Bullet for a Friend
By Thomas Erhardt
Buckling under the pressure of my weight as I learned back, my chair creaked. I used to lean back and grin wide when I was about to lose. I needed the façade to keep myself in the game, even though Donald told me my sweating was my tell. The worn cards lay on the dry blistering wood of the table's face. It was steady enough to support the multitude of whisky shots scattered among it. I was sitting with my back to the saloon as normal. The sweltering air in the saloon wasn't worth putting up with, but the game was. My clothes were abnormally drenched with perspiration. To my right, as always, sat John Summers. His clothes, too, were drenched with perspiration, but it was likely due to his obesity. He had lost nearly all his hair and his cheeks and nose were a kind of stained red. He was limited to wearing large pants with suspenders to keep them up around his belly and they were dirty and blue. He wore a red wool shirt and held a white handkerchief he used to dab at his forehead. If innocence had a name, it was John Summers. The realities of life weighed too heavily on his fat shoulders and it caused him to never smile....Show More
To my left sat Donald Costas. He was a distinguished gentleman according to the people of Massachusetts. My personal opinion of the man was that he was a pompous ass. His hair was neat and tight about his scalp, polished with a finish that reflected in the dark. He had a nifty little mustache that curled up at the corners that he always smiled under. The bastard always had a smile. He said he was a writer who moved to Coal Den for research on a new book about the expansion of the west and for a little excitement from the boredom of upper class city living. I always felt he was aiming to profit from the less fortunate simple folk of Coal Den.
Across the table from me sat my personal savior, Jase Mcmasters. At the time he was nothing to me other than a scary son-of-a-bitch who had a way with poker. He had that look in his eyes like whatever was on the other side of them was something ain't nobody wanted to see. He was sitting with his boots up on a chair, his right arm hanging over the back of his own. His other arm was lying across the poker table holding his cards. He had an impressive horseshoe mustache and those damned grey eyes.
The four of us had been playing cheap pots all morning, but it was noon and the heat was making me irritable. I suggested we raise the stakes, but only because I knew I was probably folding anyhow since I made my money back. Summers called my raise and tossed in his last two dollars. Jase laughed from under his thick mustache. "You want me to think you learned how to play poker, or do you really have something?"
I looked at Jase in a passing glance and said, "Damn it, I fold." All I could do to fend off the oppressive heat was wipe my brow. I asked Jase, "What's it going to be? Not much left I suppose? I bet Costas here would take your nice new duster to keep you in. It would make him feel more local." I laughed and pointed at the new brown leather duster Jase had slung over his chair. With his Duster off, his pearl handled revolvers could be seen. His big hat lay crooked and low over his pale grey eyes. He looked over at Donald and chuckled.
"Aye, I suppose he would," he said as he tossed his duster over the center of the table. His cool eyes looked directly into Summers' eyes, then over to Don's. "I'm all in; it's your call, Mr. Costas."
Donald tugged at his suspender straps and swallowed hard. "I've got the money to chance this hand, Mr. Mcmasters. Do you?" He looked slyly at Jase with that confident grin as he slapped fourteen dollars on the table. His slick hair made no movement, but by the twitch in his eye, I could tell he was bluffing. He looked over to John whose cheeks were now as red as his shirt. Summer's belly slapped the table as he coughed into his rag.
"Hell, it's hot in here," John said as he plucked at his pair of deuces. He was hesitating because he was losing all he had in the world, which was sadly what I gave him. I was a little upset when I yelled at him.
"Well damn, what's it going to be," I yelled. "I want to see who wins the bastard of a pot before I head to the quarry." Jase looked relaxed and I could tell it worried John.
"Shit," yipped Summers as he laid the rest of his betting money on the pile. "All in." A pitch of desperation resonated in his voice. Jases' moustache danced as he smirked. He rolled his fingers on the table and looked to Donald.
"What have you got, pretty boy?" Jase said as he smiled to Donald. Don scowled and declared, "I believe you show first, Mr. Mcmasters." Jase picked up his cards and with two fingers tossed them face up to the center of the table. They were pocket aces.
"Awe for heaven's sake," John moaned as he pushed back from the table and took a shot of whiskey. Donald unbuttoned his collar and sighed, turning over a queen ace high.
"You, Mr. Mcmasters, have the luck of the devil," Donald said. "Nice hand, Sir." Donald then turned his attention to John taking yet another shot from the table.
I jested to John, "So, what do you have, Johnny boy? You know, drinking your sorrows ain't curing light pockets."
Summers replied, "Deuces," taking another shot before standing up.
"Gentlemen, I shall see you tomorrow for another round of throw your money at the cowboy with the funny hat," Donald said, as he picked up his cane and refastened his shirt collar. Jase was stuffing away his winnings and putting on his duster as he began to reply, "Yeah, bring more money for me next ti..." He was cut off by gunshots being fired outside the saloon.
"What in the hell is it now," I said as I tried to look out the window past Jase. Most of the people in the saloon gawked through the windows to search for the source of the shots. Donald seemed to be the most excited by the event. We all knew it was his first shooting since arriving west from Massachusetts. Three more shots echoed from the same gun. The gunman couldn't be seen, but his shots sounded close. Jase paid little attention to the shots. He had seen his fair share of killing and wasn't in the position to stomach more than he had to. He made his way to the bar in a less than excited pace.
"Barkeep, my effects," commanded Jase to the thin bartender who nodded and grabbed Jase's gun belt from behind the bar. Jase put on his belt with its worn leather holsters that hugged large silver .44 caliber revolvers. The trigger guards had been cut off and the barrel seemed longer than normal.
John Summers waddled toward the bar to pay his tab when Donald Costas interrupted him. "Not on my watch. I never let the loser buy his own drinks during my game, Mr. Summers." John smiled a smile that was obviously one of content sadness. He undoubtedly bet more than he should have.
I pried myself from the window and made my way toward the bar to pick up my own revolver and belt. It was a piece of junk I found wedged under a chicken coop one night, but it worked. Jase was standing on the walkway and was headed toward the road when another three rounds were fired. This time we could see where they were coming from. The saloon across the road was being robbed by a group of men.
"None of my business," I heard Jase say as he tried to ignore the shots. I saw a U.S. Marshall and the local sheriff Tim Williamson run toward the other saloon. I was kind of in shock being that it was noon and all. I hadn't even noticed the thud, but I was made aware of what was happening when I heard Donald yelling.
"Get in here, Jase," Donald yelled. Jase turned and looked up at the sign that read, "Strayer's Saloon." I could tell by his face he was upset as he dragged himself back towards the doors. He entered the saloon, which was mostly empty then. All but the barkeep and we poker friends had run off. Donald and I were leaning over John on the floor as the barkeep was soaking a rag in hard alcohol. Blood stained our hands and more blood was creeping down the wooden boards of the floor. A stray bullet had found its way from across the road and into my friend, John Summers. John was gagging and coughing bubbles of blood. I think he was begging me for help.
"Lungs," said Jase as he just stood there looking down at the horrific sight with stoic composure.
"What the hell are you talking about?" I yelled.
Jase continued, "Lungs, see the bubbles? It's a lung shot. There is nothing you can do."
I looked into John's eyes, which were full of tears and then up to Jase, longing for help. I looked back to John and started saying, "It's going to be all right, buddy." I didn't finish past going. I didn't have to. John lay with every inch of his large mass dead.
