence. Believe me, Doctor, all the Institute needs is one or two juicy scandals, and the golden grant spigots would be shut off so fast our heads would spin. Think of all the worthwhile projects that would suffer. Yours, for instance.” Paxson spread his hands. “We’re not evil men, Doctor.”

Paxson swiveled at the arrival of the waitress. Paxson’s gaze drifted to the aquarium near at hand. He cringed back in mock terror. “Jeepers. It’s Godzilla hisself!” Then, to the waitress, “That where you put the guys who don’t tip enough?” The waitress said yep, that’s where we put’m alright, and took the order: two scotch and water, nothing to eat, thanks.

“Interesting place,” said Paxson. “You come here often?”

Spinrad leaned back against the cool brick wall. “Yeah, I come here all the time. This is my own personal little nook back here.”

“Hmm.” Paxson glanced around. “Don’t know I’d want to be stuck back here if there was a fire or something.” He shrugged. “I worry about things like that.” The two sat in an awkward silence.

“Doesn’t look like they get a lot of business. Nice and quiet.” He spotted the waitress coming. “Ah, quick.”

Spinrad reached across the table to help the waitress with the drinks. “Wait a few minutes; this place attracts a monster lunch crowd.” The waitress flipped her eyes at the ceiling in agreement.

Nearby, four exotically coifed and pierced young women occupied a table with an intricate juggling of jackets and handbags. Paxson took a generous sip from his drink and rapped the glass down.

“O-k then, to business. My father used to say, let’s sit down on brass tacks. As you know, I want to talk to you about Doctor Quillem’s death. You’ve spoken to the government people, of course.”

“Yes. The people from D.O.D., the F.B.I., and every other junior G Man who crawled out of the woodwork. This is just too funny. I suspect you know exactly who I spoke to and exactly what I said. No offense, Mr. Paxson, you seem like a nice enough fellow, but to send a guy who can shut off my funding to squeeze me. Not very subtle.”

“Ah, Doctor Spinrad, I think you may be seeing this thing from the wrong angle. The thinking is that someone who knows how we operate at the Institute would be better suited to avoid blind alleys, wasted time. Someone in the family. You know, if folks around here would be a little more forthcoming, a little more helpful—”

Paxson waved his hand. “and of course, I’m not talking about you specifically here; please don’t misunderstand me. But folks need to understand, this is serious. This is coming from Homeland Security—”

“Homeland Security?” Spinrad flapped his hands in the air, “Oh, woo-hoo! What a joke. Who’s going to run it now? Oh, that’s right, an ex-Home Shopping Network host!”

Paxson frowned. “The defense of the United States of America against terrorist attack is a joke—?”

“Sure, it’s a joke! Of course, it’s a joke! Will they still do the color thing? What color is it today, Mr. Paxson? Maroon? A lovely shade of celadon? Whata’ya say we protect the ‘Homeland’ from all the people who live in the Homeland? How about a surveillance camera on every street corner? Or how about a camera in every bedroom? Mr. Paxson, Ben Franklin said that a people who are willing to trade freedom for security—"

Paxson waved his hands. “Please, Doctor, I’m well aware of what Ben Franklin said.”

“— deserve neither. I gotta say, Mr. Paxson. This is all pretty ridiculous. The government people questioned me for two solid hours. Ben Quillem had about as much to do with defense work as—”

“As you, Doctor Spinrad? The political views of both yourself and Doctor Quillem are well known.”

Paxson held up his hands. “And there’s nothing wrong, you have a perfect right—"

“Okay, that’s it.” Spinrad pushed up from his chair.

“Whoa, Doctor. Okay. I know that to you, I’m coming across like some fascist goon—” Spinrad opened his mouth to interject. “—but hey, what I said was uncalled for. I apologize. This is something we should thrash out over some beers sometime. Let’s not get our blood pressure up, okay? Peace? Peace, brother?” He held his hand up in a peace sign. Spinrad remained standing.

Paxson blew his cheeks out. He squeezed his face with both hands. He placed his hands on the table face up. ‘O-k, Doctor, I’ll tell you what.” He glanced around. “What do you say I come clean with you? Then you come clean with me. O-k? I’ll tell you things I’m not supposed to tell, things I’m not even supposed to know. I’m going out on a limb here. I’m trusting this will go no farther than your ears. What do you say? Deal?” Paxson raised his eyebrows. He stared back at Spinrad. The smaller man sat down. Spinrad reached into his jacket and placed a smartphone on the table.

“Let’s stop playing games, shall we? This what you’re looking for?”

“I don’t know, Doctor. You tell me. I have to ask, though. You didn’t show this to any of the investigators. Why?”

“Because none of the others were willing to tell me a Goddamn thing. So. This is how this is going to work. Even trade. This phone is locked like Fort Knox. Ben was handy with tech stuff. Maybe they could crack it, maybe not. It’d take them a while. And would they even understand what they were looking at? You and me, we knew Ben. We know academia. Maybe, between the two of us, we can figure this out. So. As long as you talk, I talk.” Paxson stared at the gleaming black rectangle. He spoke distractedly, seeming to tear his gaze from the phone with difficulty. “Doctor, what do you know of Doctor Quillem’s death?”

“Well...” Spinrad sipped his drink thoughtfully. “I heard the rumor going around, and I know what was posted on the board and what the Director announced. The Director said Ben was killed in a car wreck in Tennessee on the way to a speaking engagement. I only had one problem with that one, though; Ben Quillem didn’t have a license. He didn’t know how to drive. Yet the announcement said he was alone in the car.”

Paxson studied his drink as he slowly rolled the glass between his palms. “Yes. His family thought it was a little strange, too. I talked to his sister. I guess whoever got the job of making up a cover story had to work fast and sloppy.”

“But, you know otherwise?”

“Tell me, Doctor. Did Doctor Quillem tell you his reasons for going down there to that part of the country?”

“A colossal waste of time, I told him. He was spending time meeting with groups of so-called undecided voters, help them come to the light. Hah. Good damn luck with that.”

“Did Doctor Quillem tell you anything about this particular group?”

“Nope. Only that they claimed to be undecided. Undecided. My God, it makes my brain ache! Should I drink from this gas pump or put the gas in my car? Gee, I can’t figure it out. I’m undecided! If there is any silver lining to this tragedy, it’s that Ben was spared the company of those useless cretins in the last moments of his life.”

“Doctor Spinrad, you mentioned a rumor?”

“Oh yes, the rumor.” Spinrad grinned. “You’re going to like this one; it’s prime latte libtard paranoia, the kind I just know you’ll like. The rumor has it Ben was murdered by a mob of fundamentalist redneck religious MAGA fanatics because they didn’t like the talk he gave. After all, that’s where they had the Scopes trial, isn’t it?” Spinrad studied Paxson’s face for a reaction, but Paxson remained impassive.

The big man turned and surveyed the room. Many of the other tables were taken now. The hubbub of conversation rose as people sought to make themselves heard. Now and again, a shrill laugh leaped out of the river of voices like a manic fish.

“Well, I’m disappointed, Mr. Paxson, l thought I’d get a run for my money with that one.” Paxson turned back to the table. Spinrad stiffened, sobered by his expression. “My God, you don’t mean…?”

Paxson leaned forward on his elbows, hands folded as in prayer around his glass. “Doctor Spinrad, something very strange—something inexplicable happened to Doctor Quillem. The reason all those government agencies are sniffing around the Institute is not because Doctor Quillem was engaged in any sensitive work; it is because of the nature of Doctor Quillem’s death. It was thought that due to my position in the Institute, I might be able to uncover something that might have been overlooked by investigators who are perhaps not as familiar with our operations at the Institute.”

Spinrad’s voice was tight. “What happened to Ben, Mr. Paxson?” Again, Paxson glanced behind himself as though he were in a grade b spy movie.

All of the tables were taken now; the babble of voices continued to ratchet up in volume.

“Doctor Quillem was murdered, torn to pieces by forty-four people in a small auditorium in a small college campus in Tennessee—”

“Oh dear God,” breathed Spinrad. “Oh, those dirty, dirty bastards!”

“Doctor, before you jump to any conclusions, let me give you some idea of what we’re dealing with here. You are a statistician, so I’ll give you the numbers. Forty-four people, ranging in age from eighteen to fifty-nine. Sex: there were thirty males and fourteen females—twenty white, eight black, six Asian, and ten Hispanic. Of the forty-four, fourteen attended classes at the college. I forget the exact numbers; there were a few postgraduates, but everyone else was from the immediate community.”

“So, we’re talking about some crazy religious cult here? Some MAGA crazies—?”

Paxson sighed. “Do you know what, Doctor Spinrad? I would love to find out that this was a crazy MAGA crowd, or an Antifa mob, or some hopped-up redneck religious cult—hell, anything we could put a label on, but these were just regular people, regular Americans. Regular people who went mad one day. And, Doctor Spinrad, we have no earthly idea why.”

Spinrad started to say something. Paxson held his hand up. “One more set of numbers, Doctor. Of those forty-four people, thirty-nine claim to have no recollection of Doctor Quillem’s death. It’s like some sort of group amnesia. Of the thirty-nine, thirty are now receiving treatment by a team of Psychiatrists provided by the Federal Government. They are being treated for severe anxiety and post-traumatic stress syndrome— the other nine claim to have no mental or physical problems stemming from the incident. Even so, a close eye is being kept on them all the same. And that leaves five.”

“Doctor Spinrad, those five people may have remembered the incident after all. Trouble is that those five people killed themselves.”

“Doctor, what I’m trying to convey to you is, that these were ordinary everyday people, a little better educated perhaps than any forty or fifty off the street, but these were your cross-section, your neighbors, friends, your family, and yet for one brief moment, they became a howling mob, and they tore a man to pieces. And I mean pieces in the most literal sense of the word; there wasn’t anything bigger than a piece of forearm. They identified as many as eleven different sets of teeth marks on it—” Paxson noted the shock on Spinrad’s face and stopped. ‘I’m sorry, Doctor, I know this must be a heck of a body blow coming like this.”

Spinrad shook his head slowly. “But why? Why? Ben Quillem was the gentlest—the gentlest, kindest, most easygoing. Dear God. Why?”

“Doctor, this is precisely why I’m talking to you now, to find the reason.”

Spinrad slammed the table with his fist. “My God, a car crash is one thing, but to die like..., horrible.... None of the others who questioned me told me any of this; I’m grateful to you for that, at least, Mr. Paxson.” Spinrad slugged down the remainder of his drink. “Well,” he said with a bitter chuckle, “I suppose the car crash thing was meant to explain the closed coffin.”

“No part of Doctor Quillem was in the coffin. Doctor Quillem’s remains are at this moment at an Air Force base.”

“I’m told they are going over the remains with a whole medical team flown in. They’ve torn the auditorium apart, gone over every stick of wood, every particle of dust. I’m not privy to half of what’s going on, but as far as I can tell, the NSA has the inside track with a drug theory. They’re looking for some mind-altering drug, known or unknown, something that could have been, say, sprayed into the air or put in the water fountain—”

“Hah, yes,” said Spinrad sardonically, “I see now why the Government would be interested in that: a drug that makes people kill.”

“However, I’m a mathematician, not a biochemist. I don’t see how I could possibly help you with that angle. I don’t imagine I would if I could.”

Paxson drained his glass. He signaled the waitress with two fingers. The two men sat studying their empty glasses as they waited for her to bring two more drinks. Paxson waited until she had set the drinks down and was out of earshot before he spoke. He hunched over the table. His gaze settled on the phone between them.

“Doctor,” he began, “it would appear the drug angle is the most plausible at this point. The investigators are trying to trace down any bio or medical connections and affiliations with any fringe radical nut groups. Of course, in such an academic setting, such connections are almost endless.”

“But you don’t buy that angle.”

Paxson looked up, startled by Spinrad’s perceptive reading of his manner. “Well, it does seem the most plausible, yet, over and over, I could see from the interviews of the people involved that all of them remembered everything up until Doctor Quillem began to play an audio recording of some sort. Then they all went blank. They described it variously as a sort of drifting off, away from themselves, losing their individuality.., a sensation of merging.”

“Merging? Merging with what?”

Paxson shrugged. “They didn’t seem to know. They just went blank. They all agree on what Doctor Quillem said before he played the recording, something to the effect that he had discovered some beast; he used those words, beware the beast; they should not succumb to the beast. Of course, that little piece of information caused a stir among the investigating agencies. Still, any of us in academia would recognize it for what it was: a rhetorical device often used by lecturers with a little Shakespeare in them to wake up drowsing students.”

“Yes, Mr. Paxson,” Spinrad smiled at a memory, “I can confirm that much. Ben was a frustrated thespian, for sure. Ben loved Shakespeare. He said everything there was to learn about the nature of Man was in those plays.” “I doubt Shakespeare had much to say about the sort of sick mind that would introduce a hallucinogenic on a room full of unsuspecting people.”

“But you have some doubts, Mr. Paxson.”

“Yes.” Paxson studied his drink for a moment. “The prevailing wisdom has it the drug was introduced coincident with the starting of the audio clip, but….” Paxson paused. “But I have the feeling, I can’t say why, but I got the feeling from reading the interview transcripts that it was the audio, that the audio itself was the trigger somehow.”

“Well? What was on Ben’s phone?”

Paxson leaned back. “The phone was smashed, Doctor. The N.S.A. is working on it; I’m told they have some process to recover it— but I’m told it doesn’t look promising.” Paxson shrugged.

Spinrad gazed down at the phone on the table by his hand. He carefully picked it up. “And you think this might be a duplicate? But why did you think I had it?” Spinrad raised his voice to make himself heard over a burst of raucous laughter from a nearby table. The two men leaned toward each other. The lunchtime crowd was in full swing now; full of the intoxicating spring weather, each diner competed to outdo every other in boisterous humor. Fred, the snapping turtle, paddled and struggled to turn around in the small tank.

“Doctor, we’re not as dense as you fellows think. We know you all have little pet projects on the side. The Administration has always felt that as long as you guys did the grant work in a reasonable time, we would cast a blind eye toward any personal schticks we call them— any personal schticks you fellows might be doing on Institute time as long as they didn’t get out of hand. We realize that for you genius types, the Institute work is mundane stuff. We figure we wouldn’t hold on to the lot of you if we didn’t practice enlightened flexibility.”

“Heck, Doctor, you don’t think for a minute we don’t know how much time you actually spend on that mass trans stuff we pay you for.”

Spinrad shifted uncomfortably. He started to speak, but Paxson silenced him with a laugh and a wave. “No- no- no, understand me, Doctor. You’re doing good work for the institute and good work, I presume, for yourself. Everybody’s happy. But to get back to Doctor Quillem, we knew he had his schtick like everybody else, but exactly what it was, we didn’t pry. That was his business, we figured. So, incidentally, contrary to what you liberal types think, we don’t bug the rooms.”

“Yes,” said Spinrad, “but if you weren’t snooping, if you’ll pardon the expression, then how did you know I had this phone?”

