This is a sci-fi piece I wrote in January. I wanted to see if I could write a scary story in the same way that the movie Alien has always scared the crap out of me, and I’m not sure about the result. Let me know what you guys think and if you know any good books or stories I should check out as examples of a creature feature in prose form.

Indemnity

The familiar touch of the bed sheets against Rogers’ skin comforted him.  It’ll be just like going to sleep, he thought.  Rogers sat on a chair in the center of his bedroom.  The bed sheets were around his neck.  He’d tied them to an exposed pipe on the ceiling.  He planned to hang himself.

Looking into the abyss, he had no real regrets for anything he left behind.  Maybe he’d leave Burnham and the others shorthanded while the company replaced him, but he could live with that.  Well, that’s the beauty of it, he thought.  I don’t have to.  He stood up on the chair and began to tie the slack around the pipes.

“Hey, Rogers.  You in there?”

It’s Burnham, Rogers thought.  He scrambled to sit back down but forgot he’d cut the slack.  He choked and his legs kicked the chair out from under him.

The old door scraped open in its tracks.  “Rogers, you son of a bitch!”  Burnham rushed beneath the hanging man and grabbed him around the hips.  He lifted up as hard as he could.  Rogers choked down oxygen as his throat opened up.  Burnham reached for the toppled chair and set it back up beneath his friend.  Rogers found his footing and stood up on the chair, gasping raggedly.

“Get that shit off your head,” Burnham huffed.  “What the hell you think you’re doing?”

Rogers loosened the knot and pulled the sheets up around his head.  “It was an accident.”

Burnham picked up the noose.  “Some accident.”

Rogers looked up at him soberly.  “I want out, Burnham.”

“Yeah, well,” Burnham said, “not as long as my old ass is around to stop you.  Besides, you live or die, that hasn’t been your decision for a long time.  You a company man.”

Rogers rubbed at his neck, which had begun to bruise.  “Did you know tomorrow is my birthday?”

“No, Rogers, I didn’t know tomorrow’s your birthday.  Happy birthday.”

“I’ll be forty.  That’s twenty years we’ve been wasting away on this fucking rock.”  Rogers paused.  “After tomorrow, I’ll have been a prisoner longer than I was a free man.”

Burnham thought very hard before replying.  “You think we’re here for a reason?”

“We’re here because we’re criminals, Burnham.  We’re here because we’re human waste, and society shit us out.”

“I don’t mean why man put us here.”

“Fuck, don’t start.”

“Come pray with us, just once.  Soto was like you before I helped him find His plan.  Angry, afraid.”

“I’ve lived on this lifeless rock eating snot every day for twenty years, Burnham.  I’ve got nothing left to fear.”

“You’d be surprised what a man has to fear.”

An alarm squawked from the next room.

“Proximity warning?  They’re early.  Supplies ain’t due in ‘til morning.”  The base needed restocking with food and oxygen every six months.  Burnham stepped into the living quarters and called back, “We’ll finish talking later.”

Rogers hurried after him.  “No, we won’t.”

The living quarters led to each of the four prisoners’ bedrooms.  There was also a door for the tunnel to the atmosphere processor and a door for the airlock to the moon’s surface.  The main room contained a kitchen, which was a kitchen only in name, as all their food came from vats of processed protein supplement.  There were also various computers around the room.

Burnham was at the communication console.  He was trying to zero in on what tripped the alarm. “No company beacon anywhere near us.  It ain’t our guys.”

“Who else would be way the fuck out here?” Rogers said, leaning over Burnham’s shoulder.  “It’s probably just a meteor or something.”

“No, too big for that.  Got it.  Crashed down two miles north of here.”

“Okay, so what?” Rogers said.

“We got to go check it out.  That’s what.”  Burnham opened a line to Hunt over in the processor.  “Hey Hunt, we’re going to go check something out.  Keep an eye on the place.”

Hunt’s voice crackled over the radio, “Not going anywhere.  Do what you want.”  He closed the line.

“I hate that man.”  Burnham stood and headed for Soto’s room.

Rogers intercepted him.  “You go check this out.  I’ll stay here and keep an eye on the processor.”

“Nope.  Hunt can do that.  You and Soto are coming with me.  I’m not letting you out my sight ‘til I’m sure you won’t go trying to choke yourself again.”