"Posse. Paid posse," was being yelled by Sheriff Williamson on the street.
"Bill, come on," said Jase as he turned from the corpse of our friend. His boot steps echoed. The vibration of the boards resonated through me and mixed the fire behind my eyes with the ice in my belly. I had never felt such anger in my life.
"How could you be so cold?" I began to yell, but all the energy left me in a burst, leaving me only able to whisper the last of the question. Jase exhausted a sigh through his nose as his jaw was clenched tight. I got up off my knees and cast a glance at Summers lying on the floor. I watched the blood leave his mass, using the space between the boards to escape the scene of the grizzly sight. I could relate as all I wanted to do was leave. All I could muster to say to him was, "You're right, Jase. I'm sorry." I looked over at Donald for a moment and then made my way out the door. The three of us were walking toward the street when Sheriff Williamson came running over. Jase looked past the sheriff's ten gallon hat and noticed the Marshall was helping a well-known deputy out of the saloon where the shots came from. It looked to us like the deputy took a slug to the leg and another in his side under the armpit.
"Jase, the men are getting together. I let you stay here knowing the kind of-" The sheriff was cut off by a hawk-eyed stare by Jase in his direction. Previously, Jase had been listening while gazing into the distance. "Well, I just figured you would say no, is all." The sheriff finished and waited for a response while chewing on the inside of his lip.
Jase looked up for a few seconds and then reestablished eye contact with the sheriff. "One of my friends is lying dead on the floor in there. I need no convincing, law man. If my friends here will ride, then so will I." Jase turned back to look at Donald and me standing behind him.
Donald had the look of a man trying to keep his calm. His eyes were darting around; the look of excitement was upon him. I was willing, but hell I was confused and scared, but Jase knew I was coming. He looked back at Sheriff Williamson and said, "We'll ride."
The sheriff stopped mutilating the inside of his mouth and darted to the next group of onlookers in search of more help. As he was running he yelled back at us, "Meet up at the big oak in fifteen." Donald and I were standing side by side waiting for guidance from Jase.
"I know you boys can play poker, but can you shoot a gun?" Jase asked the two of us as we watched him pull out his .44 and cycle the cylinders.
Donald was the first to reply. "Sure I can. I've been practicing my aim while everyone else makes a living out here."
I followed with, "I've had my share of practice," but that was years before. I hadn't fired a shot in years.
Jase placed his firearm back from where it came. "It can be hard to kill a man. If it comes down to it, you have to remember how they turned our friend into a heap of bleeding lard on that floor. If that's what it takes, then visualize that." Jase paused after speaking. He hadn't chosen his words wisely and he must have realized it by my expression. After seeing I had not taken to the harshness of his words, he continued. "You two get your horses and meet up at the oak in ten."
Time seemed to pass slowly. Donald and I rode up to the big oak tree on the hill above town where they hang folk. There perched under the big oak tree were a large group on their horses. The Sheriff was giving a speech about finding the transgressors alive and bringing them in for the law to decide what is just. Telling a group of men who were armed and willing to kill to keep their weapons at bay, "unless necessary to capture them dead," was a joke. It was amusing to me how they all ignored the sheriff and talked amongst themselves with plans on how they would bring them down and collect the coin.
I wasn't sure if it were a duty of friendship that called Jase into riding along or if it were something else that attracted him back into the saddle again. The war had left him torn inside, so he said, and although he survived its hardships, a piece of him lay in the rubble of some battle out there. He wasn't even sure which battle it was. Maybe it was all of them together. He had a nightmare of the fallen grabbing his legs and begging for help as he marched onward. He knew that stopping would mean ending his maddened crawl for help only to join their collection. It was a harsh reminder of the truths of war. Why, then, do this? Perhaps it was one of the pieces of him still lush with life that wanted an answer for John's death. He never told me why he did it.
The posse began to move as one large body and we had yet to see Jase. I thought maybe he turned yellow and abandoned the charge. We were heading south as one large moving mass of thirty or so riders. One of the horses broke away. It was a black Appaloosa and the rider was a mustachioed man wearing a nice leather duster. He broke off and rode alongside the mass heading north against the movement. The rider of the black steed then melded back into the mixture and greeted us as we pushed south.
"Found you," said Jase as he hailed me and Donald.
Before Jase met up with us, I had been stuck in that moment back in the saloon with John's corpse. Donald had been talking to the side of my head, but he didn't seem to care. The eastern bred boy was riding in a real live posse in the west and that seemed to be all he cared for. Jase's voice snapped me out of my stupor and stopped Donald's yapping. It had taken him some time to regroup with us and I couldn't tell why. As far as I could tell, he had done nothing but hop on his horse. The three of us were reunited and into the movement of the posse. Thirty men were riding in that group and only the three of us really knew why we were there.
I didn't know the men I called friends very well. I Thought I knew who I was, the hard-working man who stayed out of trouble and out of others' way. I knew who John Summers used to be back before we finally grew up and apart. He used to be like my own brother, but he became an acquaintance, a fat man and a drunk who did little for himself and nothing for nobody else. Donald Costas was just some rich Yankee looking for adventure. Well hell, if he didn't find it. Damn him for finding it the way he did.
He was gentleman enough, but he kept his distance. Buying a drink or two for a man you plan to rake over the coals at the poker table is far from kind. Then there is Mr. Mcmasters. The one person on God's green earth I never expected to grow accustomed to. It's funny how things do change and how quickly. You never really expect things to change, or at least I didn't. I never expected to own a farm full of green pastures or to call a beautiful woman, wife, and a healthy young boy, son. Not all change is bad or good. Change is just change and a man has to change with it or perish. These things were learned back in 1911 with the telegraph, electricity, auto loading high power pistols, and the car. They were spreading like wild fire across America. It would have been nice to have had a car back on that day when the thirty of us were heading south from Coal Den to Mexico through the Apache territory. It was rough terrain. There was little mercy by Mother Nature but we abided. We had to find the ones responsible for John's death.
We had been riding for almost three days straight. The Sheriff stopped to set up camp on top of a hill that looked over a valley ahead. He figured at night we could spot their camp fire and move in under the cover of darkness. If I were running from the law, I would be sure not to set up a fire at night for just that reason, and I figured them smarter than myself. I also figured setting up a fire up on the hill would let them know they were still being followed. The three of us had set up a cooking fire for a hare Jase caught and put the hare on a spit. Darkness was beginning to fall.
"Jase," I said. "Do you think we'll find the men who did in John?"
"Bill, I reckon we'll cut them off before long. It's dangerous, so they'll be moving slow," Jase answered.
Donald wasn't much for liking our conversation. He got up and left to talk with a few of the other men as excited as himself. Jase and I were content with the hare cooking over the fire and each other's silent company. There were rumors going about who had robbed the saloon back in Coal Den and killed three men, including John Summers. First they were saying it was Black Bart, but everyone knew he never hurt nobody. The man only robbed stage coaches. He was just a celebrity and they wanted to make the occasion momentous with their participation and all. Everyone else was determined it was Butch Cassidy who was supposedly dead deep in the south of Mexico. As far as I could tell, there was no knowing who done it. It was three men wearing sacks with the eyes cut out. That's all I knew. It was a little while into the night before Donald came back all stirred up in excitement.
"Hello fellas," he said, "I've got some news. The Sheriff says he spotted a camp fire off in the trees over yonder. He says we should stay put, but at least we know we're behind them."