“Nothing sinister, Doctor, I guessed. I know that to you guys, your schticks are far more precious than any of the work you all are paid to do, so I have to believe if Dr. Quillem made a discovery, he would be sure to back up his work with a copy or two. His home, office, and cloud service were searched with a fine-tooth comb, and no copy was found. So he might have given some copies to a friend to hold. So I called you. Bingo. As I understand it, this was all he gave you? No paperwork or computer files?”

“No,” said Spinrad, turning the phone over in his hand. “He didn’t say much about it; he just asked me to hold on to it for him, so I put it in a drawer and forgot about it.”

“No papers,” said Paxson. “So, we have to assume for the moment that whatever Doctor Quillem’s schtick was, it was in his head and on his phone. And his head is—” Paxson stopped in mid-sentence. “Well, all we have is the phone, then.”

The two men stared at the inscrutable black rectangle on the table. Nearby, a group of salesmen left, and their table was quickly taken. Several people joined already occupied tables, and the waitresses began to look harried and desperate.

“Doctor,” said Paxson, “Doctor Quillem must have spoken to you about his work, his schtick, I mean. You must have some idea of what he was working on?”

Spinrad studied his hands curved around his drink. Paxson waited patiently. Then Spinrad spoke hesitantly, not knowing quite where to begin. “Ben was a great kidder, Mr. Paxson. He would say the most outrageous things with a straight face. It was his particular sense of dry humor, you see. Also, I think it was his way of being a little secretive. If you asked him about his work— his schtick, as you call it— he would have this serious expression and then say something funny outrageous. He would crack me up every time. God, he was special.” Spinrad convulsively swallowed the last of his drink.

“You see, Mr. Paxson, some men need to display their work from conception to published paper. They need the encouragement, the pats on the back. Ben wasn’t like that. He liked to guard his work from the world, polishing it and refining it until he got all the warts off.”

“I tell you about his jokes, Mr. Paxson, because the few times Ben spoke to me about his work, it may have been more of his particular brand of humor.” Spinrad turned his empty glass around and around in his hand.

“However, there was something genuine in his enthusiasm, at first, and later the uneasiness….” Spinrad peered about for the waitress, but she was busy clearing a table of the lunch rubble from a first shift of lawyers as a second shift of three seated themselves.

“He told me he got his idea at a cocktail party. He was standing there, listening to the babble from about a dozen conversations, and apparently, he experienced that eerie phenomenon that occurs when all the pauses in the conversations, all the spaces between the words and sentences at once coincide, and there is an instant of silence, and as one, everybody holds their breath and listens, and time hangs like time itself holding its breath.”

Spinrad smiled. “My Rod Serling imitation.” Paxson smiled and waited for Spinrad to continue. “Well, Ben found it all pretty intriguing. ‘Real spooky’ is the phrase he used, as I recall. He decided to study the phenomenon from a mathematical angle.”

“I could tell he was having a lot of fun with it at first. He went to all the parties, and he recorded all the conversations. We all made a huge fuss over him; he was our answer to Andy Kaufman, I suppose. He ate it up, I can tell you that.” Spinrad laughed. “But then.. he stopped coming. He started being a little evasive— I mean more than was usual for him. Whenever anyone asked him how the party project was coming, that’s what we all called it; he would make one of his jokes. I took this to be a good sign because I figured his project was turning out to be less frivolous than everybody thought.”

“Then, for a time, I didn’t hear from him. None of his friends saw much of him at that point, except at odd times, at sporting events— fights, wrestling, ice hockey—that sort of thing. He would stand up in the crowd, holding a microphone aloft like the Statue of Liberty holding her torch. Then, for a time, he dropped out of sight. He took a short leave of absence from the Institute, but I’m sure you know all about that.” Paxson nodded.

Spinrad continued. “Well, at any rate, after about three weeks, I finally found him at home, and when I asked him what he had been up to, he told me he had spent the last few weeks attending political rallies. Your guy’s rallies. Which, I have to say, was strange, because, as you probably know full well, Ben was not a fan of the Mango Mussolini. No offense.”

Paxson shrugged. “Hey. Free country.”

“So you say. So, anyway, I even spotted him on T.V. at one of the rallies, standing there with his phone up in the air. Of course, all the other cult members were doing the same thing, so he didn’t stand out. It was perfect for his research.”

“I pressed him, and he told me he had discovered a voice.” Spinrad paused. He worried his drink glass between his palms as Paxson waited silently, attentive. Spinrad continued. “He had been playing with the crowd recordings, speeding them up, slowing them down— playing around with them—trying to decide on an angle of attack to start hooking the math on. He didn’t have anything hard yet, no numbers, so he spent a lot of time just noodling around.”

“It was when he slowed the recordings down, he said, slowed them tremendously, and he began to perceive different sounds, like waves crashing on a beach and icebergs grinding together. He played with the speed and put all sorts of filters on it. He was a bit of an audio buff, you know. Then, he said, he heard a voice.”

Paxson hunched forward. “I’m not sure I understand, Doctor,” he said, “You mean he isolated one of the voices in the crowd?”

“No, the way I understood it, he had synthesized a Voice, sort of a distillation of all the voices; the voice of the mob he called it.”

Paxson shook his head. “I still don’t get it. You mean he came up with the average voice sound from all the voices on the recording?”

“No. It wasn’t just a tone of voice or a particular quality of voice. This voice spoke to him.”

Paxson blinked and sat back. “I still don’t understand. This.., voice spoke. Yet it was not the voice of one of the people on the recording. A.., a distillation of voices, a synthesized voice? That spoke to him?”

Spinrad slugged down the last in his glass. “The Voice threatened him. It frightened him.”

“Threatened him about what?”

“Well, again, as I understood him, it didn’t threaten him in so many words. But what he heard made him consider dropping the whole thing. He was badly frightened. I believe he was being perfectly straight about that part, Mr. Paxson; he truly did seem frightened about something. But he did say at one point that the potential of the discovery was almost beyond imagining.

‘It could change everything.’ is the phrase he used, I believe.”

A scrum of business types squeeze past Paxson’s chair, jostling the big man. Paxson crossed his arms, head down. He glanced up at Spinrad with a frown.

“And you saw fit not to mention any of this to the investigators—?”

“Interrogators, you mean?”

“And Doctor Quillem.., did he say any more about this… voice?”

“Well, he spoke of crowds, of groups of people; how sometimes when individuals get together, well, he said sometimes they’re not individuals anymore-—not entirely. He said something about the whole of a mob being more than the sum of its parts. Or something less.” Spinrad held up his palm. “You have to understand, Mr. Paxton. The whole time he was telling me all this, he was joking around the edges of it. As I said, that was how he was; put him in front of a firing squad, and he’d make a joke.” Spinrad shrugged. “So how much he was pulling my leg, I couldn’t say, all that stuff about tribal rage—”

Paxson sat up straight. “Wait,” he interjected, “That phrase— what you just said, did Doctor Quillem use those particular words?”

“Tribal rage? Yes, I believe so. Why?”

“The title of the talk he was to give for that audience in Tennessee was, ‘Tribal Rage, the Ultimate Goosestep.”

Spinrad nodded. “Oh, that’s Ben, all right. He had a way with sophomoric titles.”

Paxson placed his hands flat on the table. “This is starting to add up to something now,” he said. “Now we know Doctor Quillem was interested in some crowd phenomenon, and we know it was a crowd, a group of people that killed him. Now we know he claimed to have distilled some essence or voice from all the voices he recorded from crowds and claimed the voice spoke. He may have made recordings of that voice, but we do know for sure that before he was killed, he played an audio clip.” Paxson rubbed his palms together hard. “There’s connections here, connections. The drug angle is still the strongest possibility, but… I can’t help thinking that the connection is the work itself.”

The two men studied at the phone beside Spinrad’s empty glass. Paxson started to reach for it. Spinrad picked it up.

“Yet,” Spinrad mused, “what if it were true? What if Ben did stumble on some incredible insight, some unimagined tool to help us understand human beings in groups? Do you know, Mr. Paxson, Ben said something I didn’t understand then. But now. Mr. Paxson, when Ben gave me this tape to hold, he told me to be careful. He said, ‘Be careful. Buchenwald is on this phone. My Lai and Nine-Eleven are in there.”

Spinrad turned the small black rectangle over in his hands.” What if it were true, Mr. Paxson? What if this could answer the questions that have plagued thinking men for centuries? Why Buchenwald? Why My Lai? Why the lynching and burnings, the mob, howling down through all of the centuries, down through all of Humanity’s history? Why are we forced to exist under a nuclear umbrella of fear—?”

“Yeah, peace, brother,” interjected Paxson, “save the whales.” He waved his hands. “No, hey, please forget I said that. I’m not making light of those things, believe me. It’s just that I think … we’re straying a little from the business at hand, which is to discover why a good man had to die in such a terrible way. And I’m convinced now that phone holds the key somehow.”

“But where does it go when I turn it over to you, Mr. Paxson? That’s what bothers me.”

Paxson looked puzzled. “Doctor Spinrad, Ben Quillem was your friend. You know how he was killed. That information could bust this investigation wide open. I think you would want to solve this thing more than anyone.”

Spinrad pulled the phone close. “I do want to solve this thing; of course I do. But I have to think this through.”

“You’ll get the phone back, I think I can promise you, Doctor.”

“I doubt that. Please don’t be offended, Mr. Paxson. It’s not that I don’t trust you. Well, I don’t. But, I don’t know what I’m turning over to you. Who knows what is recorded on this phone? It could be Ben singing in the shower. Or it could be something that could revolutionize our knowledge of Human relations.”

“Am I turning over something the Pentagon will use to add to its long list of contributions to the benefit of Humanity? Am I turning over a better nerve gas? A better mind control? Don’t you see? I can’t just wash my hands of it. I can’t pretend I don’t have a responsibility.”

“Please, Doctor, I need that phone. Think of Doctor Quillem.”

“I am thinking of Ben; that’s the whole point.”

Each man watched the other. Paxson’s hands moved uncertainly on the tabletop as though of their own volition; they might impulsively reach across the table and snatch the phone for their troubled master.

Three businessmen at a nearby table noisily stood to leave, squeezing by four middle-aged women shoppers who just arrived. A waitress scurried past.

Spinrad decisively took up the phone.

“What are you doing?” asked Paxson with some alarm. The smaller man didn’t answer. He thumbed the screen. “Listen, Doctor, I don’t think that’s a very smart idea. I think it should be examined by the proper people.”

“Yes?” muttered Spinrad. “And who are the proper people? Some defense contractors?” A rumbling hiss issued from the phone.

“Look, Doctor, I don’t think you should do that.” Paxson leaned forward. “That audio may already have caused six deaths. You’re playing with fire, Doctor; you’re being irresponsible.”

Spinrad didn’t answer. He leaned close to the phone. “Listen,” he said, raising a finger. He turned the volume up. The hiss deepened, becoming rhythmical and mechanical like the sound of a huge volcanic forge, its din muffled by a great distance.

“Doctor,” Paxson reached tentatively, then halted midway across the table. “I can’t force you to hand that phone over, but I have to tell you, if you don’t hand it over, there are others with the official capacity to compel you to hand it over. I think we both know that.”

“It always comes down to that, doesn’t it? You know, Mr. Paxson, whenever an individual finds himself searching for the right course of action concerning issues of conscience, he can always be sure of one thing: anything that any government or corporation asks him to do is sure to be against his own, and every other individuals’ best interest. I’m a scientist, Mr. Paxson, and above all else, knowledge belongs to all Humanity. The power brokers try to keep knowledge for themselves.

Always for the good of the people, you understand, but it’s never for the good of the people; it’s only for the good of their power. The only way to fight that is to get it all out in the open.”

“Please, Doctor,” Paxsons voice rose above the sound, “I can appreciate you have some strongly held beliefs, and I know to you I’m a big old conservative Neanderthal red state boob, but you’ve got to listen to me, you have to appreciate the danger!” Paxson reached across the table.

He grasped Spinrad’s wrist “Doctor! Turn it off!”

Spinrad looked at the big hand on his wrist with an expression bordering on triumph. He shouted to be heard over the dark, pulsing sound. “And it always comes down to the strong arm stuff, doesn’t it, Mr. Paxson? But it’s too late, Mr. Paxson.”

“It’s everyone’s common property in this room now. Those junior G Men won’t be able to pretend it doesn’t exist; it belongs to the people now!”

“Spinrad,” Paxson stood, his hand still on Spinrad’s wrist. “I’ve had about enough of your Goddamned childish woke drivel—”

The sound rose in pitch, becoming a hoarse, wordless howl of rage. The people at the other tables were standing, and Paxson was shouting, “Spinrad, you damn fool!” And his mouth was open, but the sound and his shouting was the sound of all the people at the other tables coming, and they were shouting—shrieking and the shrieking was the Voice and Paxson and all of the other people, and the shrieking voice said Spinrad you damn fool you radical libtard peacenik hippy commie you fascist you magamoron—

You—

Niggersocialistkroutpolockredneckfaggotjaplimeykikehonkeyragheadcapitalistspicchinkwop—RAT—SCUM—VIRUS—DIE—DIE—DIE—

Fred, the snapping turtle, turned ponderously in his small prison. Several times, his tank was thumped and jolted, and the water sloshed. Something was happening. He stretched his long, wrinkled neck toward the surface. He blinked and made a bubble. He waited.

In a short time, his patience was rewarded: many tasty morsels came his way.

Chapter 11

A Waste of some Fine Cigars

The guard’s rifle muzzle prods me forward through the final gate. The Fire pulses strangely tonight; deep purples threaded with silver.

Manny and Cookie work side by side, heads close. They glance up as I approach. Cookie moves off to another cart, but not before catching my eye. The look carries a warning. Not now.

Ottoman is marched up behind me, a guard’s rifle trained on his back. He takes his position at a cart. Something passes between him and the others—no words, just the set of his shoulders, the way his hands grip the cart. Manny’s movements falter. Cookie’s chin dips. A message received.

The Fire coruscates, casting vivid shadows. I watch the Firefeeders work. Every motion seems to carry meaning—a turned head, a shifted stance, the arc of a throw. They’re talking, I realize. Have been all along.

I’ve never even seen the other side of the Fire, I think suddenly. Never met the Firefeeders who work there. The thought unsettles me. How much don’t I know?

The truth spreads in silence: Waterpik dead. Snake gone.

Then Cookie changes her rhythm. Her throws create a spiral of emerald light on the Fire’s surface. Manny matches her timing. One by one, the others join in. The Fire responds, its colors shifting— gold threading through azure, crimson dancing with violet.

I struggle to understand their music, to join in. The swirling wave approaches, I throw a metal stepladder, and my timing is right. The Fire swells with light, painting impossible colors across the night sky. Each carefully timed offering builds the display higher and brighter.

“What are you doing?” The guards run forward, rifles going to shoulders. The guard captain’s voice cracks. “Stop that! Stop that now!”

The display peaks—a shower of silver stars falling through curtains of rainbow light. Then, we return to our normal steady non-rhythm as one. The Fire settles, though something in its heart still pulses with remembered glory.

I keep my head down, working my cart. But I’m changed. I understand now that I’m part of something larger than just feeding this strange Fire.