“Burnham…”

“Nope.”

*                      *                      *

Burnham, Soto, and Rogers trekked north across the moon’s barren landscape.  The wind whipped the soupy atmosphere up in waves of impenetrable fog.  The processor had been running long enough that the men no longer required suits, but they did have to wear breathers.

Rogers trudged along over the black rock.  It was still dark out, and the wind’s banshee howl was the only sound above the rhythmic breathing in his mask.  He pushed a cart in front of him in case they found anything worth salvaging.

The four men who lived on the moon PL 337-1 were legally dead.  After being tried for their crimes on Earth, a court of law had sentenced each to death.  In accordance with the Right to Life Act of 2115, the convicts were given the chance to opt out of the death penalty by forfeiting their lives to the Terra Nova Corporation.  Terra Nova paid the United States a pittance for every prisoner who entered their service.  The convicts lived out the rest of their lives on some colony at the fringe end of known space.  In exchange for their lives, they maintained the company’s atmosphere processors that terraformed planets and moons for future habitation.  In the words of a lobbyist for Terra Nova, “In reparation for making our world a worse place to live, these men will go and make another world better.”  They called it “The Indemnity Program.”

An electrical storm was forming above.  Burnham’s voice crackled over the radio. “It’s not far now.  We’re libel to trip over the damn thing before we see it in all this fog.”

“I think I can make something out.”  Soto pointed to a dark shape in the mist.  “There.”

They entered a clearing where fire burned across scattered debris and ate away the fog.  They could see the crashed shuttle.  Bits and pieces had been ripped from the hull, but the frame of the ship was still intact.  It bore a corporate logo.  Orion: You’re Safe in Our Hands.

“Orion?  Any idea what that is?”  Rogers asked.

“Yeah,” Soto said.  “I heard of them back on Earth.  They’re some military defense contractor.  Soldiers for hire, secret weapons research, that kind of black ops shit.”

Burnham considered this.  “Boys, this might just be the first spell of good luck we’ve had on this rock.  Let’s go and see what the Good Lord deemed fit to drop in our laps.”

The three men spread out around the shuttle.  Rogers pushed the salvage cart up against the other side of craft’s hull.  “Over here,” he called.  A jagged gash wide went up the side of the ship wide enough to fit a man.  If there were weapons on board, and they could get the jump on the pilot of the supply ship tomorrow…

“What do you think’s inside?” Rogers asked.

“Only one way to find out,” Burnham said.  “Lead the way, Soto.”

Soto looked at Burnham as if to argue.  A fatherly eyebrow raise by Burnham got Soto into the ship.

“You’re not going to be happy,” he called out, “but come on in.”

Burnham and Rogers climbed inside.  Soto’s headlamp sliced through the veil of darkness, and the other men switched on their own.  They found themselves in a cramped room lined with life support machines, oxygen scrubbers, and automated navigation computers.  The tiny cockpit’s console had been fried, and its blast shield had been cracked beyond repair.  The only object in the room that looked functional was the fortified hyper-sleep tube.

“It’s a fucking escape pod.”  Soto kicked the damaged oxygen scrubbers.

“So much for top secret weapons,” Rogers said.  “This thing is scrapped.  Let’s just get out of here before the storm gets any worse.” He braced himself on the sides of the hull breech and noticed something peculiar: the metal had buckled outward from the inside.

Burnham wiped condensation away from the hyper-sleep chamber.  “Wait, there’s a little girl inside.  I think she’s still alive.”

Soto went over to get a look.  “Great.  What are we supposed to do with a kid?  The base ain’t exactly a daycare center.”

“Well we can’t just leave her, can we?” Burnham asked.

Rogers hovered by the exit.  “Sure we can.  She’s not our problem.”

Burnham located the emergency supply case and bashed the glass in with his elbow.  He pulled out an oxygen mask.  “When the supply man comes, she can be his problem.  ‘Til then, she’s our problem.  Now help me get this thing open, tough guy.”

The old man had a way of bringing out the best in people; Rogers gave him that.  “If Soto is right about Orion, then this shuttle should be state of the art.  That should include a back-up generator on this pod for just such an emergency.”  Rogers knelt down by the tube and felt around its sides.  His fingers brushed over a rectangular button.  “Here we go,” he said and pushed it.