I don't know why, but all I could say was, "Where is your cane?"
Donald squinted a little and laughed. "Where is my cane? Are you serious? We're out in the wild lands hunting murderers. What would I need with a cane?"
"I've just never seen you without your cane is all. Its strange, ain't it?" I asked. "All this time and we've only known the one side of each other."
"One side is good enough if you ask me, "said Jase. "It's when you get to know more about a man that bad things happen. What is the old saying, increase your knowledge, increase your pain?"
Donald started laughing at Jase and slapped my shoulder. "You boys are a hoot. In the morning we shall be upon the murderers and the reward money."
I slept for maybe two hours when I was startled awake by screams of terror and dirt being kicked into my face. I was sure we were being sacked by the bandits who killed John. I reached for my revolver, cocked the hammer, and rubbed the dirt out of my eyes. When I could finally see, I noticed a few of the men were moving about and looking over at our camp. Donald was rubbing the sleep from his eyes and looking over at Jase like everyone else was. He was lying in the dirt, kicking about, and mumbling to himself incoherently. His hands were clutching his thighs and he was grinding his teeth. It was the first time I witnessed Jase's night terrors. I couldn't get myself back to sleep, so I stayed up and watched him as he slept. There wasn't a moment during that night where he lay in peace.
In the morning the others were cooking up their breakfast and talking about Jase. Some of them were joking around, but mostly there was an uneasy approach to conversation about a man who screams in the night. If he wasn't being made fun of he was being watched carefully. We went on for another two days the same way until we reached the Olero Mesa. Jase had just been in a confrontation with one of the deputized men named Jim Basnet. He told Jase he knew he was a good-for-nothing killer. He said no man suffers night terrors like that without sin in him. I couldn't help but agree back then, but that was before I knew the truth. It was only an hour later that an arrow was shot into Jim Basnet's throat and the posse found itself under attack by the Apaches.
"Tell me something, Jase," I yelled. I was huddled by a large orange rock with my revolver in hand, but I had no natural direction on what to do. My fear had made me a fool.
"Get up and get out of the path. We'll have to take the high ground," Jase said.
We were going through the mesa, but the Apaches were above raining arrows down on us. I always thought the natives made yelling noises as they attacked white folk, but there was nothing, just the sound of arrows clapping off stone as they hit the bottom and the noise of people running for the lives through it all. We gathered up outside the opening, suffering only the one casualty of Jim and a few minor injuries. It was then the Sheriff called off the posse. He told us the bandits had passed into Apache grave lands and it was likely they were already dead. It was too dangerous to press on. I wasn't satisfied with that. Donald wanted nothing more than to continue on for the glory and riches. I'm not sure why, but Jase, too, was not interested in turning back. I was glad of that because I knew I needed him if I wanted to see those men dead. The only others who were willing to stay was the U.S. Marshall, Marshall Dickey, and one other man named Thomas Maxwell. He wanted to go back home, but he needed the reward money. The five of us watched as the posse turned its back and rode home to Coal Den with their tails between their legs. John would have his death answered to and I would make sure of that.
Right off the start, Jase was leading the group. He had an unnatural expertise when dealing with conflict. He remembered the positions of the natives who were shooting arrows down on us and he drew a tactical map in the dirt with a knife. The plan was that Jase would take me up the left side of the mesa until we reached the top. The U.S. Marshall would take Donald and Mr. Maxwell up the right side. Jase would then fire a shot letting the others know to rush in and ambush the native's back side as they had their attention on us. It was a good plan with an easy execution. The only problem was I was a chicken shit. There was something about the natives that had me uneasy. I think it was all the stories about the U.S. expanding west and having to fend off the scalp-hunting women killers I knew as Indians. Whatever it was, I was having a hard time getting up the courage.
Jase sat me down and explained that I would most certainly die if I were left alone without the group. The time for going home had passed and I had a friend to avenge. I took a little time to gather my thoughts. The more I thought about John's corpse on the floor of the saloon and how the men who killed him got away with five hundred dollars cash, the more I got angry. I was angry knowing they were running down the same path I feared to follow. I took my revolver, cocked the hammer, and aimed at the top of the mesa. "Let's go," I said.
After Life
By Michael Farina
One hundred and thirty-five days.
Cailin Riley woke before the sun had broken across the sky. After three decades of waking up before dawn to muck the pigs, a shift in scenery was not enough to throw off her habit.
She rolled over so that she was facing the nightstand, the comforter crinkling as she moved. The threads were old but still wrinkled after use. She could empathize with that. The nightstand, like the rest of the room, was bare. She had no possessions to display, and felt no inclination to find any. What good would it do to decorate someone else's room with trinkets and baubles acquired over the years? You did that to a home, and this was not her home. It was her son's. No amount of junk or knickknacks scattered over the dilapidated dresser and table could change that....Show More
When she had left her home in the country hills, she had abandoned everything, with one exception.
She slid open the nightstand drawer. "G' morn'in," she spoke to the dust-smeared black and white photograph she had secreted away. "It's another day, Liam."
The picture was old, taken on the eve of their wedding all those years ago. Liam had thought taking it was a waste of time, but, after some prodding, she changed his mind. He had been so nervous. The photographer had seated her in an ornate high-backed chair where the wave carved into the top would contrast with the flow of her gown. Next to her, still wearing his old sergeant's uniform, Liam stood stiff as a board out of the lumber yard.
He had always been superstitious. Maybe he had thought, by taking the picture then, before he shipped off later that month, that he would be destined to die on the battlefield. It didn't matter. Not really. It wasn't as if she could ask him, not any more.
Still, it was her favorite picture of him. What with his slicked hair and polished shoes, he cut quite the figure back in their younger days. As they had grown old together he had changed, but not in ways that mattered. He was still the man she had married. So what if he couldn't fit into an old pair of pants or the suit he wore on their wedding. That didn't matter. They weren't like the showy whelps that flocked to the city. Appearances were nice, but not everything.
"What mattered in a person could last long beyond youth." That was one of Liam's favorite quotes. He never had told her where he got it. She suspected he made it up. It sounded like something he would say. Liam was like that. No matter how he aged, one thing never changed. It was a part of why she loved him. Through every year of life, no matter what happened, he was an honest man, simple and tactless to a fault, but always honest.
Looking at the picture, she could see it. A light that would bare his soul to everyone that knew to look. On more than one occasion she had used that against him. Being honest had its own share of disadvantages, after all.
That light was gone now, except for the picture.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Dawn was fast approaching. Already the first stabs of light had torn through the fog that had blanketed the sleeping city. If she wanted to face another day, then she'd have to get her old bones moving.
One hundred and thirty-five days, a lifetime to go.
…
That evening, her two grandchildren were left in her care for supper. It wasn't so much that she disliked cooking for them. Quite the contrary, in fact. Just having something to do was a great comfort to her. Being stuck in this closed in box of a house was not exactly the best place to mourn the loss of the love of her life. Her son had tried to help by bringing her to live with them. She knew that he was only thinking of her wellbeing, and it was a nice gesture.
Unfortunately, the gesture didn't seem to work out nearly as well as he had originally intended. For all of her years, Cailin was neither slow nor unobservant. She might act like a country bumpkin as her daughter-in-law would put it, but little escaped her notice. She saw how her presence in the house had somehow driven a wedge into the family.