Cookie catches my eye, gives me the slightest nod. I’ve crossed some threshold. I am truly a Firefeeder now.

Manny works a cart full of the contents of a wealthy man’s den. Framed diplomas, silver trophies, and boxes of cigars go into the Fire. Manny regards a large silver revolver, turning it over in his hand. He turns and looks out over the ring of automatic weapons pointed at him.

In one fluid motion, Cookie is on him, snatching the revolver and pitching it in. She hisses with fury, “I should slap your dumbass bald head off your dumbass shoulders! Everybody! Get to work. Now!” The steady, expertly casual Firefeeding resumes.

Manny shakes his head mournfully. “Now that is a sure enough shame.” He addresses the ring of guards. “Now I imagine you young folks ain’t never had the pleasure of holding a genuine seven-shot Taggert pistol.” Manny gestures grandly. “And now… you never will. It’s all going away— Manny shrugs. “Everything and everybody.”

The young officer gestures and the guards lower their weapons and move back.

Manny resumes transferring the tokens of one man’s life into the all-consuming Fire, turning matter that once mattered to one man into a terrifying energy.

“I have a story,” Manny announces. “It ain’t like any Cookie’s boogeyman stories. Cause this one is true.”

Chapter 12

The Seven Shot Taggert

(The following is transcribed from a recording.)

Carl Silva. Carl Dollar Silva. Yeah. I knew him. But you knew that, right? This isn’t about my rakish good looks, is it? My sparkling repartee? Didn’t think so. After all these years.

Well, you caught me at a good time. I spent years saying I didn’t give a rat’s patootie what people thought of me, but it gets to a point—the other week, I turn on some true crime show, and there he is, Carl Silva. And, of course, I’m in there, but they make me out to be this Judas, some stool pigeon, and of course, they got it all wrong. I’m sick of it, real damn sick of it—no more. I’m gonna tell you the real story. So… You can go ahead and print whatever you damn please, but at least you’re gonna hear the truth. And that, my friend, is a rare thing these days.

Okay, then. To start with, let me tell you a little story. Cause, after all these years, now that I think back on it, I think it tells you all you need to know about Mr. Carl Dollar Silva.

So, picture this little boy, a skinny little Carl Silva, if you can imagine. It has come time, in young Carl’s life, as it must in a boy’s life, for Dear old Dad to tell him about the facts of life.

Now, to picture Daddy, let me mention an incident that the Defense brought out in the trial. It seems that one day, young Master Carl is playing with the dog of the house, wrassling and chasing and having a good ‘ol time. Carl goes to pull the pup out from under the bed, and the dog nips him. Daddy happens to be walking by, takes the dog out front into the family junkyard, puts him inside an old metal drum, and flattens the drum with the family D-4 Caterpillar bulldozer. That was Daddy.

So, anyway, like I say, the day comes when Daddy Silva decides it is time for his boy to learn what was what. Young Carl is summoned.

“Buncha screaming, murdering Apaches come busting in that door,” says Daddy Silva. “What are you gonna do?” Carl shrugs.

“They’re gonna skin you alive, boy. You gonna let them do that to you?”

“I’d fight ‘em.”

“With what? O-k. You got a knife—”

“Yah! Yah!” Carl windmills his skinny little arms.

“But they have knives, too. Lots of them!”

“I’d get a gun—a machine gun—”

“Nope. This is back in the day. They don’t have machine guns.”

“A Colt 45 automatic—!” Right here, Daddy swings a hard open palm, and when young Carl picks himself up, Daddy pulls him close.

“Now you listen to me, boy, and you listen well. Don’t you ever… And I mean never… Put your trust in an Automatic. You depend on a revolver. A revolver won’t let you down. Understand? Good.”

Daddy pulls a big old revolver off the table. “Know what this is?” He hands it to Carl, and Carl can barely hold it up with both hands. “That, boy, is a Taggert Revolver. Pull the hammer back. Pull the trigger. Click. See? Nothing to it.” Carl has to hold it close to his bony little chest to manipulate it. “Look out, boy! Here they come!”

“Bam! Bam!” Yells Carl. “Bam—BAM!”

“Ain’t you glad you did a little planning? Ain’t you glad you brought a revolver to a knife fight? O-k, how many shots did you fire? How many them murdering devils you wipe out?”

“Um—?”

“Four! Four shots! Pay attention. Here they come again!”

“BAM! BAM! BAM—!”

“SIX SHOTS! You get six shots, boy! What’s your plan?”

“Um… I’ll put more bullets in—”

“NO TIME! They’re coming in the door! WHAT’S YOUR PLAN?!” Carl shrugs and then, when he stops rolling, picks himself up off the floor again. Daddy pulls him close so Carl can get the whole coffee, beer, cigarette, and shaving cream aroma experience. “They are going,” says Daddy, “to skin you. They are going to peel off your skin, and fry it, and make you eat it. WHAT’S YOUR PLAN?”

Then Carl’s daddy holds up that ugly hunk of bastard steel plumbing, points it at the ceiling, and turns the butt of the pistol toward the boy. “See that little hole, boy? Down there on the bottom? Know what a derringer is?”

“Nope.”

“A derringer, boy, is a little gun. This here Taggart pistol has a secret. It has a seventh shot. Right here in the grip. Now. I ask you. What is your plan?”

“Shoot the bad guys—?”

Carl’s daddy puts the cold butt of the pistol against Carl’s head, hard against his temple, hard enough to make a little round circle in his flesh. “This is your plan. Don’t you ever forget. Always have a plan, a way out. Just like this old Taggart, always have a seventh shot.”

Carl was, oh, nine years old, I believe, when he received this bit of wisdom.

Yeah. I’m the one who testified against him. I am the main reason that the jury convicted him and sent him to death row. I am the one man most responsible for Carl Silva being strapped onto a gurney in a Texas execution chamber. I take full… Credit. Yeah. So, please turn on your little… digital… doohicky there, and let’s get started. Let me tell you what really happened. So. Set the Wayback Machine to 1986.

I first met Carl in a Burger King, of all places. Business. I was an ambitious young guy working my way up in an organization. Not the organization, if you must know. An organization. There’s a lot that don’t get the press, you know. So, I do what I’m told, I go, and I sit down across from this guy in a Burger King. I’m on my guard. He had a reputation. He’s not big, but he’s got this way. Makes your antennas go up. Like he knows a secret about you that you don’t even know. But he welcomes me with a friendly smile.

“Johnny! Glad you could make it. Here. Dig in.” I notice he’s glancing out at the parking lot as he pushes the stuff across the Formica. Another guest yet to arrive.

“You like the Whopper? I love ‘em. Ya gotta fix ‘em up a little.” He delicately removes the pickle slice. I unwrap mine. I’m a little less than enthusiastic.

I can guess what Carl gets paid for one of these jobs; I expected something a little fancier than Burger King.

He pulls out this Sucrets tin. “I picked this up in the Nam. S’where I learned my trade, Johnny. Military offers a lot of opportunity to a young guy who’s willing to learn. Most guys blow it, though. Not me.” He selects from a cache of small tinfoil pouches. “You be on an ambush, and all you had to look forward to was lunch or dinner, and you open that ration can, whew!”

He reaches over and opens my Whopper. “Pardon my fingers. Trust me. Oyster sauce. Makes anything taste better.” He smiles that big sunny smile of his. Just happy with life. “I know all the tricks, Johnny.” He glances out the window again. Outside, a brand new 86 Chevy Caprice noses the curb. “Okay,” says Carl Silva.

A short, red-faced, fat man heaves out of the Caprice. He peers in the window. He comes straight to the table. He looks frightened but determined. He puts a smile on his face.

“Hiya Carl. Howzit going?”

“Just peaches, Manny.” Carl’s smile seems genuine. “Yourself?” Carl gestures at my side of the booth. I slide over. Manny squeezes his gut in, crowding me.

“Look. Carl. I’m anxious to clear this thing up.” Carl waves his words away.

“Hey, later. Eat up. I wantcha try this stuff—”

“Look, Carl. I feel that this is all a misunderstanding, and it’s like, I feel that I’m the injured party here, yet I’m the one’s under the microscope, ya know?”

“Oh?” Carl frowns. He carefully sets his Whopper down on the wrapper. Carl pulls a folded sheet from his breast pocket. He clears a spot to smooth the paper out. Manny swivels to eyeball me.

“Johnny’s here as an observer, Manny. Lotta people interested in this dispute—” Manny starts to yammer. Carl holds up his palm. “—misunderstanding. Right, Johnny? Like a notary.” I nod. Manny nods. “Okay, then.” Carl clears his throat.

“Now, Manny, since September of last year, Mr. Hadoud delivered into your possession the following items: one BMW 325e, 1985, three Datsun 300ZX, right off the boat—”

“Look, Carl, I know the list.” Manny points to his palm like he has his own list printed there. “I keep records too, ya know. Scrupulous records. Every item chopped, every part. Where it went, each part. I’m not trying to hide anything. I run an honest chop.”

Carl Silva squints at the paper. “Manny, since September first, Mr. Hadoud delivered into your custody thirty-six vehicles, including eleven trucks and an earth mover.”

“Since September first, Mr. Hadoud received from you payment totaling twenty-two thousand, seven hundred, and seventy-two dollars. Manny, that’s not even an interest payment. Does it say in your scrupulous records where the rest of the money is?”

The fat man sits back, his thick hands crawling onto the table. “Look, Carl, Joe Hadoud and I have an agreement. We sat down, like here, and I explained my cash flow situation, and he told me, “Okay, Manny. Get on your feet. I trust you, Manny. We shook on it. So how come he’s breathing all down my back all the sudden?”

“You don’t have the money, do you, Manny?” Carl looked mildly sad.

“C’mon, Carl, I just need a little more time. Joe’s gotta realize he’s got nothing to gain hounding me outta business and everything to gain by just giving me a little more time, a little breathing room. I’ll make good, I swear—”

“Not for me to decide, Manny. Believe me, I’m an honest broker here, Manny. An arbitrator, in this thing.

Yeah. That’s when I think to myself, yeah, but I always thought that an arbitrator is the one who decides. I keep my mouth shut. Carl stands up.

“Look, Manny, my job is to see that everybody gets dealt with fairly. I see your side, Manny, but I see Mr. Hadoud’s side too, ya know?”

The fat man shoves himself out of the booth. “I just want what’s fair, that’s all.” Carl nods.

“That’s a real positive attitude, Manny. I’ll do my best. Let’s go.” Manny drives the Caprice. Carl gives directions. I sit in the back.

We pull into an old, empty carpet mill. Hadoud owned the building. Carl leads us to the second floor.

“Make yourself at home, Manny. I’ll go call Mr. Hadoud. Be right back.”

Manny doesn’t look at me. He wanders a little, nudging rusted machine parts with his foot. He gives a start when Carl Silva returns; practically runs over to him.

Carl shakes his head. “Sorry, Manny. Mr. Hadoud gives his regrets. He won’t be able to make it this time.”

“Oh,” says Manny.

“Johnny.” Carl points. “Go look out the window.”

All clear, I say. Go look out the window is a very familiar job for me. The feeling in my stomach is very familiar, too; I’m not sure what is going to happen now, but I’m sure it isn’t going to be pleasant.

The fat man quivers like jello. “C’mon now, Carl. You ain’t gonna do something to me, are you? I swear ta God, Carl, it’s not necessary—”

“Fraid so, Manny.” A straight razor glints as Carl flips it open. “I need you to move over there now, Manny.”

“Aw, c’mon, Carl. This is business. You don’t hurt people over business. We had an agreement, I swear to God—”

Suddenly it’s like Carl Silva is angry; for the first time, I see him look pissed. “Jesus Christ, Manny! You think this is only about the money? You pulled so much shit.”

“What?! What shit? I swear ta God, Carl, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Carl, I swear ta God. We had a deal. It’s not fair, Carl. You said you’d be fair. This ain’t fair, I swear to God.”

Carl sighs. “Yeah, you’re probably right, Manny. It ain’t fair.” He shrugs. “But then, what is?” He pulls a small cassette recorder from his jacket. “Mr. Hadoud is leaving the details to me, but he did request I play a particular song for you. Ready?” Carl presses a button, and then music fills the dusty space.

It’s one of my favorite songs; I recognize it from the very first chord. It’s like sunlight pouring across the dank brick and rust. The Beachboys, California Girls— East coast girls are hip, I really dig the styles they wear—

So, I’m standing by the window, tapping on the paint scaled frame in time to the music.

“Say, Manny.” Carl looks thoughtful like he’s trying to remember something. You got a daughter, right? Is that right?”

Manny is staring at Carl now, his eyes and mouth forming soft ohs. Where’s she live, Manny? Could it be California? Is she a California girl? San Francisco, California?”

The fat man sags like he’s melting. “Oh…” He breathes. “Oh… Oh, you dirty filth. Oh… Oh.” The fat man’s voice is shaking with rage as much as fear. Guy had some backbone. “You leave my daughter out of this!”

“I’d love to Manny. Ain’t up to me. I don’t do work out there. Why should she hang for your shit? But, like I say, ain’t up to me.” Carl glances over at me. I look out the window. There are two police cruisers parked side to side, facing so the drivers’ windows are adjacent. It looks like it might be a long conversation. I shake my head no. Carl comes over. He glances out through the dirty glass.

Manny figures out we have guests. He starts backing away.

“Thinking of leaving us, Manny? Getcha before you go three steps.”

“I’ll scream my guts out.”

“Don’t do that, Manny.”

“You might get to me, Carl, but I’m gonna make a big noise.”

Carl steps back. He relaxes his shoulders; his arms hang loose. He shrugs and pockets the razor. “Relax, Manny. Game’s over. We were supposed to wake you up. Mr. Hadoud knows he ain’t gonna get any money from a dead man.”

Carl Silva smiles that sunny smile. “You awake now, Manny?”

Manny stops backing away. The look of relief on his face tells me he half believed this all along. “You’re scum, Carl. Men do business. Men do business with other men; they don’t bring a man’s family into it. That was filthy.” Manny is spitting the words.

Carl shrugged. “You got the wrong people mad at you, Manny. That ain’t smart business in anybody’s book. This could have been real. Next time… Well, what do you think? No hard feelings, right?” Carl holds his hand out like he’s going to shake on it. Seeing how relaxed Carl is, I leave the window. I figure the show is over. But Manny isn’t taking any chances.

“You stop right there, Carl. Don’t come near me.”

“Sure.” Carl raises his hands. “Okay, Manny. I ain’t coming near ya.” Carl slouches about eight feet from the fat man. “I hope you learn from this. A lotta guys get presented with golden opportunities, but they refuse to take advantage; they refuse to learn. I hope you’re not one of those kinda guys, Manny.” Carl takes out a pack of gum, unwraps himself a stick, chewing, relaxed now. He tosses a stick to the fat man like a peace offering.

Manny unwraps the gum without looking at it. “Well, it’s not the way to do business.” He crams the gum in. I can see that he’s so relieved he can hardly stand. Even so, I can see that he figures he has a right to be pissed at us. He wags his finger at us. “It’s a shitty way to do business. No reflection on Joe Hadoud. It’s the people working for him. That’s all.”