The hum of electricity echoed through the tiny craft as the hyper-sleep chamber whirred on.  Lights blinked on and off across the front panel as it ran through its waking procedure.  The pod opened and the trapped oxygen hissed out of it.  Burnham strapped the spare mask onto the little girl.  “There you go, little lady.  She’ll be out for awhile still.”  He laid a hand on Rogers’ shoulder.  “Make yourself useful and lay our guest on your cart for the trip back.”

“Whatever you say, Burnham.”  Rogers lifted the little girl out of the chamber.  She wore tiny sneakers, jeans, and a purple t-shirt.  Her softness surprised him more than her lightness.  He’d never cradled a child before, but it felt natural to him as he carried her through the gash in the hull, careful not to bang her head against the sharp metal.  He laid her down on the cart. She looked so fragile.  His first thought was that he had nothing to put beneath her as a pillow.  He shook off the sentiment and began pushing the cart back to the base.

Soto caught up with him shortly.   “Hey, how’d you know about that generator stuff?  I’ve never heard of that.”

Rogers scanned the rocky surface ahead.  “I wasn’t always a slave, you know.”  There was nothing else to say on the way back.

The little girl lay in Burnham’s bed, still unconscious.  Burnham was at the communication console with Rogers and Soto.  Neither of them felt comfortable alone with the girl.

“You there, Hunt?” Burnham spoke into the console.  There was no answer.  Burnham let go of the transmit key.  “Where are you, you lazy bastard?”

“Who cares?  I hardly even see the guy,” Rogers said.  “Chances are the girl’ll be out of here before Hunt even realizes she exists.  Why bother telling him?”

Burnham turned away from the console.  “Because I don’t trust him far as I can throw him, that’s why.  Go find him, Soto.  Tell the fool to get over here, but don’t mention our guest.  We got to watch him around her, okay?”

“Sure, Burnham.  You got it.”  Soto set out down the tunnel to the processor.

Burnham walked into the kitchen and began to rummage through dusty containers.  “There’s an old med kit in one of these storage units.  I’m going to dig it up, just in case.”

“Yeah.”  Rogers glanced into Burnham’s room.  “Why are you so worried about Hunt and the girl?”

Burnham stopped what he was doing and looked up.  “How you think that son of a bitch got here?”

Rogers nodded and stepped into the bedroom.  The bed was empty.  His heart seized up for one dreadful instant.  “Burnham!  She’s gone!”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“I don’t know, get in here!”  Rogers swept his eyes across the room, but there was no sign of her.  Where would a scared kid go?  What’s safe? He knelt down at the foot of the bed and lifted the sheets dangling over the end.

She dashed out from under the bed and slammed right into him.  He fell flat on his back with her on top.  He tried to restrain her, but then he realized she wasn’t struggling.  Her heart was beating so fast he could feel it hammer against his chest.  She clung to him so tightly he had to strain to breathe.

“Don’t let it come.  We have to go.  We have to go now, please.  Don’t let it come again.”  Her words were muffled against Rogers’ jumpsuit.

Burnham entered the room, and Rogers looked up at him.  The old man spoke in his sweet, southern voice.  “Slow down, honey.  What are you afraid of?  What’s coming?”

“The bad thing,” she said.  She began to cry.

*                      *                      *

The atmosphere processor had always given Soto the creeps.  There were no windows and very few lights, and the humidity suffocated him every time he stepped through the door.  And then there was the constant stink of ozone.  He didn’t know how Hunt spent days at a time over there.  Soto didn’t mind, though.  Hunt took care of what little physical maintenance there was for the processor.  That meant Soto rarely had to trudge over there.  Except there he was now, standing in the open doorway like a frightened child.

“Hey Hunt, you in there?”  Soto called.  Blackness, dense air, and the pulsing throb of machinery were the only reply from the gaping maw before him.  “Shit,” Soto whispered.  He hadn’t remembered to bring a flashlight.  He stepped through the door, and the oppressive haze struck him. He didn’t have the heart to close the door behind him.