No, that wasn't quite right. Her being there might have driven the wedge deeper, but the divide had already existed long before she had entered the picture. She'd leave, but her son was right. She needed to be with people. Now was not the time for her to be secluded in her grief.
She knew this.
She understood this.
Didn't mean she liked it.
Her grandson saw some of this. He saw the wedge that her presence had created. He was an honest lad, easy to read. On the other hand— the granddaughter— was also easy to read, but not for any amount of honesty. She was a shrewd one. Only experience showed what was going on behind her eyes, and what she saw was much like herself at that age.
If she were to talk about this with the girl, she would think her mad, but that was the way of it. It was only natural to see a part of yourself reflected in your descendants. The young couldn't see this. It was a queer privilege reserved for the old.
With the girl, Maria, she could clearly see herself in more than her eyes. Maria had the same framing jaw line and drawn lips that she had back in her younger years.
When it came to her grandson, little Wyatt, he was like a mirror image of her Liam. Wyatt's cheeks lacked Liam's ruddy hue, but that was to be expected of a city boy.
The resemblance was so striking that Cailin had to watch herself around the boy. On more than one occasion she had nearly called him Liam. So far she had been good about avoiding that, but she could never be so sure. After her fifth glass of port, her memory always seemed to become hazy. She might have slipped up, but she hoped not. It would only ingrain the similarity.
It wouldn't have been so bad if the child was more like Liam in his manner, but it wasn't the case. Where Liam had been born and raised with the wild strength of the country hills, this boy was in his way a complete opposite. He was city born with all its pretension towards the finer things.
She gave a cough-like laugh at that last thought. People born in the city were always a bunch of stuffy bricks, and, at her age, the only thing left for her to do was to laugh at their show.
"Wyatt, Maria!" she called over to the next room. She had just finished cooking and was now in the process of setting the steaming pot down. The pot was heavy, but she could manage it. How could she call herself a country girl if one single pot gave her pause?
Maria was the first to take her seat at the table, followed soon after by a smoldering Wyatt. He took his seat and stared contemptuously at the pot resting in front of his plate. She could see it in his eyes. He hated it. Not like she was expecting anything different, though. The boy was chalk full of piss and vinegar. Sooner or later her son would have to sort that out of him. At least he had the guts to act though. None of those other wimp city boys would have pulled some of the stunts like him. There might be hope for him yet, once he got that temper of his under control that is. Until then, her son would have his hands full with that one.
"Eat," she said. "It's better hot."
Maria served herself and quietly went to eating, but Wyatt made no move to serve himself. He simply kept on staring at the pot. Then, slowly, he turned his head to face her. His eyes were drowned in that intense, naïve hate that children possess.
All that unrelenting hate he held for her forced at a glance from his all too honest eyes.
From Liam's eyes.
It had been one hundred and thirty-five days. Today marked day one hundred and thirty six.
And still a lifetime to go.
Finding the Words
By Michael Farina
His heart spilled onto the canvas. Each brush stroke rapid, hurried. He had to work faster, faster still, before the image faded from his mind. It was so close. That one ideal, that one thought he struggled to bring to life.
Another stroke, broad. It consumed the background. A jab at the ground. Quick. Frantic, it was so close, nearly done.
A long flowing drawl of in. No, that was wrong. The drawl needed to be a torrent.
Yeah, that was better....Show More
He got up from his stool, the air rushing into his lungs in a deep breath. It was funny. Painting was the art of silent contemplation and precise detail, yet when he painted it was never like that. It was tiring, a flood of heart and mind that left him drained.
It was done. Now for the real challenge.
He fished his cell out of his coat hanging on the wall. Illiya had called four times. The messages were piled up in his inbox. She knew he couldn't call back, but he could listen. That much he was still capable of.
The messages could wait till later. Right now all that mattered was bringing her here. He punched through the menus till he brought up her name, then sent her his address and a single word, "Come."
It was darker than he had realized. When he had started painting, the dawn light had shown clearly through the loft windows. Now the only light came from the single bulb hanging from the rafters. He must have turned it on at some point; it was hard to remember when. The entire day was a blur, a tangle of colors seen through a fractured prism.
Outside a street lamp flickered and died. Its filament broken, time had finally taken its fee.
He wasn't sure when she arrived. He was caught up in the canvas once again. Not with a brush, but with his eye. No painting was ever truly complete. There was always a correction to be made, a line to lengthen, a curve to sharpen.
"Is this it?" Illiya's voice pulled him back. She was here— they were both here. This was the moment he had been working for. This was everything.
He stepped out of the way, urging her closer to the painting. She leaned in close. A lock of red hair fell across her cheek, her pale skin glowing under the harsh light.
She stood silently before the canvas, her beautiful pale eyes as critical as his.
She had to see. She had to feel his hand in the dye, his thoughts in the flow of the ink. She had to know the words that he could not say.
Finally she straightened out and looked to him. Her eyes were red, the lids swollen. How hadn't he noticed that?
She spoke. "I'm leaving." She turned and left. The steel frame of the loft's elevator clanged shut as she descended.
The world shattered.
Stay Alive
By Thomas Erhardt
Watch him instinctively draw his firearm, urged by the moans of the dead lurching just out of sight. The instinct had been drilled into him by his father and sixteen years of service to the United States Army. If only they had taught him how to make ammo from nothing. "Oh crap," said Scott. His colt 1911, gifted to him by his war-hero father, had been out of ammo for three days. Scott surveyed the dilapidated room for weaponry. The ruins offered a five foot length of rebar and an overturned stool by the only window. Scott holstered the heirloom and pulled the rebar that sprung from a gash in the wall. Stooping low across from the only window in the room, Scott studied the doorway to his right. The room was dimly illuminated by shafts of light passing through the window and breaks in the walls....Show More
Scott gripped the rebar with sweaty palms. His heart beat rapidly. He could hear the ghoul shambling down the hallway, pounding the wall as it marched closer. He imagined what it looked like; worms protruding from its eyes, teeth naked and menacing on its fleshless face, its tongue slapping the inside of its mouth. He silently prayed to God that it would shamble past and leave him be. The pounding on the wall ceased and the shuffling of its feet became ever present.
Its fingers coiled around the doorway. The flesh on them was golden in color and in some places bone was free of restriction. Scott began to shake the rebar, taming the adrenaline coursing through his body. Erecting himself in preparation for what was to come, Scott reminded himself it sounded like only one and he had this under control. The ghoul awkwardly shifted its body sideways through the doorway and before it could turn to face Scott, Scott charged and bashed it over the head with the rebar. The rebar broke, leaving Scott with a few feet of it left. He tried to regain the upper hand by jamming through the ghoul's head with what was left of the rebar, but the ghoul swiped the air with respectable strength, sending Scott to the floor.
"Son-of-a-bitch," said Scott as he crawled on his back toward the wall, the rebar still in his grip. He noticed the thing must have been a farmer before. It was a lumbering beast, ugly and disfigured. It still had on work boots and a flannel jacket typical of Pennsylvania rough necks. It made its way toward Scott. Scott leapt to his feet and braced himself against the wall; he held the rebar with both hands, extending it outward in a defensive stance. The ghoul came closer, its grotesque abomination of the human form more noticeable with each step. Scott had no route of escape that he could see, so he held the ghoul back with the rebar as he thought of a plan.