“Okay, Manny. Think about what I told ya. You go ahead we’ll walk.” The fat man throws us one last righteous glare. He walks with rubber legs to the exit.

So now, I discover my legs are overcooked linguine. “Damn, Carl. You want to scare a guy; you don’t mess around. You had me totally convinced you were gonna off ‘em.”

“I did off ‘em.” He holds the gum pack out. “Freshen your breath?” I just stare at him. I think it’s a joke that’s going over my head or something. “Funny,” he says, “must be the adrenaline or the fear or something. Gives you a bad taste in the mouth.” He’s got that look in his eyes now; he knows a secret joke. “You know, Johnny, they always say there’s six ways to skin a cat. I make a point of always having a seventh way tucked away. I picked up a little advanced pharmacology along the way. Like I say, other guys waste the opportunities that come their way. I never did. Army gave me a chance to learn a thing or three; I jumped at the chance.”

Carl grins that sunny grin of his. “Still don’t get it, huh?” He picks up the cassette player, watching my face the whole time. “The gum, Johnny.” I freeze in mid-chew. I think Carl’s going to bust something internal from laughing. He unwraps the last stick in the pack, rolls it up, and pops it into his yap.

“You should see your face, Johnny. Only one live round in the pack, and Manny got it. Five or ten minutes, Manny Homez will be deader than a brick. It’ll look like a heart attack. Hopefully, he’ll wreck up his car and mess himself up. Make Mr. Hadoud happy.” Carl shrugs. “Que sera sera. What will be, will be.”

The cop conference outside has ended, so we walk. A few blocks, we hole up in an Italian place, have lunch, a few beers. We watch a game I got some money on, but I can’t concentrate. I’m thinking about the fat man. I have enough beers in me to lose track of time, but after a few trips to the phone in the back, Carl plops himself into the booth in a way that makes me think something has been settled. He gives me a thumbs up.

“Deader than shit. Pulled over and went quietly. Oh well. Mr. Hadoud’ll be glad to get that Caprice.” Then, for the tenth time at least, he shakes his head, wipes his eyes. “Ah, Johnny, you shoulda seen your face. I’ll treasure that forever.”

“Hey, Carl,” I lean close. “I been wondering about that daughter. Manny’s daughter. They wouldn’t… You know—?” I see right off it’s the wrong thing to say for some reason.

“That’s West Coast. I don’t mess with that. Maybe she shoulda picked a better father.”

I’ve ruined the mood for sure. We order another beer each, but Carl’s drinking his like I’m not there now. Talk about moody. I start feeling jumpy sitting there with him. We wrap it up.

We split at the door, each turning to make our way into the evening, and he turns back to me. “Listen, Johnny. Tell ‘em I didn’t get to do the fancy stuff… I got’er done. Tell ‘em… Ah, whatever. Tell them whatever you want. See ya, Johnny.” I figure that’s it. He works for different people than me. I figure it’s the last time I’ll see Carl Silva.

I watch him walk away. What a character, I think.

Turns out I’m wrong. Three years later, I run into him. It’s like a coincidence. I’m visiting in the hospital my cousin Sylvester, who busted himself up riding a TV antenna off his roof. On the way to Sylvester’s room, I see this guy leaning on a cane going down a corridor. He’s hobbling away, so I can’t be sure, but the back looks familiar.

I go into Sylvester’s room and laugh at my half-wit cousin for a while, but his sister isn’t there, which is why I’m actually there in the first place, so I don’t hang around. On a whim, I decide to see if I can spot that guy from the corridor, see if I know him. I go down the line and look in each room.

In each room, it’s the same scene; it’s dark, and there’s some bundle of bones on the bed bathed in that sick blue light from a TV like they’re soaking up more cancer. Now and then, they turn and stare at me, their eyes glinting in the dark.

Then I come to a room with the TV off. The room is yellow with light from a small bedside lamp with a bright flowered lampshade. Sure enough, Carl Silva is on the bed. His face is thinner, but his grin is the same.

“Hot damn! Johnny, right? What brings you to death row?” His grin fades. “Someone send you—?”

“Ah, Carl. Nah—nothing like that. I was just visiting my cousin. I thought I saw you in the hallway, and sure enough—”

“Sure enough.” Carl lifts his hands. “Here I am. C’mon in, Johnny.”

“So, whatcha do? Bust something?” I’m looking at the cane propped against the chair.

“No, I wish. I got some kinda bone cancer. Compliments, Agent Orange. Plus some other stuff. When it rains, it shit-storms. You know the saying, right, Johnny?”

“Oh. Wow, man…” What can I say? Carl looks away. He fingers the shade on the table lamp.

“How you like my lamp. My lady Gina gave it to me. Cheers the place up, don’tcha think? You just missed her.” Carl sighs. “Ah, Johnny, I tell ya what. She’s trying so hard. She’s doing her best, but she’s like this lamp. She’s all bright and cheerful, and that’s the way she thinks life is. It’s the way it should be for her; she deserves things to be that way. Look at what she’s got.” Carl pulls the covers up. “We had another fight. I think… I think we both got it figured out, so it’s all good. She deserves better. She needs to move on. We both know it, so….”

I know I have this goofy pale smile on my face, but I can’t help it. “Hey, Carl, they’ll clear this thing up. These things take time, sometimes. They’re coming up with new cures for everything all the time.”

“Yeah, Johnny, well, they better hurry. Pain’s getting bad. They’re talking about getting me in touch with the hospice people—”

I guess he figures out I don’t know what he’s talking about. He gets that look in his eye like he’s got his own private joke. “Hospice. They’re people who advise you on long-term investments.” He grins that sunny grin and waves his hand, like, hey man, don’t worry about it.

“Yeah. But, anyway, Johnny, I always like to have a plan. And the other day, I thought of something. And you know what, Johnny? The more I think about it, the more I like it.” His grin is turned up to full voltage. “Ah, Johnny, give me your phone number. I’m real glad you stopped in.”

The last thing I want to do in the world is give Carl Silva my number, but what can I do? What choice do I have? He leans over, wincing from the pain, I guess. He slaps me on the knee.

“Hey, remember that job we did together? I gave you that gum? Ah… You should have seen your face. Priceless.”

A chime sounds and a voice says that visiting hours are over, and I’m thinking, Oh, Thank You, God, and I get my skinny Irish ass out of there.

So, it’s about seven-eight months later, my phone rings, and it’s Carl Silva. Ah, jeez, I think. I’d been feeling a little guilty for a while. I hadn’t called him or visited or anything, and then I just sort of forgot about him. Hell, I only met the guy twice; it’s not like he’s family. Here he is, on the phone.

“So, hey, Johnny! It’s me, Carl. How ya been, man?

“Um, hey, Carl… so… How are you doing?” I check out the clock radio on the bed stand. Ten-oh-two, a bright Saturday morning.

“Listen, did I wake you? Listen. Johnny. You gotta come over my place right now.”

From the sound of his voice, I don’t like it right off. Some kind of trouble, maybe a job gone bad, something I don’t want to get involved with. “Yeah… O-k, Carl…” I’m desperately trying to think of a way out. He tells me the address. It’s not far. Unfortunately.

“You gotta come, Johnny. It’s real important. You gotta be here before eleven. Go around the side of the house, the side with the driveway. There’ll be a phone set up outside the window. I’m depending on you, Johnny.” Carl sort of chuckles. “Ya know what? I can’t wait to see the look on your face.”

The more I think about it, the less I like it. But I know one thing for sure; the last guy in the world I want pissed off at me is Carl Silva.

“On my way, Carl.”

I pull up in front of a small green bungalow. It is about eleven fourteen. Running a little late. I go to the side of the house. There are two windows. Below one, a small shelf is attached to the siding, and a telephone sits on the shelf. I go to the window. I look in the window. I see Carl Silva. I pick up the receiver.

“Hey, Johnny. What do you think of my little invention?”

His voice comes out a small speaker mounted by the window. He laughs. “Ah, I knew it! You should see your face, Johnny!”

I stare in through the squeaky-clean glass. Carl is laying spread eagle, face up on a sheet of plywood built into a framework made of two by fours. His wrists and ankles seem to be held tight by wide leather straps, and his head is braced into a cradle by a leather strap across his forehead. There is a tilted mirror above his face to allow him to see whoever came to the window, and beside the mirror, built into the framework, is a rifle. It is aimed directly at Carl’s forehead. Painted on the strap across Carl’s forehead is a bright red bullseye. I don’t know whether to shit or go blind. I just stand there.

Carl laughs into the small mike mounted near his mouth. “Speechless, huh?”

“Jesus, Carl.” I don’t get the joke, but I have to admit it was impressive. I figure Carl Silva must really have a screw loose to pull a stunt like this. Who knows, I think, that rifle might even be loaded. “Carl, you’re gonna get yourself killed pullin’ this shit.”

“Kind of the whole idea, Johnny. What time you got?”

“Quarter-something after eleven, Carl.” Carl’s eyes roll up at two clocks mounted above the mirror.

“You’re four minutes slow, Johnny. It’s eleven nineteen. This thing’s timed to go at exactly noon.”

“I’m coming in there, Carl.” I go to put the phone down.

“NO—NO!” I put the phone back to my ear. “Don’t do that, Johnny. Listen, you can’t come in. I rigged the door so that if anybody opens it, the gun goes off. Same with the windows.”

“I’ll get somebody… We’ll come through the wall—”

“No good, Johnny. I got a sonar burglar alarm that detects movement in here. S’only forty-five bucks, not bad. Would you believe I sent in the ten-dollar rebate slip?”

“Carl,” I check my watch. Eleven-twenty-four. “I’m gonna cut off the electricity. Where’s the box?”

“Won’t work, Johnny. It’s all battery-powered. Oh, and I forgot to tell you, another alarm system detects the sound of breaking glass—high-frequency sounds or something, I don’t remember. I had that one put in, too. And I got two clocks hooked up in case one fails.”

I feel panic like little mice running around in my gut.

“Carl… Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Cause… Cause I want it to be my plan. How I go, and when, my plan. A few weeks back, I got a call from Bishop, and he’s got a job for me.”

“Doesn’t even know I can’t even get around with a walker now. Word gets around, and next thing I know, I find out Hadoud got a bid out on me. I know stuff, sensitive stuff, o-k goes without saying. But… Still. You’d think… A little loyalty. A little gratitude. Okay, I appreciate certain business considerations.”

“So. I think, okay. Go out the way I choose. Go out a way so everybody will know I decided the time. And I decided the place. And not in some snively little hide away from them in a room and eat a gun barrel way. A special way. A way I won’t be forgotten. Got a video set up to catch it all. Be in the news. I’ll be famous. You too, Johnny. If you want. Could be a real opportunity. Hope you don’t waste it. Some guys…” Carl looks like he’s thinking. “Hey. Hey, Johnny. I made a big mistake—”

“Yeah! Yeah, Carl!” Damn, I think he’s come to his senses! Now he’ll tell me how to turn this thing off!” I feel like cheering.

“I screwed up, Johnny. I got a gas bomb underneath, like a big Molotov cocktail, set to go off after I go. Be like a Viking funeral. Trouble is, I got some letters, some money for Gina in here on a dresser.” Silva groans.

“Shit! How could I be so stupid? Listen, Johnny, I know it’s a lot to ask, but when the rifle goes off, you gotta bust in here and get those letters. The gas won’t go off for a little while; I wanted to make sure I was gone before I got burned up. I seen enough of that in the Nam. Promise me. You gotta save those letters.” Carl’s body jerked. I saw the board over his chest move.

“Don’t move!” I yelled it. “Carl, don’t move!” I heard him sob.

“She’s not gonna understand this. Oh, I can just hear her. She’s not gonna understand this at all.”

“Carl, listen, think. There’s gotta be a way. Please—”

“No. It’s settled, Johnny. The show must go on.” He sounded resigned. I look at my watch. Eleven thirty. I had to get help. The phone on the little shelf had no dial.

“Be right back, Carl.” I sprint to the front of the house. Okay. A gas station down the street.

There is a phone booth. 1986, the trick wasn’t finding a phone booth so much as finding one that worked. I get lucky. I call the cops. I don’t go into a lot of detail; I say a guy is getting ready to blow his brains out, and we might need the fire department cause he was trapped. I didn’t say how. I figure they’d have to see it with their own eyes to believe it.

The squad car arrives at eleven thirty-six, and it is a Sergeant, another stroke of luck because I can explain the situation to someone with enough authority to keep the other guys from kicking the doors in. I run to the car as he pulls up. I blather out an explanation. He doesn’t bat an eye. He tucks a nightstick into a holder on his belt.

He’s a short beefy guy, holds his thick forearms out away from his sides as he walks. I lead him around to the window. He looks in. After a minute, he shakes his head.

“Godamn. Don’t that take the cake. You a friend of his? He serious about this?” The way he’s standing there scratching his head is driving me nuts.

There’s a lot of clumping noise from the front of the house. Two cops are on the front porch. The Sergeant jogs around to the front, gets the two jamochs away from the house, and tells ‘em to keep everybody back. I hear him shout to someone to call District Command and to get an Inspector. I feel a flood of relief. Say what you want about the cops around here; they know how to handle a situation.

“Hey, Carl,” I say into the phone. “I got the cops and the Fire Department. We’re gonna getcha outta there.”

“Good luck with that.” Carl smiles. I think he would’ve shaken his head if he could.

The Sergeant comes back. “He okay?” I nod. “Good. Stay on the phone. Keep ‘em calm.” The Sergeant peers through the window.

“What’re ya gonna do, Sergeant?”

“Beats hell outta me, buddy.”

Fire Department arrives with sirens wailing, and then, the whole world showed up, milling around in some uniform or another. I look in at Carl Silva.

He’s still laying there with a rifle pointed at his forehead, and so far, no one looks to be doing a whole lot of anything about it. I check my watch. Eleven forty.

The Sergeant motions for one of the cops. “Maypole show up yet?” Cop shrugs, nope. A Fire Lieutenant comes over, and I tell him about the gas bomb. He swears and tears off, and then they’re laying hose to the front of the house.

Sergeant takes the phone from me. “Carl? Can you hear me? I’m Sergeant Hecht.”

“Yeah, Sergeant. I hear ya. Pleased to meet you. It’s a hecht of an honor. Bet you hear that all the time.”

“Say, Carl, what say we just call this whole thing off now. Call it a day?”

“Can’t do it, Sergeant. Even If I wanted to. Sorry.”

“You build this thing?”

“Yeah…, well, I designed it.” He sounded proud.

“Tell me how it works, Carl. What happens when the clock hits twelve?”

“There’s a contact, and the juice from two car batteries goes around and around, but mainly to a solenoid attached to the trigger. There’s a rotating cam that breaks the contact, so the trigger keeps getting pulled until there ain’t any hollow-pointed little beauties left.”

“Hey, Sarge,” a fireman is rubbernecking behind us. Why doncha just shoot out that solenoid?”

The Sergeant turns and pitches a look that he has perfected over the years that says BE ELSEWHERE, and it works. The gaggle of firemen behind us duck their heads and scatter. “Brilliant,” he mutters. “Listen,” he says to me. “What time do you got?”