He shuffled forward as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.  He’d already broken out in a heavy sweat.  The main floor of the processor was a tall, domed chamber whose upper reaches disappeared into shadow.  Various ladders led up to maintenance walkways, but Soto had never been up one.  In the center of the room, a stairwell led down to the machinery.  Around the room’s edges, six industrial fans blew processed air up through the floor.  Their rhythmic hum had a hypnotic effect on Soto.  He shook his head and snapped out of it.

“Hunt, where the fuck are you?  This ain’t funny.”

A wet scuttling and the clinking of metal on metal echoed up from the bottom floor.  Soto’s breath caught in his throat.  “Hunt?” he managed in a strained voice.

He descended the stairs to the lower level and clung to the railing as it wrapped around one flight and then another.  In the room before him, a labyrinth of machines sprawled out in every direction.  Soto had very little idea what function any of them served.  “Hunt, I swear to God, if you’re fucking with me, I’ll beat the ever-living shit out of you.”

Soto picked a path at random and waded into the sea of consoles and circuitry.  As he turned each corner, he tried to remember the way back to the stairs, but he gave up after the fourth twist.  Then he heard the whispering shuffle again.  It came from overhead this time.  “What the fuck…”

Something pulled him back around the corner.  The first note of Soto’s terrified scream escaped his mouth, but then a hand muffled it.  “Shh,” somebody whispered into his ear.  Soto’s eyes struggled to see sideways.  It was Hunt.  He put one finger to his lips and pointed at the shadows draped across the ceiling.  Soto looked up into the blackness, and he saw the outline of something.  It froze for a second then skittered out of sight.

Hunt lowered his hand from Soto’s mouth.  “What the fuck was that?” Soto whispered.

Hunt shook his head.  “Don’t know.  Heard strange noise; came down to investigate.  Been circling me ever since.”

“How’d it get in?  The only entrance is from the living quarters.”

“Steam vents maybe.  Figure it out later.  Must go now.”

“But what the hell is it?”  Soto repeated.  Hunt stared at him blankly and shrugged.  Soto scanned the shadows for another glimpse of whatever he had seen.  It had vaguely resembled a man.  “Yeah.  Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Hunt started back to the stairwell, and Soto followed blindly.  He heard nothing above the deafening pounding of his heart.  They cleared a wall of machines, and the stairwell to the main floor appeared in front of them.  Hunt walked toward it, and Soto gave chase when a meaty weight slammed across his chest.  He found himself sprawled out on his back amongst the corridor of electronics.

“Hunt, wait!”  Soto rasped.  Pain tore through his abdomen as the words crept out of his throat.  Whatever hit him had broken his ribs.  He struggled to sit up and looked for Hunt.  He stood deathly still in front of the stairwell, eyes locked behind Soto.

Soto felt the hot breath on the back of his neck.  He’d mistaken its throaty breathing for his own.  He turned his head, and a rattled whimper quivered over his lips when he saw the thing that loomed over him.  Its veiny hide was stretched too tightly across lithe muscles.  Its strong, serrated tail slithered around Soto’s chest.  It placed its terrible hands on his shoulders, and without exerting any force, its talons drew blood.

Soto extended an arm toward Hunt.  “Please,” he whispered.  Hunt turned and sprinted up the steps.  “Don’t leave me!”  Soto cried.  By the time Hunt made it to the tunnel and sealed the door behind him, Soto’s screams had become broken squeals.

*                      *                      *

Her name was Cali.  Her mommy and daddy were scientists at Orion.  They made the bad thing, and they were dead now.  It killed them.  That was all Rogers and Burnham had coaxed out of the little girl.  She’d latched onto Rogers a half hour before and not let go since.

Burnham leaned down to speak to her face to face.  “Cali, sweetie, I’ve got to talk to Rogers alone for a minute.”  Cali tightened her grip.  “It’s okay.  I promise I’ll bring him right back.”

Cali let go, and Rogers set her on the bed beside him.  He stood and followed Burnham out of the bedroom.

Burnham lowered his voice.  “Something’s wrong.  Soto should’ve been back by now.  We got to prepare for the worst.”

“Prepare for what?  A monster?  The kid’s clearly in shock.”

“Maybe.  But I told you, He put us here for a reason.  Protecting that little girl might just be it.”

“I’m here because I murdered two people, Burnham.”  Rogers had stopped whispering.  “You can pretend you’re innocent, or that God has forgiven you, or whatever the hell else you want, but leave me out of it.  Got it?  I’m not one of the good guys.”