The ghoul's large hands groped and tugged at Scott's black Kevlar vest. It occasionally gripped him firm enough to bash him against the crumbling wall. Scott noticed the ghoul's face. Its eyes were glazed with the emptiness of death, each eye looking in opposite directions, neither of them at Scott. It bit at the air wildly, its teeth gnashing. Dry cracked lips revealed thin and amber receding gums. The nose had been cleaved off leaving two holes in the face above the mustache. Its left ear was missing and there were human bite impressions all over.
Fear took form in Scott's throat. It worked its way up from his gut, leaving an empty shiver in its wake. He wanted to scream, but he knew if he did, the sound could bring more of them. The drywall supporting his back began to weaken and buckle. He could think of no escape. The image of teeth tearing his flesh and gnawing his bones took hold of his thoughts.
The familiar boom of a .50 caliber rifle rang loud in the distance. Seconds later, the ghoul's head splattered, sending blood, bone, and brain in all directions. The wall finally gave way to the pressure. Crashing through the wall, Scott fell outside on his back. The headless and decomposing corpse followed directly after, pinning Scott between its rot and the ground below. A surge of static coursed through his ligaments and knuckles, compelling him to frantically swat the thing off of him. He wiped the blood from his face and cleaned his hands on the dead farmer's jacket. "Big son-of-a-bitch," he said as he patted the farmer's pockets. He noticed something solid.
"Don't take this the wrong way, fella." Scott discovered a set of keys in the pants pocket. A blue rabbit foot dangled from the chain. "Wasn't much luck for you, huh?" He stuffed the keys in his vest and continued to find a box of matches and a pocket knife. "These should come in handy," Scott said.
Gazing up from the corpse and to the northern hillside, Scott scanned for the shooter. The oppressive summer sun was on its way down. The calm and eerie aura enveloped the small country farm. The trees in the distance rustled in the light breeze. "Now, I wonder who shot your head clean off. I'd like to thank him for saving my ass." Scott cleaned off his military issued cap with his knee and looked carefully around the house for the garage. He already searched the house and found nothing but the farmer ghoul.
He found it at the back of the house. A perfect condition, 1973, candy-apple-red, Cadillac Eldorado perched right outside with an ivory top and a chrome grill. It was rare to find a whole vehicle these days, let alone one like this. He hadn't seen a decent car in years.
He entered the garage first. There was no need to check the engine until he finished rummaging around. It was too dark to see inside the garage. Luckily, there was enough fuel in the lantern hanging outside to keep a flame. The matches did come in handy after all. Inside the garage were a typical workbench, dirt floors, and racks of tools. Scott raised the lantern up and noticed a banister framing a second floor. The light of the lantern reflected off the glass doors of a gun cabinet above.
"My God," Scott whispered as he retrieved the rabbit's foot and keys and made his way directly to the gun cabinet. He could see there were guns inside and the excitement of it forced a smile. He placed the lantern on the railing behind him and used the smallest key on the keychain to unlock the doors. Inside remained a Remington 870 twelve gauge shotgun, a Winchester 30/30 lever action rifle, and a bucket full of random ammunition. Some of the ammo looked to be self-loaded, but these days any ammo was good ammo. Finding enough .45 caliber bullets to fill his three magazines, he loaded them and put the few extras in his pants pocket. He brought everything down to the Cadillac where he loaded the rifle and shotgun.
"Let's see about that shooter with the .50 cal," he said. The engine failed to start and he noticed the gas gauge read empty. After inspecting the vehicle, he discovered a single bullet had found its way into the car, putting a hole through to the gas tank. "And here I thought you were lucky," Scott said to the rabbit's foot. He ripped it from the chain and tossed it away. Scott found some duct tape to seal the hole but failed to produce any gas to fill the tank back up. "I guess I'm hiking it," Scott said. He left the ammunition bucket and the shotgun in the car and headed north. Scott wanted to thank whoever saved him--he even hoped to find some gas--but more than that, he wanted some human contact. He was used to being a loner-before the event he preferred it that way but years of isolation warrants a conversation or two.
****
Nobody had a name for it. It wasn't a plague. There were no CDC tents being set up along every coastal city. The dead could bite you. They could bite your damn arm off and it wouldn't matter. It's when they killed people that things went bad. That's when people came back, different. The dead rose in all stages of decomposition. That first week, people believed they had hold of the situation. Maryland boasted, "We're in the clear; no Zombies here," like a tourism advertisement. But people got scared and more people started dying. Violent crime was on the rise and natural death was consistent as always. The number of risen became unbearable. It was the same on every continent. After two weeks, there were no more communications available for the people and any semblance of government went with it.
Scott was home on leave the day it started, to say goodbye to his father. Cancer had been sucking his father's life for years and the oncologist said this would be the end. At the hospital, Scott watched his role model die. For the first time since he could remember, his father looked peaceful. He father was a hard man, a Nazi-killer, and a lifelong state trooper. After his father died, he woke up, and tore out the throat of Scott's mother. Her blood quickly painted the hospital bed and floor a rich shade of red. Scott was in a state of shock. He pulled his mother from his father's maddened hold, brandished the colt 1911 his father used in the war, and shot him in the head. Scott turned to help his mother, but she had already bled out. The idea that this could all be some crazy zombie nightmare didn't occur to him until his mother stood up and attacked him. He shot her in the head, too.
Security guards ran into the room, yelling at him to drop the weapon. Nurses were outside screaming, "He's got a gun" "and, "Oh my God!" People were frantically running down the halls to escape the mad man with a gun. They didn't know. They didn't know; by night's end, most of them would be dead. That first day, hospitals were the worst place to be.
Scott dropped his colt and went to his knees. He wasn't sure if he went mad or if he really murdered his parents. After all, he was diagnosed with PTSD after his second tour of combat duty. Before the guard could cuff Scott, an armless doctor ran into the room and closed the door. He had tubing as a tourniquet to stop the stump of his arm from bleeding; blood soaked his clothes. "He died! I screwed up his surgery and he died! His chest was lying wide open! My God, tell me how!?" The doctor sunk into the corner of the room, hitting his head of the wall and rocking back and forth to comfort his confusion.
A man, with his chest surgically folded open, stood outside the door. The same empty gaze of Scott's parents was on his face. In his grip was the surgeon's gnawed arm and he repeatedly slapped it against the door. The guard was not panicked. He told Scott to pick up the colt and reached for the doorknob, saying, "On the count of three." Scott confirmed with a nod. "One…two…three…"
****
Everything was still and calm. The trees surrounding the farm would occasionally sweep in the wind. At the peak of the hill, he could see a sprawling valley below that gave home to an old red barn that fell into disrepair. Only one door could be seen and thin unpainted boards were shoddily nailed up where there were faults in the exterior. Scott made his way to the barn. A strange sensation tickled his spine and pinched his sides. It was only a short time ago one of the risen nearly tore him to pieces. The thought of being in close quarters with another one put Scott on edge. He needed to call out, to either the man who saved him, a barn full of walking dead, or nothing at all, but he wasn't going inside.
"Hello," he said. No response. He peered through the doorway; the single hinged door creaked suddenly. "Shit," he yelled as he jumped and readied the lever action rifle. Nothing moved. He waited, frozen in place. The door creaked once more, pushed by the wind. He lowered the rifle, leaned against the barn, and looked out to the setting sun. He thought to himself he should head back to the car and either rest in it or on the roof of the garage. Soon it wouldn't be safe to be outside and the shooter was nowhere to be found. This was as far as he would look.