I look at my watch. “Eleven forty-nine.” Wait a minute, Carl said I was four minutes slow. Or did Carl say I was four minutes fast—?

The Sergeant looks at his watch. “Hey, Carl? What time you got in there?”

“Seven minutes to go, Sergeant.”

The Sergeant stares in the window. He snags a cop going by and hands him a set of keys. “Run to my car and get a rifle case outta my trunk.”

The cop dodges around a foam truck pulled onto the front crabgrass. Firemen roll out a fat hose and stand behind us. Cop comes loping back with the gun case. The Sergeant works the snaps and pulls out a fancy Deer rig. He fishes in the case, spills open a box of shells, selects two. He feeds them into the rifle. His hands are shaking.

“Just got it blued. I’m goin to the front for havin’ it in my car, that’s for sure.” Eleven-fifty-eight. “Carl, this is Sergeant Hecht. Listen. Close your eyes. Don’t move.”

“O-k. I promise you. I’m not going anywhere, Sergeant Hecht.”

“Move over here,” he says to me. “I’m gonna shoot out that solenoid.” He stands me in front of the window facing away from the house. “Hope ya don’t mind; those guys all got families; they need their jobs.” He steadies the fore-stock on my shoulder. “Don’t breathe.” I hold my breath. He sights. I feel like I’m going to start to shake with the effort not to move. The Sergeant looks back. “Maypole here yet?” No. No maypole. “You guys ready?” he asks the Fire Lieutenant. Yeah. O-k. Eleven-fifty-nine.

Okay. Sergeant Hecht sights again. It gets real quiet. I can hear my heart pound in my ears. The Sergeant says something to himself. They’re gonna roast my nuts for this. He squeezes.

There is an explosion beside my head; everybody is screaming and shoving. I turn, and the Sergeant is busting out the window like a crazy man, and I think: Carl. I gotta get in that window. The Sergeant’s trying but still has that deer rifle in his hands. I put my foot on the phone shelf. Firemen are grabbing at me to pull me back, but the scrum only pushes me in. Glass slashes my arms, but I’m through. I hit the floor on my elbows and knees.

Firefighters are smashing through the door. They have this fat hose pushed through a hole, and they’re pumping foam in. The place is filling up with the stuff; big loony gobs of it waft into the air.

I get to the framework, and Carl’s laying there screaming at the top of his lungs. There are no holes in his forehead.

“PULL THE GREEN WIRES PULL THE GREEN WIRES—” I can’t figure out what he’s yelling about, green wires, green wires—he can’t point, but then the firemen have his arms loose, and he pointing to his right ankle—PULL THE GREEN WIRES—I can’t see any wires green or otherwise, there’s foam all over everything. I scrape at his ankle.

A fireman gets me in a choke-hold now and is trying to drag me out. I see green. I pull ‘em. Fireman’s so crazy to save me he bashes me on the side of the head and drags me through the door. I hear him cursing through the clear face plate of his Scott Pack. Outside, discreetly, I try to walk away, but they are having none of that. They make me lay on a stretcher, and they drive me to an emergency ward. I glance at my watch. Nine minutes past twelve. Time flies when you’re having fun.

At the hospital, I get a load of stitches in both arms and one knee. My ear hurts from when the Fireman slugged me, but I let it go. A little guy with bad breath comes and takes a statement. My cousin Sylvester comes and gets me, so they cut me loose. It is four weeks before I see Carl Silva again. Carl makes the news, of course, all the papers and the evening news. Suicide Machine! One tabloid calls him the Ron Poppeil of Death. All kinds of people try to contact me, but I go underground; I mean, literally, I hide out in Sylvester’s basement. Being in the line of work I’m in, I’ve been there before—no big deal. I can’t help trying to get through to Carl, though, they got him under observation in the hospital. I kept trying. That is until I see the tabloid headline, Death Inventor Mob Hit Man? I stop trying to get in touch. I decide to take a vacation. I’m half packed when the cops show up.

Remember, this is the Eighties. Capital punishment was back in fashion, WOO-HOO, now that the country was into the second term of becoming a Shining City On A Hill. The state was warming up a gurney in the death chamber, and Carl was doing everything in his power to help them. He was as open and forthcoming as he could be. He confessed to everything he had ever done since he hooked baseball cards from the corner grocery store.

With one very big exception, the murder of one Manny Homez. He insisted that I pulled that one. I couldn’t figure it. He confessed to eight other hits. Even so, I continued to deny I saw Carl do it. It really pissed them off. I stuck to my story. Me and Carl were at a certain taproom drinking beer, watching a game, and we never saw any Manny Homez.

I name the taproom, oh wait, it was a restaurant. And I couldn’t remember what game was on. Hey, I insisted; I drank a lot of beer. Then, and since. But I sure as hell remember Carl being there—all day. I didn’t know why I insisted on trying to cover for him, but maybe after what I went through to save him from himself, damned if I’m going to help the state do him in.

So they go to work on me, all the usual stuff. One guy’s my best buddy ever. Another Detective’s gonna kick my ass all over the room, the usual. They have some stuff, though, no doubt. I’m getting a little worried.

“Okay, Johnny. Here’s the deal. We dug up Homez. We got tissue samples.” I shrug. “Hey, Johnny, did you know Manny belonged to them—” Detective consults a clipboard. “Apostles True Church of the Rock? He wasn’t embalmed, so the toxicology people had a field day.” Other cop leans in. “We even got the gum Manny swallowed.”

“Whoof,” says the first guy, “Wouldn’t want that job.” He makes a face. “Diggin around in old dead bodies like that?” I give’m a yawn. So, on they go, blahdy blah blah blah.

Finally, my lawyer, Hingle shows up, chases them out.

“You being a good boy, Johnny?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hah! Exactly! You don’t know nuthin. Good boy.” He snaps open his case. “Okay, we’ve got a lot of work to do.” Hingle spreads a sheaf of papers, but it feels like he’s just putting on a show for my benefit. “They have some things to work with; I’ll give them that. They got toxicology, a lot of circumstantial stuff, associations—” He waves his hands. “—oh, and the money deposited in your bank account. That’s awkward, of course.”

“Yeah, wow. Two-hundred fifty bucks—”

“Almost thirty-five thousand, Johnny.”

Wha? This is when I feel the whole thing fall away. I suddenly know the ground isn’t solid. The cops want to get me, sure, but the thing with Carl, I figured it’s something cooked up with Hadoud and those guys, and all I had to do is play along until Hingle came and straightened it all out. But now… Now I’m scared.

Hingle puts the papers back in the case. He closes the snaps, runs his hands around the case, rests them on top. “A lot of balls in play, Johnny, a lot of balls in the air. You see a break on the billiards table, the balls going every which way? There are powerful interests in play here. You are a little man, Johnny—” Hingle waves his hands; he can see I’m about to blow. “—as am I, Johnny, as am I. In the scheme of things. So, the question is, how does someone,” Hingle gestures, “such as yourself, avoid being trod underfoot.”

Hingle sits back and folds his hands across his plush belly. “As your Council, and I hope you would think of me this way, your friend, I am delighted to report to you that the solution to this… unpleasant situation in which we find ourselves meshed is exceedingly simple, Johnny. Just give them all what they want—”

Hingle’s chair isn’t bolted down like mine is. So he goes over backward onto his fat ass when I lunge over the table. The turnkey has me in a choke hold, and then the two Detectives are using me to soften up the shined toe boxes of their brown brogans, with special attention to the kidney regions of my body.

Hingle gets it all straightened out, me back in the chair, and the Detectives out of the room. He repeats the phrase, Everything is all right, everything is completely all right, like an incantation until the turnkey pulls the door shut from the outside. We catch our breath. I stare at Hingle.

“Do you know what I believe, Johnny? I believe that there is no such thing as evil in this world. I believe that there is only misunderstanding.” He sighs. “They don’t want you, Johnny. As I pointed out to you, you are small. They are big. They want someone equally big to headline this production. So, a District Attorney may become Governor, and a Mayor may become a Senator. And certain businessmen may remain profitably anonymous.”

“THEY DON’T WANT ME—?”

“Lower your voice. Now.”

“THEY… They’re saying that they’re going for murder one—”

“They want Carl, Johnny. Not you. You’re a nobody. Again. No offense. Carl’s famous. He’s a somebody now. Trouble is, all his confessions probably add up to multiple life with no parole; there are no witnesses. He was too good. He can confess all day; he’ll just end up in a seven by ten, and where’s the production value in that?”

“So you are telling me to drop the dime on Carl? That’s your brilliant plan to get me out of this? C’mon, get real. You know those people, my life won’t be worth a used rubber out on the street.”

Hingle stands his case up by the handle on the table. He stands there like he’s trying to decide something. “DA and I were hoping it wouldn’t come to this. If word were to get out about the two of you meeting, there would be the very hell to pay. I see, however, that you need some further persuasion. Keep an open mind, Johnny.” Hingle bangs on the door. He turns and winks at me. “Work with the world, Johnny, and the world will work with you.”

I am left sitting alone in that room. That’s it? That’s it? I start to wonder if somebody slipped me some LSD or something. It feels like the room is tilting. I have no sense of time.

I’m losing my mind; that has to be it. What the HELL is going on? Of course, none of this is helped when the door opens, and the footrests of a wheelchair bang through the door frame, followed by a scarecrow in the chair topped by the wild, sunny grin of Carl Silva.

“Johnny, how are ya man? How’s it goin?”

“How am I? How is it going? What? What?” If you had asked me five minutes before this, I would have said I’d strangle Carl Silva till his head popped off the first chance I got. I surprise myself. I reach out and shake Carl’s hand. It feels like a shriveled, dry tree root.

“It’s okay,” says Carl to those behind, and the door closes. “Is this nuts or what? Two main suspects put together in a room so they can hash out their story? Ah.” Carl shakes his head in mock sadness. “The things that go on. They can hear us, of course. So-kay. This benefits everyone.”

“Carl. Why? Why’d you finger me? I don’t get it.”

“Yeah. That. Listen, Johnny, I made a plan—” Carl waves his hands, “—which, as you probably noticed, had its flaws. Thanks for getting that stuff to Gina, by the way.”

“Wasn’t me, Carl.”

“All the same. You busted in there. Like the US Calvary, you saved that stuff from getting burned up—”

“I saved your ass is what I did, Carl. I saved your ass, and how do you repay me? You finger me for a murder! That you did!” I point at Carl. “THAT HE DID!” I shout it for the benefit of the room mikes.

“They know I did it, Carl. They need you to say it in court. They got everything else they need, except an eyewitness to link me to the gum to Manny Homez. When that thing at my house didn’t pan out, I had to think of another angle. Then I thought of you. All you had to do was fall on me, but you didn’t.” Carl shakes his head. “So I put the finger on you, and still, you got my back. Why? Why, Johnny?”

To this day, I don’t know why. Maybe too many reasons; I was scared of a lot of bad people in those days. Maybe no reason at all. So, the rest is history. I testified, and Carl got what he wanted, and other people got what they wanted. So, go ahead and write your story, blog, or whatever you write.

I have to warn you about the ironic angle about Carl’s death machine failing yet Carl fulfilling his purpose with a much greater, more lethal death machine, the American Justice System. It’s been done to… well, death.

I have an angle for you. What Carl built was a machine that would grant him immortality. There’s your angle. As long as there is cable TV, Carl will be remembered. He’s a legend now.

That’s what I want, what he got. I want to live forever. I can’t use his idea; that’s been taken.

So. Make me famous. Like Jessie James. D.B. Cooper. Billy the Kid. Hell, Carl Silva. Make me immortal in the only way that works in this world. Make me a meme for the ages.

Everyone will remember the name Johnny—

(Here, the recording ends.)

Chapter 13

We Can Work This Out

I notice something in the air, a current when I take my place on the Fireline this night. It’s as if everyone is talking by not talking at all. The Firefeeder I relieve says nothing as I take over her station but gives me a look as if to say, Oh boy. Something’s up. She seems anxious to get out of there. Ottoman steps into place beside me but doesn’t greet me. I sense that— whatever is going on— he is in on it.

Otherwise, all is normal. The guards, going through their shift change, seem unconcerned. My first cart is filled with boxes of pancake mix. Usually, I feel a pang when throwing food into the Fire, what with all the hunger, but I am preoccupied with watching the others. I pay little attention to the boxes as they puff out of existence.

Then I see it: a subtle glance between Cookie and Manny, a nod. Silent communication ripples around the Fireline. Ottoman looks directly at me, then at the Indicator Board. Watch. He winks.

I sense a slight change in the rhythm, a slowing. The size of the Fire ticks up—two, three, four centimeters. The Fire shifts color, intensifying hues. The orange light on the board flicks on. Then, the rhythm quickens, and the orange blinks out. The numbers back down. The green indicator lights.

Watching closely now, I see Cookie nod. Again, the tempo slows, the numbers climb, and the orange flashes— four centimeters. Another barely perceptible nod and the Firefeeders bring the numbers back down.

All attention is on Cookie, but she is following the progress of an officer striding toward her. This is an unfamiliar face, an older man with confident, watchful eyes. He addresses Cookie.

“Firefeeder Johnson. Do we have a problem here?” Cookie straightens, faces him.

“Lieutenant—?

“Faber.”

“Well, Lieutenant Faber— Cookie glances at the board as the orange beacon glows. She nods to the others, and the numbers once again drop. “Nothing that can’t be worked out.”

“We can work this out, you and me. Yes?”

“I don’t know, Lieutenant. Can you bring Snake— Firefeeder Peavy back?”

The officer studies Cookie. She stands, shoulders squared, her gaze unflinching. He nods, pivots, and, with long, easy strides, is beside the gate with a radio headset to his ear.

“Everyone,” Cookie barks, “Back to work. I want to see solid green, people.”

A cart full of bundled rolls of toilet paper appears before me. A fleeting thought occurs: What an easy shift! Everything is light. My good fortune is lost on me just now, I can’t tear my attention from the metal gate. I start to imagine that I will see a triumphant Snake come through the gate to the cheers of the Fireline at any minute now.

I am through five more carts when, at last, the gate swings open. A pleasant-looking, middle-aged woman dressed in jeans, a flannel shirt, an insulated vest, and topped with a cowboy hat steps through. Her steps are relaxed and measured. The guards, recognizing authority, watch her with curiosity and caution. She leans in with the Lieutenant, and a brief conversation ensues, with glances toward the Fireline.

All eyes follow the woman as she confidently walks directly to the Fireline. She stops beside Cookie’s cart.

“Mind?” She reaches for a bundle of cardboard and expertly pitches it into the Fire.

“Knock yourself out.” Cookie waits, coolly watching the shorter woman work.

“I miss this, being close like this.” She extends her hand. “I’m Saucepan, by the way.”

Cookie ignores the offered palm. “Cookie.”

“Oh, I know who you are, Cookie.” She looks about. “Manny. Ottoman.” She raises her voice. “Backpack, Thermos— the rest of you, I’m sorry, I know you’re over there—all of you. You’re a great team. Legendary even. We’re lucky to have you on the Fireline. Keeping us safe. We know this. It’s why you have enough to eat while so many others go hungry.”