"Drop the gun," a muffled voice commanded suddenly, startling Scott.
"Who are you?" Scott asked.
"Drop the gun. I'll shoot right through the damn wall," the disembodied voice demanded once more.
"Now listen here," said Scott. "I will not disarm myself out here in these woods. You'll either have to shoot me or lighten up. I mean you no harm. I came to thank you for saving my ass down there in the farm hou…" A gunshot blasted; It shot through the wall to the right of his head, sending splintering wood into his face.
"Whoa! What the hell are you doing?" Scott yelled as he dropped to the ground and rolled to a nearby tree.
"I don't like your tone. I asked you to drop your guns. You can have them back when I'm done talking to you. I don't trust strangers and I ain't having you mess with me mister. So leave now or drop your weapons," the voice said.
After a pause to think, Scott said, "Alright, alright. I'm leaving the guns at the tree and then I'm coming out from behind it." Scott leaned his rifle and pistol against the tree, put his arms out, and stepped out from behind its protection. A figure emerged from the shadow of the doorway. It was ghostly pale and thin where flesh shown. Long and black greasy hair flowed from behind a gas mask. The figure was wearing military issue BDU pants tucked into boots, the BDU jacket tied around the waist. The .50 caliber Barrett rifle was slung over its shoulder, and a Glock 23 steadied in Scott's direction.
The figure stepped aside and motioned with the gun for Scott to enter the barn. He willingly complied. Something about this person made him trust they wouldn't simply kill him without reason, especially after whoever it was rescued him.
"Take a seat," the figure said. It motioned to a singular chair in the middle of the barn. Inside there were stacks of hay all around and a ladder that reached up to a loft that held a sleeping bag covered in hay and a duffle bag. He could hear the slide pulling back on the Glock, and he heard the loud smack it made when it was released. The figure stepped out in front of him, holstered the Glock, and pulled back the gas mask.
"You're a woman," said Scott.
He thought she looked beautiful in some savage Amazonian way.
"Is that a question?" the woman said. She hung the gasmask on a nail that stuck out from a support beam. "What's your name?"
Scott stared for a moment and stammered the words, "Uh, Scott. Scott Baabriarn.
"Well, Scott, I'm Liza. Welcome to my casa. What are you doing here?" she asked.
"You saved me. I wanted to thank you and maybe grab some gas if you knew where I could find any," said Scott. He looked around and found a gas can. "Is that full?"
Liza looked at the can. "It just so happens it is. What is it to you?"
"There is a Cadi down at the farm. If we go now, we can get there before dark and head out in the morning," said Scott.
"Whoa, slow down, mister. I'm safe here. This place is safe. I ain't going nowhere," Liza said with confidence as she crossed her arms.
"Safe," said Scott. "Safe is a word without meaning. It used to be a place you kept your shit locked up, a feeling of security. It's a fleeting memory, lady. At most it's an idea you can see in your head. Safe is a place where they can't get you, and I haven't found it yet."
Liza shook her head and rolled her eyes. "That zombie I wasted for you was the first I've seen in a month. I've got food growing all around me. I've got a place up here to stay, a roof over my head. You can take the gas mister, but I ain't going nowhere. As for making it by dusk, take a look outside."
Scott looked outside and realized it was too dark to travel back to the farm house. "Mind if I bunk up here for the night?" Scott asked.
"Sure," she said. "Get your guns. I'll make you a bed and start a fire."
****
They sat around a fire cooking in a barrel in the center of the barn. Liza prepared some corn in a metal pot of boiling water.
"So you never fired a shot since you've been up here?" Scott asked.
"No, never." Liza picked some corn from her teeth. "I saw that one down there from time to time. It would pick up a shovel and smack the dirt a bit and then go back inside. I've seen him maybe four times since I've been here. I never had any reason to shoot him until you showed up."
"Well, I thank you for that," said Scott. "I was out of ammo and cornered. I'd be a dead man if you hadn't. Were you in the military? I noticed you have lots of military equipment."
Liza laughed. "Oh God, no. I'm not that stupid. These were my husband's."
"Hey now," said Scott. "I served sixteen years in the Army. I'm not entirely stupid." He laughed a bit. "So your husband was in the military? Is he dead?"
Liza's face soured. "No, my husband was a military nut, but he was too weak to ever join up. He wouldn't hurt a fly. He was a good man. His daddy was a rough man, a military man. He made Dave feel like he had to be a certain way. It just wasn't in his nature. He loved these things and they've come in handy…for me."
Scott nodded. "What happened to him, if you don't mind me asking?"
"The local militia came sweeping through the town killing everyone outside their homes. At the time they didn't know it wasn't a disease. They thought everyone who was bit would be sick. They didn't even know you had to shoot them in the head. They were just dealing death; people were scared and running wild on the streets. The dead started getting up and going into homes, eating everyone. Dave had a little bunker where he kept everything. He took his AR15, locked me inside, and said he would be right back. His eyes told me goodbye. After a few days, I tried getting out. The door was jammed. I managed to open them enough to wiggle through. I found him lying sprawled out on the doors. There had to have been twenty dead around him. He shot himself in the head, the rifle emptied."
Scott looked Liza in the eyes. "I'm sorry for your loss. I took off to my cabin up by Lake Pymatuning after I watched my dad rip my mother's throat out in the hospital room he died in. I didn't know what the heck was happening. I thought I was going crazy."
"Hey, we've all had some heavy shit to deal with. We're still kicking for a reason, right? Why don't we get some rest," Liza said.
Scott shushed her."You hear that?" Scott tilted his head in listening.
Something scraped against the barn. The sound of something being drug across the dirt startled them both; they looked at each other with alarm. Liza loaded a round into the Berrett and lay prone on the loft, aiming at the doorway. Scott grabbed the Winchester rifle and knelt above the ladder. Whatever was dragging came closer and closer to the doorway. The door jolted, causing a hair-raising thud to echo through the barn. The barn door slowly nudged open. A very decomposed corpse shambled through the door, dragging its broken right leg. Its eyes were bulging and floating in lidless sockets. The bottom jaw had been broken and stuck agape. Its tongue flapped freely, but lacking saliva it looked shriveled like a small potato.
Firing a round from the 30/30 Winchester, Scott shot the ghoul dead between the eyes. The corpse slumped back onto the ground. Before he could snap the lever down and back, another risen shambled through the door. Liza dispatched the second one, the Berrett resounding through the barn, deafening Scott temporarily. He rubbed his ears and ignored the ringing.
Two more entered through the barn. "What is happening?" Liza asked. Panic stained her face. Scott ran over and stuffed her belongings into her duffle bag. "We have to get out of here," he said. "Your gunshot from saving me must have lured them to us. They must be leaving the cities to look for people like us."
"Where will I go? What do I do?" Liza asked in a stupor. Scott shoved the duffle bag into her chest. "I'm going to Alaska," he said. "You coming?"
"Alaska," she said." What do you mean, Alaska? "
Scott grabbed the gas can and looked for another way out. "Because the last two winters they barely came around. As soon as summer hit, they were all over."
"Why not just go north to Canada? It's a lot closer than Alaska," Liza said.
Scott kicked open the hay loft hatch. "There are none back here. We drop down and run straight for the Cadi. We can do this."
"Why Alaska?" Liza asked louder.
Scott laughed. "Cause, it's American," he said, as he jumped out of the hay loft.
What Lies Between Them
By Jordan Williams
It is a cold night and the draft from the window sweeps in and envelopes the small room. Annabelle and Derek lay on the bed, back to back in silence, looking at the plain white walls of the bedroom. Annabelle's bare shoulders quiver to the chill of the night and she searches for more of the blanket to cover her bare body. Derek fights the tugs of the blanket to keep warm.
"We are going to have to talk about this, Annabelle," Derek whispers. The words slip from his mouth slowly and disappear with the sweeping winds of the night. Annabelle stays silent, pretending not to hear anything.
"I am sorry for ever disappointing you," he utters after the immense silence. Annabelle stirs for a moment, but remains silent. The only sound that is heard is the flapping of the blinds against the window pane.
"I don't know what to tell you, Derek. This whole thing is so messed up and I don't know how we got like this," Annabelle finally says with a shudder.
"I still love you. You know that, right?" Derek says as he turns over to look at Annabelle. She didn't move to face him, but felt his eyes burn into her back. He begins to run his finger along the soft skin of her back, tracing each vertebrae. "Please say something."...Show More
Tears fill her eyes as she begins to think of the past and how they were before everything got so complicated. Dinners in the city, romantic movies at the drive-in, and lovely walks in the park seem so distant now. All that composed their relationship was fighting, disappointment, and anger-filled sex.
"I don't know that you even love me anymore," Annabelle answers him finally. With that, she turns around and faces him. His eyes gleam in the soft moonlight and his hair quietly sways with the wind. His face is solemn and tired. She knows that he doesn't want to fight anymore.
He moves his hand on top of hers and stares into her crystal blue eyes. With his other hand, he strokes her oaky brown hair from her face. The long curls perfectly accent her slender body underneath the thin white blanket. She looks so elegant to him and he can't help but have a soft spot for her. They share so many memories with each other that it is hard to let her go.
"What do you want to do, Annabelle?" he asks her. She looks at him with a quizzical look and contemplates between what she should do and what she wanted to do. Should she stay in a rollercoaster relationship that has been going on for years? Should she leave before any more damage can be done? Would she ever find someone with the same connection?
There is no clear answer in her mind, so she decides to stare back into his eyes. She tries to search for the answers in them, but there are none. "I don't know" is all that she can mutter out of her mouth.
While she stares hopelessly in his eyes, all he can think about is the last time that they were truly happy. It was months ago and it was the day that they both decided to play hooky. He didn't have much to do at the firm that day and she decided to finally take a sick day from the hospital.
The two of them spent a lovely morning having breakfast in bed and watching the world news. The sun was out and showed promise of a beautiful day. They had a perfect night before and the morning just added to their bliss.
"I think I finally want to talk about making us more than just this," he said to her while motioning to the unkempt bedroom. She agreed to this statement with a long nod and a big smile because those were the words she had been longing to hear. They had talked about this subject many times, but that day he was finally serious to take the next step. He knew that their chemistry was hard to find, so he wanted to hold onto it.
"I want to be together for a long time, Derek. I love you, and I know that we fight, but I don't want to lose you," she said. That is all he needed to hear from her because he felt exactly the same way. The peaceful day ended, of course, and the storm in their relationship began again. Since that day, they no longer have conversations about taking the next steps. Their conversations are short, if they even have any, and not filled with the love they once had.
As the memory of that splendid day begins to slip away with all the other good memories, Derek is brought back to reality, his reality. Recovering from the memory he sees that she is still firmly focused on him.
"What were you thinking about, Derek?" she asks in a slow, soft voice. "Nothing," he blurts out. He doesn't want to tell her about the memories he was dreaming of in fear that she might be nostalgic and they would go back to the same routine that they have been in for the past couple years.
He leans in towards her, never breaking his grasp on her hand, and softy caresses her lips with his. This jolts her very being. His kiss is like a dozen small needle pricks on her lips. The feeling is numbing as well as a kind of euphoria. It takes her back to the time that they shared their first kiss.
It was a rainy day and so they decided to stay in for the night. He prepared a wonderful meal for her and even rented her favorite chick flicks. She had been seeing him for a week and a half, but it seemed longer. She didn't expect to meet anyone like him, but was glad she did.
After the meal, they turned on a movie and snuggled up on the couch in his living room. It was plush and so comfortable that she didn't want to ever move from the spot under his arm. The night seemed to be in slow motion and she savored every minute.
During the last minutes of the final movie, he turned his face and looked down at her under his arm. Her hair was softly curled and hung carelessly about her face. He slowly moved the curls and lightly touched his lips to hers. It was soft and sensual. It was simple. She knew then that they would have a love like no other.
Sighing for the loss of that simple, sweet moment, Annabelle comes back to reality, her reality. "What is it?" Derek asks her as he pulls away, disconnecting from her lips. "Nothing," she says with a disappointed tone.
They stare once more at one another, hoping that the other will have something to say. Then Derek closes his eyes and waits in silence. He needs to hear the words from her. He is too weak to sever the ties himself.
Soon after he does this, he feels her hands move to his face. She brushes his hair out of his eyes and says, "Open your eyes, Derek. I have something to say." As he opens his eyes, he sees her tearing up before him. Though her vision is getting cloudy by the tears, she never breaks her stare.
"I have never experienced these feelings before and I want to thank you for it. When it was good, it was really good, and when it was bad, it was horrible. At least I know now that I am capable of having those kinds of emotions."
He doesn't know how to feel about what she just stated. It isn't something that comes to his mind, but he is glad she is being honest. "I think we both know that this is not healthy." She nods in agreement and releases his head from her hands.
"I love you," she whispers. "I love you, too," he whispers back.
It is done. They have finally put an end to the craziness. Derek turns away from her and sits up on the bedside. He clasps his hands around his head and a tear drips from his eye. Annabelle doesn't move. She lies in the bed gazing at Derek, seeing what he will do next.
After minutes of silence, he opens the drawer of the nightstand and takes a small object out of it. He slides the round sphere around his left ring finger, stands up, and walks out of the room.med before I blacked out.
Kerin Home
By Michael Farina
…
The clock radio on the bedside table switched on. The glowing numbers flashed 6:59 am. Nestled in the folds of the comforter, Kerin pulled her pillow tight around her head and snuggled deeper into the down.
"Good morning, Pittsburgh!" the overenthusiastic DJ on the radio shouted. Kerin groaned, rolled over, then rolled back. The other side was cold, unused, just as it had been for the last thirty-four mornings. "It's a beautiful day today. Clear grey skies far as the eye can see. As always, I'm your host, Jimmy Nicks."
Kerin pushed herself into a sitting position, turned a bleary eye to the time, and stretched her arms back behind her head until the tips of her fingers brushed against the crown of the headboard....Show More
Her first group of students wasn't scheduled until eleven, when the route through the Fort Pitt tunnel would be clear enough for them to make the trip north of Mt. Washington. Until then, the rest of her morning would be free.
Getting up, she picked her way through the scattered piles of clothes that had been collecting over the last week-and-a-half and slid into the washroom. After a hot shower, she pulled a worn green robe off the hook on the wall. The robe had been a gift from her mother nearly fifteen years ago, back when she was still alive.
Breakfast was simple, a single piece of toast and orange juice while she waited for the coffee pot to fill. The faint music from the radio in the bedroom made its way down the stairs. Kerin remembered the song. It was from the early 90's, but she couldn't place the name.