“Then you know that we need every member of our team.” Cookie crosses her arms. “We need Snake back.”

“I envy you, Cookie, I do. To be part of a team like this, it’s family, a rare thing these days. I would love to be part of something like this again. So. I understand. But remember Cookie, there is a world outside this family, a world that’s dying. You have more freedom here than I could ever dream of now that I’ve been assigned more responsibility.” She looks around.

“All of you must appreciate how much latitude you have been afforded. For instance, none of you are forced to work Special Administration Shifts.”

I feel a chill go through the others, I see the uneasy glances. I remember the veiled hints from Ottoman. Cookie’s expression hardens at the implied threat.

The woman hands Cookie a cardboard bundle. “I perfectly understand wanting to preserve the Team, the family. I understand you want Snake back. I can see that you are all united on this point.” The Fireline erupts in muttered affirmations— Yeah. Better believe it—

“I want you all to know that I want nothing more than to solve this problem.” This time, when she extends her hand, Cookie takes it.

The woman pivots, boots crunching the gravel, and strides out through the hastily opened gate.

Ottoman speaks first. “So? That’s it?

Cookie pushes her emptied cart away. She gestures to the Cart Coolie. “C’mon, c’mon. Next.”

Cookie looks up as I laugh. I point to the cart pushed in front of me. “Pillows! Can you believe it?” I feel an overwhelming sense of relief; I realize I had been standing, my body tensed, and my fists clenched.

Manny’s face is clouded. “I don’t like it. That was too easy.”

Cookie’s powerful voice rings out.

“People. Listen to me. This is what can be accomplished when we stick together. We have real power. Solidarity is our strength. So, let’s make this the best shift ever. Let’s give the Cart Coolies a real workout!”

Cookie addresses Manny. “C’mon, Manny. We stood together, and we won. Things went right for a change.”

“Yeah?” Manny shakes his head. “Let me tell you a story about a day when everything goes right.”

Chapter 14

Best Seat In The House

Alarm. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Good morning. Very good morning. Great morning! Fantastic morning! How about a winning lottery ticket with your coffee?

Ryan Glass rolled out of bed, and it was a plump peach of a morning. No aches. His head and lungs were clear. He was full of energy, full of life. Banging on all cylinders. Cooking on all burners. The air had a sweet tang of promise, like fresh squeezed lemonade an inch from his lips. He felt as grand as the Tetons, as lucky as Luciano. Huzzah!

So, sure enough, when he stopped for coffee on the way to work, one of the counter guys, Carver, spotted him at the door, leaned across the counter, and offered a lottery ticket.

“Ryan. My man. Come to me. Been saving this one for you. I got a righteous feeling about this one. Fresh from the kitchen. It’s hot! Oooh, burning my fingers. I think this is your day, man.” Carver’s wide grin and piercing gaze were as sharp as the knife-edge crease in his starched shirt and khakis.

Ryan, unnerved by Carver’s perpetual toothy grimace, usually avoided his portion of the counter. This time, not to be rude, he went to Carver and paid for the ticket.

“I’m here to serve, man!” Carver grinned his vulpine grin.

It was his day. Ryan could hardly believe it. A thousand dollars a week for life. Just like that. Not a vast fortune, granted; he wouldn’t be a multimillionaire. Yet, it seemed at first blush to be just right. What would he do with millions; that would be work. This much money, he could wrap his head around it. It wouldn’t upend his life. In ways he was sure would become clearer; it would make everything better. Oh yeah.

Wow. It felt like the thrill of waking up as a kid, and it was a snow day. Those sudden days off from school, wrapped up with the first day of summer, nestled inside a bright box of Christmas morning and the Fourth of July.

Ryan held off the calculating part of his mind; it was enough then to savor the bubble of joy in his chest. He would have plenty of time to run the numbers and think of the tax angles and what-not.

On a whim, and that was certainly a day for whim, he turned his old Ford Focus into the parking space of a small park short of his place of work. He decided to call out this day. Just one day.

He would still continue working; the money wasn’t enough to make him idle rich, but a day off in the middle of the week felt appropriate then. Fate had thrown a flash-bang grenade into his routine; it seemed only right that he was entitled to a little time on his favorite park bench to think, to savor his coffee, to catch his breath.

Then occurred the first slight irritation, the first fly on the apple pie of that perfect morning. The bench was occupied. What the heck? Some guy was down on his knees in front of the bench. Praying? Was he praying to the bench? Because… that’s what it looked like.

“O-k. Last one.” The youngish, stocky guy stood as Ryan drew close. He held out a camera—as Ryan noted a large camera gear bag on the ground—and tilted it up toward Ryan to show the display screen. Ryan leaned in to see what appeared to be the face of a furiously bristling Yorkshire terrier with huge dichroic saucer eyes.

“Hey... I’ve seen that before. That’s a bug…, spider?”

“That little fellow right there.” The guy pointed close to a black dot darting purposely on the rough bench slat. “Phidias, something, something. Common jumping spider. Amazing creatures, spiders. You watch how they feed; they’re so efficient. They don’t waste a thing. They extract the vital essence of their prey. It’s a kind of love, a philosophy of life. The simple beauty of natural selection. The eaters and the eaten. Anyway. Last shot. I’m happy.”

Ryan nodded at the camera. “So, you got like a micro lens set up or something?” Ryan leaned aside to set his coffee cup on the bench, away from the little critter, but strategically placed to stake a claim to at least a third of the bench.

“Macro lens. Got a sweet deal on this Canon 100 macro. This puppy does it all. You interested in photography?”

“Yeah, never had the time or the bucks—” Until now, he thought, “but hey, someday, ya know.”

“Listen.” The open, friendly-looking man stepped closer to Ryan. “Name’s Peter Oven. I need to ask you a favor.”

“Um, Ryan. Glass. Ryan Glass.”

Peter Oven offered the camera. “It’s yours.”

Ryan recoiled, one hand covering the pocket with the lottery ticket. “Whoa… ah no… what?”

“Take it. It’s yours.” Alarmed, Ryan stepped back, hands up. “Ah, no, listen… I’m good—”

“No seriously. I’m serious. No trick. I’m in kind of a bind here. I have to go away, a long trip tonight, and I have to travel light. So. Yeah. I should have gone to a camera shop and sold this gear.”

Oven shrugged a shoulder. “But no. I had to have one more day of shooting. This world is so full of amazing, just… wonder. The smallest things. Everything competing. Consuming. Being consumed.”

“So now I was stuck. I was going to leave the gear on this bench and hope it got a good home. Then here you came along. It was meant to be. You’d be doing me a huge favor. Seriously. A huge favor.” Oven offered the camera. “You’ll be helping me out. Please give my puppy a good home.”

Ryan reached tentatively. “Well… maybe… I mean, I could hold it for you.”

Oven pushed the camera into his hands. “It’s yours, Ryan Glass.” An awkward handshake ensued. Oven’s hand was unusually cold and smooth. Ryan pulled his hand away, almost instinctively.

“I’m glad I ran into you. What a lucky break! I thank you. And I hoped you have as much fun as I had.” Oven pointed to the gear bag. “Lots of good stuff in there.” He pivoted and strode away. “Sorry to scurry off like this without showing you the stuff, but I’m running late. Have to meet up with some people.”

Dazed, Ryan watched him go. Peter Oven turned with a small wave. “Suck out all the vital essence, Ryan Glass!” then was out of sight.

Ryan sat on the bench, remembering to scan at the last moment for the little spider that was apparently off pursuing his little spider career elsewhere. Swinging the gear bag to his lap, a thought occurred, what if this is a bomb? Ryan shook his head and snapped open the case. It was chock full of intricate-looking lenses and camera bodies. Even to his untrained eye, it looked like lots and lots of money. Wow. but… Wow, he thought. Talk about falling into it! So, photography! My new pastime!

So. Okay, then. Ryan leaned back and stretched his legs out, ankles crossed. He sipped his coffee, arm draped over the back of the bench. He rested his coffee elbow on the camera gear case. Yep. Yeppers. Wow. That was weird. He slipped the lottery ticket from his pocket. Yep. There it was. Real as could be. Couldn’t just walk around with it like this. Should’ve gone straight home from the gas station. So. finish the coffee. Head home and contact the lottery people or whoever. Oh, and call out from work. He sipped the coffee. Hey, maybe he would look into getting a dog. Have a friend. Yeah. That would be fun. Something to think about.

A distant figure approached around the bend of the tree-shaded path. Ryan hurriedly slipped the ticket into his pocket. He took note with a growing sense of familiarity; the confident stride with just a soupçon of hip swing, it was her! Brenda Pannetone! From Shipping!

Dear God, he came so close to losing his job last week because of her—though not because of her, because it wasn’t her fault. He had found an excuse that day to detour through Shipping on the off chance of catching a glimpse of her to brighten an otherwise pretty unexceptional day, and he was rewarded. He paused in a doorway to cherish the sight of Brenda Pannetone squatting down to read a label on a shrink-wrapped gaylord. Her jeans and shirt conspired behind her back to expose her lower spine and even a bit of upper butt crack. A filigree tattoo stretched between her Dimples of Venus, queried, ‘Like What You See?’

Oh yes. Dear God yes.

“Why are you making that horse sound?”

Ryan was thunderstruck to realize that someone had joined him in the doorway and that the someone was Nora Clamsday, the Inquisitor General of H.R. A comely woman, some claimed not to know what she actually looked like since many did not want to risk committing ocular assault by looking directly at her, or any fellow employee the wrong way when she was around.

Thoroughly bewildered by the situation and question, he could only gape at her. Horse sound? Wha?

“So the new hydrogen forklift came. Hmmm. It looks the same to me as the old propane one.”

The forklift. Ryan followed her gaze. Dear God looking at the new forklift. Yes. Looking. Forklift.

“Okee doke, so, hang in there.”

Ryan watched her pad away, her head swiveling like a gun turret. Only when he was certain she was truly gone did he risk a glance at Brenda Pannetone. He caught himself then making a high soft whinnying sound. Oh, he thought. That horse sound.

So he still had a job, and here he sat on a park bench five minutes from that job and only two minutes from Brenda Pannetone. He was suddenly acutely self-conscious; he was slouching like a real mook. Should he straighten up? Pull in his splayed legs? Get a haircut? He had but time to stiffen and pull in one leg as Brenda arrived before him.

Instead of striding by with a slight curt nod, which was the most he thought he could hope for, she stopped.

“Well. Look at you. Not a care in the world.” Her voice flowed like honey, with an undertone of something dark buried in it.

“Hi. I’m Ryan. I work with you. I mean,” he pointed toward the industrial park. “At Agenta.” Brenda’s eyebrows went up. Her grin was crooked; she had a chipped front tooth, and she was utterly beautiful.

“You think that I don’t know who you are? Well, that is funny. Ryan Glass, up in folding.”

“Ah. Huh. Yeah.”

Brenda clapped her hands. “O-k then. Chop chop. Hodi-ho. It’s off to work we go. Don’t want to be late now, do we?”

“Oh, ah... I thought maybe I was gonna play hooky today. I... okay, please don’t tell anybody this, but I just won some money in the lottery... so... please, please don’t tell anybody at work—”

“Get out! For real? So, like, you’re a millionaire now?”

“No... no... nothing like that... some money each week. I wasn’t going to tell anybody. Please don’t say anything about this at work—”

Brenda zipped her lips. “Our little secret. Except. There is a price—Oh, look at your face! Stop! It’s not a bad thing! My price is a movie. Very simple. Oh, and a dinner. Someplace nice. You can afford it now, right?”

Ryan was breathless. Wa...? Was she asking him out?

“So, my friends get together. We have a deal with Byron; we reserve the whole place for ourselves. We are a select group, and we’re very particular about the entertainment we consume. Tonight, we have On The Waterfront. Remastered from the original print—”

“Oh. I love that picture! It was like my favorite of all time—”

“Really!” She studied him with greater interest. “Well, you had excellent taste. You know, it was my idea. When I heard about this new version, I said to the group, I gotta have me some Brando. Yum! Oh, you have to come. Meet me at the Byron at six. Then, a late dinner. So very European.”

Ryan managed a dazed grin. “Heck, sure. Why not? I’ll be there.”

“There you go! A smile. That’s the stuff. You were giving me a bug-eyed fish stare there for a while, making me a little nervous there.”

“Oh. Sorry—”

“Come! You’ll have fun!” Brenda turned on her heel. “And don’t forget, bring money. You owe me a dinner. See ya later. Some of us still have to work.”

“Oh. I’m gonna come in tomorrow…” but she was already striding out of earshot.

So now, on the gobsmack scale of one to ten, Ryan Glass sat somewhere north of twenty-seven. Absently, he sipped his lukewarm coffee. Wow, he thought, in the time it took for that coffee to cool, his entire universe changed beyond his wildest dreams. He had a date with Brenda Pannetone! At least… he thought it was a date. Hey, close enough. Wow. O-k. So. The lottery ticket. O-k. So head home then. Figure this out.

Ryan stood and hefted the camera bag. As he walked to his car, it occurred to him to wonder: how long could this magical morning continue? He was answered by the sight of a middle-aged Asian woman hunched over his old Ford beater, writing a note on the hood. As he drew closer, he realized he was now missing a headlight. Approaching her, he observed that the woman appeared to have undergone too many face-lifts, her skin stretched to the limit, and her hair was dyed the color of raw hamburger.

“OH... is this your car? Oh my God, I am so sorry.” She had placed the plastic shards in a neat pile on the hood beside her notepad. She ripped off the page and offered it.

“I’m Elaine. Elaine Simmer. This is my insurance…” She grimaced. “So…ah, this is like my second fender bender in two weeks. Can you believe it? This was kind of a bad look if you knew what I mean?”

Ryan waved a placating hand. “Hey… No. It’s all good! This old crap wagon. I was thinking of getting a new car, so please don’t give it another thought.”

“I have an idea. Do you like airplanes?”

“Uh… Yeah. Sure. I guess.”

“How would you like a ride in a World War Two War Bird?”

“Ah. Well… sure—”

“I’m a flight instructor over at Cairn field, and my partner, Tracy, her brother has his T-6 Texan here for the next few weeks.” She scribbled on the note. “The Texan was used to process new pilots. Shake and bake them. What’a ya say? I could sweeten the deal. How about some free flight lessons? Tracy could use some new meat. Give us a call and let us have a heads up when you could swing by Cairn, and I would fix you up. Please. You would be doing me a huge favor.”

She offered the note. Ryan took the note. Elaine Simmer beamed, “Oh, thank you, thank you! You have no idea how much you are helping me out here!” For an instant, it looked like she was going to hug him. Ryan edged toward the driver’s door.

“No, listen, honestly, it’s no problem—”

“Come by. You’d love it! I promise!” Elaine Simmer pulled away with a little wave. He waved back. Okay.