She sighed, rinsing off the dishes before setting them to dry. "Must be getting old."
…
Her studio was in the condo's basement. Three potter wheels were set up in the center of the room. Two were for her students. The third was reserved for personal use. A layer of dried clay had built along the edges after she had spun a new jar yesterday. She would have to clean it before her students arrived.
Rows of shelves lined the walls, each laden with a mix of pottery from both her students and her. The case directly opposite the stairs was special. The top was closed off. A translucent glass plate kept the dust off the best of her student's work within.
She filled a bucket with hot water from the faucet, threw in a torn rag from a pile under the counter, and moved to the first wheel. Cleaning it was a simple affair. It wasn't difficult to sooth the dregs from her last vase out of the creases, but it took time. Each pass with the rag loosened the hardened clay until it would soften, come loose, and fall away bit by bit. A pad of steel wool would have taken care of it within minutes, but she liked the slowness and precision. It gave her time to think. Time to forget the last few weeks, her fiancée walking out of the ER screaming that he was sick of her and "that bitch mother of hers", or her friend Julia hanging off his arm the day before the funeral.
She had just finished the wheel basin and was about to move on to the drip pan beneath when the doorbell rang. She checked the clock on the wall. It was only 8:46, too early for her students.
The doorbell chimed twice more as she dried her hands on a smock that had been tossed to the side of the stairs. She stopped before the door, one hand on the deadbolt as she looked through the eyehole.
Slouching on the other side was a balding man in a patched grey jumpsuit. The name Billy Pole was stitched above the breast pocket.
"Can I help you?" she called through the door.
"Morning, ma'am," he said, followed by a nod to the eyehole. "Landlord sent me about the plumbing."
Kerin's fingers curled around the edge of the lock, her other hand tightened on the handle. "Uhm, I'm sorry," she said. "There's nothing wrong with the water. You must have—"
"Look, Ma'am, the boss said to check it, so I'm going to check it. Don't make me get my keys."
It was hard to tell through the limited sight of the eyehole, but she could see the handle and top of a toolbox in his calloused grip. "How long do you think this will take?" she asked.
"Only be a second, and I'll be out of your hair. Alright?"
"A-Alright." She slid back the deadbolt and unchained the latch.
The man trudged his way into the kitchen. Kerin had to suppress a shudder when the steel toolbox the man carried nicked the wall by the stairs.
"Let's see now," the man said to himself. "Pipes are usually in the basement so…" He paused for a second then turned to Kerin. "Where're the stairs down?"
Kerin pointed past the fridge, "O-over there. It's the second door. First is the bathroom."
He grunted. "That your radio playing?"
"Ohh, sorry, I'll turn it down."
"No." He scratched at the stubble starting to poke out at the base of his jaw. "Turn it up. It's better than listening for rats."
…
By the time Kerin stepped into her room the radio had already turned off at 8:50, just as she had programed it to.
Years ago, after she had first moved in, the landlord told her that the building echoed. Within an hour he had been proven right. If she spoke on the ground floor, a guest in the upstairs bedroom would be able to hear her without having to strain. Although this could get annoying when she had guests over, it also meant that turning up the radio in one room would be enough to fill the entire house, even down in her studio.
She pressed the power button on the side. Nothing happened. It wasn't that odd. She had bought the machine nearly a decade ago in a garage sale. The power and volume buttons didn't always catch the first time. She pressed again, harder this time.
"—and that was the latest single from the South Side's own Day's Night." Kerin's hand brushed against the two sets of dials before turning up the closer one. The radio got louder. "Here's something for all my listeners out in the Oakland area. Police are still looking for the man suspected in the shooting last night. No news on what he looks like, but he is known to be armed and dangerous. He's already killed one man in an aborted robbery and seriously injured two cops." Kerin hit the power. No effect. "Really folks, if you're in the Oakland area, watch out. Enough of the serious stuff. Up next is an oldie from—" She yanked out the power cord. The sound cut off.
"No," she sat on the edge of the bed, her breath shuddering in and out. "No— no that's crazy. There's no way that— I mean, what are the chances that…" She took a deep breath and held it until her hands steadied, then let the air leak through her parted lips. "I'm just being paranoid, that's all."
She went back down to the basement. The radio was still unplugged.
…
"What took you?" Billy asked. He was bent over an exposed panel that had been pulled from the wall. In the open space a mass of pipework led into a gauge that was fixed to the intersection of two lines marked hot and cold.
"Oh, I, uh," She ran the hem of her shirt between her thumb and index finger. "I-I tripped on the stairs."
He grunted. "What about the radio?"
Her hand clenched, the fabric wrinkled. "It's broken," she blurted.
"Broken, huh?" he snorted. "Women."
Kerin moved closer to the stairs. "I'll let you get back to- to whatever you were doing."
"No, I need a wrench." He pointed to the rusted toolbox on her wheel's seat. "Make yourself useful, would you."
She flipped the latch that held the box shut and opened the lid. There were three screwdrivers, a pair of pliers, a ratchet with ten interchangeable heads, a bundle of zip ties, and a half used roll of electric tape, but no wrenches. "I don't-"
"The bottom's false," he said. "Pull it out." She tugged at the side, it didn't budge. "For the love of…" He trailed off, stomped over to the box, twisted the handle buried under the zip ties, and pulled the top plate out.
She looked in. As he had said, the wrench was underneath next to an unused roll of electric tape, a tape measure, two sticks of caulk, and – she froze.
"Th-that's... Oh God. Why do you have…"
He ignored her and reached into the toolbox. His hand slid over the dark metal, fingertips playing around the well-worn grip. "You mean this?" He drew it out. The dull light of the room shadowed the grooves and nicks that had been gouged along the shaft. "What can I say? It's a dangerous world out there. Pittsburgh, Oakland, who'd have thought it'd be full of robbers and cop killers. Look a man in the eye, get a knife in the back. Lots of sickos, you know. That's where this beauty comes in." He swung the muzzle around till it was pointing at her chest. "Just point, click, and-" he made a popping sound. "Problem solved."
She backed away from him until she hit the shelf. Vases rattled from the collision. A pot on the top fell and shattered on the concrete floor. She was only two feet from him, too close. Two feet wouldn't even be a challenge for him. She couldn't escape.
"This city, the people." He snorted. "They're all the same. Two parasites lashed together, each draining the other's carcass- it's disgusting. This place used to be a giant heap of ash, and you know what, nothing changed. Sure, it looks better now, all nice and clean. Just don't look too close or you'll see all the filth plastered behind the freshest coat of paint. Oh, but you know this, don't you. You live here, in this pit. Nothing good will ever grow. Better to burn it all."
He smiled. "Are you scared?"
She shook her head. Her hands were trembling.
"Thought so." His lips parted and cracked as he laughed. It was a sick, wet sound, like the death rattle of a serpent intoxicated by its own venom, not right.
Kerin didn't think. She grabbed a vase off the shelf, closed in on Billy, and brought it down on his head. He collapsed, scalp cut open, blood running down his face. The gun fell from his hand into the box. She grabbed it before he recovered.
Billy started to pull himself up, his back braced against a wheel. "You bitch!"
She steadied the gun on his chest, both hands fixed in a death grip around the handle. He raised his head, eyes fierce, deadly and grey. "I'll get you for this." He snarled. His lip curled back over sharp yellowed teeth. "So help me, I'll see you—"
"You're wrong." She fired.