Flying lessons. Huh! That was a thought. Never would have occurred to him before. Now that he thought about it, well, huh! He would have the money, probably. And it sure couldn’t hurt when it came to impressing Brenda Pannetone. “Huh,” he said aloud to himself. First things first. Head home, get online, and figure out how to cash in the ticket. Then, get ready to meet Brenda Pannetone, the true jackpot prize in the lottery of life.

Wow. What a day!

Wait... what? Ryan, stretched the length of his couch, sat bolt upright. He had come home after a crazy morning, plopped on the couch just to savor the wonder of the day, what with the lottery ticket, and Brenda asking him out, and he closed his eyes, only for a moment, and wait! What time was it?

He thumbed his phone. SHIT! Almost five o’clock! Holy Crap! He was to meet Brenda at six! Idiot, idiot, idiot! Ryan would have smacked his head hard, but he needed his head to be in good condition for the evening.

Ryan shed his clothing on the run toward the shower. He could still make it. Even then, the day smiled on him; the hot water came fast and plentiful, his hand was steady as he shaved and trimmed nose and eyebrow hairs, and he even had a clean, pressed shirt ready to go in his closet.

Now, out the door, but hold on. What to do with the ticket? He should have gone straight to the state lottery office, but it was two hours away. He didn’t want to be late for his movie date, and there he was, un-cashed ticket in his hand and running late. Ryan slipped the ticket into his sock. He felt the paper rectangle against his skin, like a medicinal patch, infusing confidence into his entire body. He was a winner!

As Ryan Glass drove in sight of the Byron Theater, he could, at last, quiet a little voice that had been nagging him on the way over. She’s punking you, it said, she won’t be there. This was Brenda Pannetone we’re talking about here! The Byron Theater rose against the darkening sky. Its golden lights glistened on a pavement wet from a rain Ryan had barely noticed. Brenda stood beneath the old marquee, her figure gorgeous and enticing, bathed in the warm glow. She smiled and waved to him as he pulled up.

“Hey! You had me wondering whether I was getting stood up or something! My friends have gone in, so get yourself parked, and hustle your butt in here. I hate to miss the previews.”

Fortune smiled on Ryan Glass yet again and prevailed on the driver ahead to vacate one parking space, giving Ryan the opportunity to give a hopefully unparalleled exhibition of parallel parking skill with an audience of one in mind. He didn’t choke; in fact, he slid that old Ford into the narrow space as slick as snot.

Ryan struggled to suppress a slightly crazed grin as he strode manfully back toward the beautiful girl standing in the glamorous golden light of the old theater facade. Her eyes dancing, Brenda held out her arm, cocked, ready to link with his. Ryan paused at the unoccupied ticket booth, but Brenda pulled him toward the glass doors. “All taken care of.”

Inside, the theater lobby was well-lit, but completely deserted. Brenda pulled the door shut and locked it. She turned the ‘Closed’ sign to face out. “Keep the riff-raff out.”

“Oh no! Trapped!” Ryan laughed. He looked around. “Wow, I hadn’t been in here in years.” The patterns on the well-worn carpet hinted at corrupt geometry. Ancient air conditioning gasped to life overhead, breaking the heavy silence. A wave of humid air washed over Ryan, hinting at a sickly scent of hot iron and burnt sugar. He shrugged off his jacket. The place seemed more rundown inside than the bright exterior let on. Viscous shadows congealed in the corners, hiding years of neglect. Ryan glanced toward the deserted refreshments counter. “Can I get you anything…?”

“Absolutely not! No spoiling dinner.” Brenda indicated the dark entrance to the seating. “Shall we? My friends won’t start till we arrive.” They passed into the darkness under a malfunctioning exit sign that signaled in pulsing crimson, E—T. Inside, rows of wall sconces provided feeble pools of amber light, like rendered fat dripping down the walls. Ryan hesitated to let his eyes adjust, but Brenda pressed him forward, moving confidently in the dark.

As they entered, heads turned in the darkened theater, a sparse crowd of a dozen or so. On the screen, a silent scene of people, but uncanny, not quite people, shambled about, perhaps a trailer of some zombie or pod people movie.

“About time!” A Brando impression; “Hey, Brenda! I coulda been a contenda!” Laughter. “Wake the projectionist.” Ryan turned toward an empty row. Brenda tugged his arm.

“What? You were going to sit in the back like some second-class refugee or something? I deserve better. Allow me to demonstrate.” Brenda unlinked her arm. They walked down the center aisle. “Now count across the row. How many seats?”

“Um, fifteen across—” “And the next?”

“So, that’s... Sixteen. Yeah, sixteen.”

“So, the next is fifteen, the next, sixteen... Follow me so far? The seats stagger, right? So you don’t have somebody’s big fat head in front of you. Okay. Now. Count how many rows from the front to the back.” Ryan Glass made an effort to prove he was on his toes. He decided that Brenda was going for a seat in the center so he anticipated.

“Okay. That’s nineteen, so your seat is ten rows from the front—” He stopped at row ten. Brenda held up a finger.

“Ah, you are learning, grasshopper, but you were not yet a master. What number row did that fall into? How many seats across?”

“Sixteen; oh, okay, I see. The center falls between two seats—”

“So, Mr. Ryan Glass from up in folding, what do you do? Do you go forward one row or back?” Brenda pointed up at the speakers on the wall. “See? See the spacing? Which row does that center speaker line up with?”

“Okay then,” Ryan held up his hands as though surveying the wall speaker locations. “We go back one row. Eleven. Then the eighth seat—”

“Is the best seat in the house. And look, it’s on a walkway, so you have more legroom. But one last challenge. Do you feel lucky today? Is that seat open, and by open, I mean nobody right next to it? You need your elbow room, you know.”

It was open for the taking, with nobody seated even close. With a bubble of joy in his chest, Ryan swept a grand hand gesture, ladies first.

Brenda turned into the row but passed the best seat in the house. “This is your seat, Ryan. You’re my guest.” She pressed him down into the seat.

Brenda stood before him, placing his arms on the armrests. She rested her hands on his wrists, leaning in as for a kiss. “Are you happy? I mean, really happy?”

Dear God, he had no words. That day was a fantastic dream, but to gaze up at Brenda Pannetone just then, he had no words.

“Ryan,” she whispered, “Do you know when the Black Sun Sings?”

“Wha—?” He felt that his grin would split his face and that he might jump up and start dancing right in front of everybody. She was unreal, simply magic—!

“It sings when dinner is ready.”

Brenda removed her hands. Thick bands clamped his wrists and ankles. A loud continuous ‘thung!’, a surge of high voltage racked his body rigid, eyes bulged and boiled, teeth ground. Tendons popped as steam and smoke drifted up.

Thonk! Silence returned. A hood lowered from the ceiling and sucked away the haze. Ryan Glass slumped slowly forward.

The audience sat utterly still.

The exits became sphincters, smoothly shutting down.

The ventilation sighed in an ancient tongue. The heat rose. The vintage movie screen crawled with sweat in the heat, old film grain swarming like maggots.

At once, the seats around Ryan creaked in the stillness like stretched sinews as the audience rose in perfect synchronization, their movements as graceful as a single well-designed machine. Quietly, solemnly, the audience gathered around Ryan’s still figure.

Carver, the coffee shop counter guy, joined Brenda. Peter Oven, a photographer of small creatures, stood beside him. A middle-aged Asian woman with hair the color of raw meat stepped up. Others, faces uncannily human…but perhaps not quite, hard to say in the low light, like characters in a pod people invasion movie, gathered.

Each, in turn, placed their hands on Ryan and bowed their heads.

A tall, thin man tenderly cradled Ryan’s cheek. The man slid a scalpel from a sheath and sliced a small cutlet of flesh. He placed the morsel on his tongue and thoughtfully chewed.

“The flesh is sweet. There was no fear, or anger, or pain. Only joy.”

All in attendance murmured and were given, in turn, their just portion.

In time, in the midst of the feast, when a most appealing combination of glistening viscera to ghostly bone, to gaping cavity, to pale flesh peeled back was achieved, Peter Oven raised a camera, snapping shots of Ryan Glass’s ravaged carcass.

“Beautiful,” he whispered wetly. “How I envy them their ignorance.”

“I despise their ignorance,” hissed Carver, teeth clicking.

The one calling itself Elaine Simmer, her outer skin rippling, sighed, “For us, what solace is there to be had but their ignorance?”

The movie screen pulsed, bulged, a scabrous dripping tissue; something behind, something huge, pushing through to this universe. The building shuddered and groaned. The audience, the things wearing human shapes, raised their human-appearing faces in rapture to the sight unfolding before them, revealing through a tear in the flesh of what humans ignorantly called reality, what they already knew.

They glimpsed that which lay beneath everything, something beyond ancient, a thing terrifyingly patient. Something waiting since the first stars formed like a rash on the surface of its being. A thing that was coming. A thing that was hunger itself.

“The membrane is becoming ever thinner,” whispered the one that adopted the pleasing shape of Brenda Pannetone through her perfect lips. “What is to be done?”

Peter Oven lowered his camera. “Eat. And be eaten. Only that—”

The movie screen tore open with a sound like reality itself screaming. Crystalline feeding tubes midst void black eyes snaked out and engulfed the one that called itself Elaine Simmer. The Elaine Simmer being’s body contorted, her joints bent backward, her spine twisted into a spiral. Shrieking, its flesh bubbled and split, her false human form sloughing away like wet paper.

All sucked back into the gangrenous oozing membrane, and a movie screen was once again simply a movie screen. “Beautiful,” murmured Peter Oven. “So, so beautiful.”

“Now, we are fewer yet.” The Brenda creature, now coalescing her outward appearance, as the creatures made their way up the aisles. “What will happen to this world when we are no more?”

Peter Oven, now a stocky young human man, looked at her. “The eater will eat. It will be content with the more numerous but less nutritious prey farther down the food chain.”

A small group of boisterous friends exited the theater, perhaps a dozen or so. No one would have reason to notice that the group was two less then than when they went in. They parted and went their separate ways.

The marquee of the Byron glowed warmly in the gathering dusk. An old man walked his dog past the ticket booth. He noted the closed sign on the door and urged by the dog, moved on. A young couple paused to peruse a colorful poster. Cars drifted past; headlights shimmered across the chrome trim of the theater’s facade. The sky flickered a coming storm. The wind picked up, hinting of ozone and something else, something older than rain.

At the curb sat an old Ford Focus, with one headlight missing. By morning, it would be gone.

Chapter 15

Amanda

Something’s wrong. I am jolted awake by the glare of bright lights in my face. My work clothes are tossed onto my thin dormitory mattress. “Get dressed!”

I’m given a few minutes in the bathroom; a guard pounds the door. “Let’s go.” It is dark, but I can’t tell what time it is. A Humvee is parked in front, and three guards crowd in with me. The Humvee’s windows are covered. The Humvee peels out. No one speaks to me.

I can’t help it; bad thoughts come crowding in, no matter how hard I try to push them away. Is this it? Am I going to one of those places everyone whispers about? I look at my fellow human beings sitting opposite, helmeted, armor clad, dark glasses despite the dark. They stare woodenly ahead.

The vehicle slows, the doors flung open, and I am yanked out into a world of blinding light. I’m outside the gate to the Fireline. I can sense the closeness of the Fire, the tang in the air. The gate opens, and I am marched in, a guard on either side. Their boots crunch the gravel in perfect step.

The Fireline comes into view. It is shockingly altered. Tall metal partitions, seven feet high, divide each

Firefeeder station into isolated cells. The Firefeeders, the ones I can see, are grim-faced strangers. The ring of guards is stationed closer to the circle. A new contingent appears to chaperon every Cart Coolie, arriving or leaving.

My escort halts. One turns to stare at me with black glass-shielded eyes. I see my reflection. I look like I’m in shock, though what I feel is numb. I go forward between the partitions.

The Firefeeder I relieve is a stranger. He says nothing and doesn’t look at me. He nods, eyes down, and shuffles past to stand between the two guards. They pivot and march him to the gate.

The Cart Coolie that brings me my first cart seems cowed; she keeps looking back at the impassive figure of the guard that escorted her, weapon held at ready.

There is a gap between the ends of the partitions and the Fire so that if I lean forward as I feed the Fire, I catch glimpses of others doing the same. We look fleetingly at each other. None is a familiar face. None dare do more than to look for an instant.

I work mechanically. I feel suspended. How long is my shift? Will I work here forever? Until I drop? It’s difficult to pace the work with only the Indicator Board to go by—the orange light constantly flickers. Agitated, uniformed officials pace around the circle of guards, who eye them uneasily.

Then, a voice from the next station. “Don’t react. Just listen.” I freeze; I can’t help it. I glance back at the guard at the end of my station, but he is looking aside.

“Tell me your name.” The gravely voice is aged but carries authority— someone who has seen much.

“Puppy. I’m Puppy.” I whisper when I get a chance near the partition gap.

“Your real name.”

I feel a surge of panic, remembering the warnings about revealing personal information.

“Don’t worry, Puppy. They can’t hear us this close to the Fire.” The voice, the calm, weary comfort of it, suggests another world than this world, a world I want to escape to.

“Amanda,” I whisper close to the gap. “Amanda Thackery.”

“Pleased to meet you, Amanda Thackery. I’m Victor. Victor Garcia. Amanda, may I tell you a story? You would do me a great service if you would agree. I’m very old. The story must live. Will you agree to remember it?”

“Yes… yes. I will.

“Well, Amanda, I was green. Those days, you were assigned an old timer, someone to show you the ropes. The Firefeeder who took me under his wing told me his story. He was here before the Fire. He saw the Fire start. He told me the story. Then he gave me his coat and car keys and walked into the Fire.”

”This is the story exactly as he told it to me. He said, So, the balloon goes up, and who’s surprised?”

Chapter 16

The Fire

So, the balloon goes up, and who’s surprised? Nobody paying any attention, I can tell you that. You see that movie Oppenheimer? Well ever since that guy, you’d have to be an idiot not to see it coming.

The balloon goes up. Interesting phrase. Comes from the First World War, the British side came up with it. When the observation balloons went up, everyone knew the shit was at that moment, winging its fragrant way toward the universal fan for all concerned. Or, so they say.

A more recent and pertinent usage would have been during the Cold War. The phrase referred then to a more specific kind of fan-facilitated excrement dispersion, known as a Comprehensive Nuclear Weapons Exchange, CONWEX, a concept that truly demonstrated for all time, that verily, it was better to give than to receive.

But hey, an exchange. Sounds fair. You give me a rat rectum rhubarb pie, and I’ll give you this delicious hairy homeless armpit apple Bundt cake. Everyone’s happy. Right?

Yeah, no. No thanks. But nobody asked you, right? Sure as hell, nobody asked me. The land of baseball and hotdogs and the land of borscht and nesting dolls face off on the dusty street and go for their guns.

The people in charge say the Ruskies went first, but who knows? Maybe a mouse chewed through a wire in a silo somewhere. All the same, maybe it had to happen, settle things once and for all—the heavyweight championship of the world title. Two nations enter, one nation leaves.

Of course, no one with more than two brain cells to combine saw it going down that way. There would be no winner. It was to be a big lose-lose all around. Except….

Except one side cheated. We did. Hah hah. We had the Channing Panda Field.

Seriously, no one thought those guys’ wacky idea of a field generated to dampen down neutrons, or atom fairies, whatever, could work, but in the end, who turned out to be right? Nuclear weapons failed to detonate when the field was turned on.

I myself made fun of President Hogan when he proposed a ‘Nuclear football helmet for the nation. Just in case’. Dumb old me, the Hulkster turned out to be right. Who knew?

Well, the display on the Big Board says the Fire is increasing thirteen centimeters. That’s a lot, so we’re up.

Here we go. We feed this couch in, burn it up, and it should do the trick. Pick up your end, and let’s show ‘em how it’s done. One, two, three, lift!

So, news flash! Doctor Marsha Channing dead at fifty-seven. Good riddance, I say. What use was she? Sure, she and that guy Vivek Panda come up with the Shield, but since it turns out it doesn’t work the way they said it would, and they have no fricken idea why, well, they could just as well serve humanity by figuring out something useful. Like, oh, I don’t know, why can’t you peel the tin foil off of those stupid gruyere cheese wedges without getting half the cheese under your fingernails?

Seriously, though, my wife had this get-together for her rug-hooking friends, everybody pretending like crazy things are not crazy, and it occurred to me. Somewhere, there is a factory still turning out these little gruyere cheese wheels like everything is normal. Like more than seven hundred independently targeted nuclear warheads didn’t rain down on the United States. For the sake of humanity, keep those cheese wedges coming!

Wow. I remember that day. I went and stood outside. Don’t know why. Funny. How you react. Went outside. Stood looking up. I saw them, coming down, the three Larrys that hit near here

And boom! That was ours. Larry two. Of course, it didn’t go off. It was the sonic boom of its reentry. I didn’t know it then, so I’m standing there thinking, ‘hm.’ I thought the end of the world would be a little more impressive.

So I stand there, waiting for the thousand degree shock-wave to obliterate me. I wait, and I wait. My phone rings, and it’s Wilson, my knucklehead golf buddy.

Dude! He’s all excited. Dude! Get your ass over here! One’a those bombs hit right nearby! It’s in my neighbor’s yard!

He’s thirty minutes away, so I hopped in my car. Most people wouldn’t drive toward a nuclear warhead; they’d go the other way. What can I say. It’s how I reacted.

So here we are. We work the Fire. And it’s what, two meters across? If we do our jobs right. A perfect sphere. It’s beautiful. I could stare into it all day.

But you look around, and it’s surrounded by miles of ugly. All the machinery, the equipment, the roads. The stockpiles. And hidden away, well… you know what’s hidden away.

Why bother hiding it? Everybody knows about it. Everyone knows someone who was taken. How did we make something so ugly to serve something so beautiful?

Hard to picture now what was here before, a typical American suburban neighborhood. Gone. Back then, this was all quiet streets. Houses. Backyards. I pull up. And people are milling around. Wilson runs up. Funny thing. I had never seen Wilson run before. Oh, the excitement!

Hey man! Check it out! We go into a yard a few houses down. A small knot of people standing, and we go over, and there it is.

It is often said thanks to the Channing Panda Shield, very little was destroyed when the warheads rained down. I’m here to tell you that isn’t true. That big black traffic cone-shaped warhead punched straight through a green plastic Adirondack chair before burying itself halfway into the lawn. Can you imagine? Be sitting there with a beer in your hand, and whacko!

So me and Wilson stand there staring down at this thing. Half buried, it’s about waist high, maybe eighteen- twenty inches in diameter at it’s widest. And I had to laugh. One guy was putting his ear to it, but most people were standing back twenty or thirty feet. This was a nuclear bomb; after all, you want to be at least twenty feet away, right?

There goes the neighborhood. I wish I had thought to say that while I was standing there. Would have been funny. But look around. Not so funny now, I guess.

Yeah. Not so funny if you’re Russian. Other day, I’m wiping dust off my windshield; that Goddamn dust is everywhere, I said, then it hit me. I wonder if I just wiped a Russian off my windshield. Then I think about the screwed-up weather, and how the harvests are failing. My God. How many millions? Starved. Gone. And how many millions yet to come?

But look at the bright side. We still have enough gruyere cheese wedges.

Listen, do me a favor. Handle that air conditioner. Do you mind? My back is a mess today. I’ll take care of this pile of coats. I can make a few trips. Thanks.

Hey, ever hear of Etta Funk? No? Shame. She was the one really started that new religion, you know, Doorway.

Not intentionally, but she was the first one who seemed to have figured out what all those scientists couldn’t, namely, what the fuck was really going on with the Channing Panda Shield.

You remember how it was, how proud we all were; everybody in the rest of the world was in a shit-bag of hurt, but not us!

Well, if they were all too dumb to be Americans like us, insisting on being whatever, Polish, or French, or Chinese, whatever, well, that was on them. They should have gotten their own Marsha Channing and their own Vivek Panda. Though granted, she was from South Africa, and he was from India; all the same, we let them in.

So, anyway, you have all those warheads laying around. At first, before the feds arrived, it was all local law enforcement and the fire department, and half those guys didn’t want to have anything to do with the warheads. Heck, who can blame them? They’re getting their families out. So, things are a little chaotic.

I heard about in Denver; some junkies showed up at a scrapyard with six-hundred pounds of nuclear devastation in a sagging shopping cart. One MIRV, slightly used. Could be true, who knows. Denver is the first place a warhead finally went off, after all.

Just when we’re putting our arms out of joint patting ourselves on the back, the warheads start acting funny. Getting warm. Then the light. A pinprick, at first, that beautiful ghostly fire.

The Feds showed up here before our own Larry Two started getting weird. They cordoned off the area, started evacuations out to the edge of calculated blast areas. I had already gone home.

I live just inside the border of DeZOC, Designated Zone Of Concern, so, of course, my number is low on the List. But I am definitely on the List. Wilson had come with me to couch crash, and, needless to say, his name was at the very tippy top, having resided only a few houses away from an impact.

Yeah, the Feds came for him; he went willingly. He didn’t know. I didn’t know; hell, nobody knew then what was happening. I can still see his dopey grin. I’m happy to be of service. Keep my golf clubs warm until I come back.

No need to tell you where that golf bag ended up. I had to turn it over, of course. Keep it warm—my God.

So, Etta Funk. This is in Tennessee or West Virginia. It’s not important, but their particular warhead—call it Peter Four or Susan Six— again, not important. It starts doing what eventually all the warheads do: burning with that slow, silent, mesmerizing flame.

They try stuff. Naturally, they turn up the Channing Panda. But Channing Panda, nada. The scientists have all sorts of ideas, but the locals seem to have the most luck simply pouring on water or piling on dirt.

It’s only temporary, of course. The Fire quietly consumes the water, dirt, and whatever else is put into it to choke it off.

Authorities start pulling everything back, anything that might serve to feed the flame, but that seems to make things worse. The sphere grows, and everyone backs away. Not Etta Funk. Not that paragon of wild-ass redneck womanhood!

She guns her ninety-four Ford F one-fifty, full of stuff from her double-wide, shouting, “IT WANTS TO BE FED!” And into the Fire she goes.

Some say she screamed in agony in the Fire, but many there that day say it was a whoop of joy.

Of course, we now realize she was right. Feed the Fire, and it diminishes. Starve it, and it grows. The news has kept a real lid on these things, but you just know there are places where the scientists and authorities had their way, the Fire was not fed and kept under control, and those places are now smoking craters half a mile wide. Just sayin. So. How come all the scientists couldn’t figure it out, but she did? Easy. She was crazy. Wow. Etta Funk. What’a gal.

So. Anyway. How do you like these new carts? See. All my complaining did some good for a change.

Well, well. Here’s some new happy-happy horse shit for you. They announced a new team at the top. Gonna figure this thing all out, at last. We’re saved!

What a joke. Yeah. I would like some Goddamn answers. Sure.

Bad mood? Yeah. You could say I’m in a bad mood. Let me tell you what happened yesterday.

I’m working with the new kid, Pauly. I fix him up with one of these new carts, and he thinks it’s supposed to go into the Fire. The only thing that saves it is that he’s afraid to get close, so he tries to throw things in from ten feet back.

Nah, that wasn’t the bad thing; it made me laugh. I touched the Fire, y’know, like I do, on the edge, to show him it ain’t gonna reach out and grab him. At least, it won’t if we keep doing our job right, I say.

Strange. I find myself touching it every time I throw something in now. You ever do that? Touch it? It’s… hard to describe. It’s like touching an Angel’s wing feather… like it might strike you dead in an instant. But you have to do it. I find myself thinking each time, ‘Here you go, Fire. This belongs to you.’

Remember how we used to just heave things in? I showed the kid how to put things in carefully and respectfully. He thinks I’m nuts, of course. But I’ve noticed that I’m not the only one. Watch the old-timers.

Concretti crosses himself, and Huang bows. And I get it. So, anyway, it seems right, and I’m not embarrassed about it.

Then this old guy, carrying an old dog, gets past the new kid. It’s not the kid’s fault; I’m the one in charge. So, I’ve got a situation. The old guy faces me, back right up against the Fire.

He’s crying.

I get his name. Ben. Listen, Ben. Please don’t move. I promise nobody is going to mess with you. I swear. You understand how things work around here, right Ben? We have to feed the Fire. So people will be going behind you. On the other side. They’re just doing their job. Okay? Are we okay?

The crew moves the operation to the far side, everyone doing that side-eye thing. So far, so good. The Fire doesn’t flare up from a lack of fuel. I get Ben’s story.

Now, here’s the thing. I don’t like to talk about my home life much, and I notice you return the favor. But I have to tell you about this one thing.

Like everybody, me and the wife are housing refugees. In this case, we got a relative, a niece named Sara. Oh my God, what a piece of work.

So, picture this lovely young thing. Stringy hair. Dressed in a skin-tight leotard to best display all the rolls of fat. A side view is best, sitting, two or three stomachs bulging out past her knees. No job. No use at all to herself or the world. Her sole ambition in life is to sleep, smoke, and watch the free television she’s been provided.

My point is that she’s not on the List. She lived outside any of the impact zones. So nobody is going to come and take her away to one of those camps that we’re not supposed to know about. It would be useless to toss her into the Fire because the Fire knows.

No one will talk about this, because how can it make sense? The Fire will only accept what it would have consumed in a nuclear fireball all at once, but we had the Channing Panda field. Oh, we thought we were so smart.

Try to throw in something from outside the nuclear zone of destruction, and the Fire knows. It knows what it is owed. How is this possible? Clearly, it’s not, at least not according to our understanding of the laws of nature.

And so, like I said, happy, happy horse shit. We have a whole new team of esteemed Ph. D.s who will think us out of this nightmare. They got rid of the engineers and physicists. This new bunch is made up of all Doctors of Theology and Philosophy. Maybe they’re finally on the right track, now.

So, this old man, Ben, stands before me with an old dog in his arms. All lit up by that beautiful light from the Fire, tears running down his cheeks. The thing is, just like my lovely house guest, he is not on the List. He did not reside in this Zone. Had Channing Panda not damped down Larry Two, he would have escaped the blast no problem. The Fire had no claim on him.

When Larry Two fell, Ben’s dog, Carla, had been missing and was found visiting the same neighborhood Larry chose to visit. Carla and Ben were reunited, but records were kept, and now, Carla belonged to the Fire.

Ben. Please. I’m reaching, but I keep my distance. Ben. They’ll put her to sleep. She won’t feel anything.

Maybe I am a bad person. I don’t care; I’m thinking about it. Why Carla. Why is that useless chud in my house not on the List, but Carla is? That new bunch of brainiacs better get to work because I want an answer.

Ben says I’m sorry for causing all this trouble. With Carla in his arms, he turns and steps into the Fire.

Carla’s mass didn’t cause any trouble, but Ben didn’t belong to the light. This caused a very minor flare-up, which was easily compensated for with an old toaster oven that had been teed up nearby for the next hour’s load.

One human being. One old toaster oven.

The new people couldn’t stop talking about it, how horrible, how painful, what a terrible way to die! But I look at Concretti, and Huang. They don’t say anything. But I see it in their eyes. They saw what I saw. Old Ben hunching over as he entered the Fire was not a spasm of agony. He was hugging Carla, as hard as he could, for the last time. Whoof, another cold one. Drizzle sure don’t help. I see that they took your coat. Don’t want to say I told you so. But. Just sayin. Everything I have on, from the moment I come through the gate, is registered as nonlisted. They’re real pricks, man. Coulda let you wear it until end of shift. Nope.

Listen, take my coat. I insist. I won’t need it. I’m not cold. Anyway, let’s go over near the Fire. All their little ears don’t work there. Oh, you didn’t know that. All the little tittle-tattle microphones and cameras. Yeah. Useless near the Fire. Keep an eye on Huang and Concretti. Old heads like Norse and Bloomberg. Always over by the Fire, talking. Now you know why.

Victor, right? Victor. I feel like I’ve come to know you. You strike me as a strong person. A good person. I want to tell you something. You can walk away, any time, and I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I won’t think any worse of you. I need a favor. I might be asking a lot, and like I say, it’s totally up to you.

Here’s the thing. I been thinking lately, about those Doorway people. Now, not my business what kind of religion you favor, if any. I’m not a religious type. Nothing against it, I just never been inclined. But… you ever listen to that stuff? The Doorway stuff?

Not sayin’ they’re right or wrong; I have no idea. What the hell do I know, right?

But… coming here, day after day, week after week. For how long? You ever think about that?

What happens when all the stuff in the zones is burned up? Does the Fire go out? Not that it matters to me, I guess. I’m on the list, you know. Way down, but—

My wife is on the list. Way higher up. She was closer. We had a talk. I tell you something. She knows, we both know, who the strong one is. And it ain’t me. Oh, I swore up and down; I swore I wouldn’t do anything stupid.

But I can’t. I can’t be here if she goes first. I would never want to put it on her by taking the easy way, leaving it on her, but she understands. She won’t be disappointed. She knows how weak I am. She’ll understand. That’s just the way she is.

Those Doorway people say that this is Hell. And the Fire is a doorway with a big exit sign. I don’t know. Ask the rest of the world. It’s Hell alright, and their only exits are starvation and civil war.

Ah, the world is old. Just… Old and worn out. Who wouldn’t want an exit?

Anyway. The favor. These are my car keys. I already talked it over with Huang and Concretti, but someone will have to get my car home. My wife will need it in the morning. And this is my wedding ring. Please. This is the important thing. Please.

Tell her that, whatever happens, she has to give it back to me in person. Understand? She has to find me and hand it to me. Here’s my wallet. She can take whatever pictures she wants and toss the rest.

Okay. So.

Look at it. Beautiful. Beyond beautiful. Feels like feathers. Angel wings… I’ve never put my hands in so far. Wonder where it goes to?

Oh, I almost forgot. Check out what Concretti gave me— a dog biscuit for Carla in case I run into that guy Ben. So, here goes. Aloha. You know that means both goodbye and hel

The End

So.

Be kind to the bugs

Though they make you itch—

If you treat them bad—

Karma is a bitch

Burma—Shave