“She seems to disagree,” Burnham said.  Cali lingered in the doorway behind Rogers.  Her tiny hands clutched its frame.

The door to the processor tunnel hissed open.  Hunt spilled through into the living quarters and slammed the door behind him.

“Where’s Soto?” Burnham demanded.

“Gone, gone, gone,” Hunt said.  His eyes darted around the room and then locked onto Cali.  A liquid calm bubbled up into them.  “Where’d she come from?”

Rogers put his arm around her shoulders.  “Shuttle crash.  She was the only survivor.”

“Not the only survivor.” Hunt said.  He walked toward his own bedroom, but he peered back at Cali before he stepped inside.

Burnham locked eyes with Rogers.  “What do you mean not the only survivor?  Where’s Soto gone?”

Hunt poked around the corner.  He had a toolkit in his hand.  “Thought I was clear.  Something in the processor.  Took Soto.  Likely dead.  Sounded messy.”  He sprung back into his room.

Rogers felt Cali’s grip tighten.  “It’s here.  It’s going to kill everyone, just like before.”

Hunt emerged with a blowtorch.  “She’s likely right.”  He handed Rogers a hammer and Burnham a screwdriver.  “All I could find.  Sorry.”

Burnham threw the tool to the ground.  “You mean to tell me you left Soto back there by himself?  You see him die?”

“No, didn’t see.  Heard.  Was running.”

“You cowardly bastard,” Burnham said.  He made for the tunnel door.

“Don’t advise going that way.”  Hunt did not move to stop him.

“Burnham, wait,” Rogers said.  “Hunt’s right.  You don’t know what’s back there.”

Burnham paused in front door.  “I can’t just leave Soto.  He might still be alive.”  He reached for the control, but the door slid open before he had the chance to push it.

Rogers couldn’t see all of the thing that stood in the doorway.  He could see it retract one of its hands from the control on the other side of the door.  Its fingers were long and graceful, and each of them came to a wicked point.  The creature stood on two legs like a man, but Rogers could see a tail coiled up in the air behind it.  It had the skin of a man as well, a uniform beige streaked with sickly blue veins.  Its face bore no resemblance to anything human, however, and Rogers would never be able to strike the image of its twisted countenance from his mind.  Its head was tall and thin, and it ended in a series of spikes and ridges.  Skin stretched so tautly across its skull that it looked as though the bones beneath were trying to cleave through.  The armored skull opened at the bottom, allowing for the creature’s nose and mouth to extend down independently.  Its nostrils were two pinholes in the slimy flesh, and its mouthful of razors was permanently fixed in a maddening smile − the one dreadful hint of humanity on its nightmare face.

Burnham didn’t have time to scream.  In one smooth motion, the beast whipped its tail around Burnham’s waist and slammed his head against the doorframe with one of its elegant hands.  The man went slack in the beast’s grip.  It flung him back into the tunnel and turned to face Cali and Rogers.

Time crawled between each breath.  The creature took a step into the room.  Rogers tried to move.  Cali screamed and dug her fingers into his thigh.  He looked to his left.  Hunt fumbled with the torch.  Forward again.  The creature was in the room.  Rogers peeled Cali from his leg and shoved her into Burnham’s bedroom.  He slammed the controls, and the door ground shut.

Hunt had the torch lit.  “Don’t just stand there.  Burn that fucker!”  Rogers yelled.

Hunt advanced on the beast.  It raised its tail, ready to strike.  As Hunt came into range, he twisted the valve on the torch’s tank, and flame erupted across the creature’s face.  It shrieked and stumbled backwards, arms raised to shield itself.  Rogers charged the monster.  He put his shoulder into its chest, and it fell backward into the tunnel.  Its tail snapped forward and sliced across Rogers’ shoulder.  He gasped in pain and grabbed at the wound.  Hunt ran to the door controls, shut it, and engaged the manual lock.

They could hear the beast try to open the door from the other side, but it was locked out.  It slammed itself against the door once, twice, three times.  Hunt and Rogers backed up, horrified that it might be strong enough to break through, but no more sound came from the tunnel.

Rogers doubled over, trying to catch his breath.  As the adrenaline wore off, pain flared through his shoulder.  He touched the wound.  There was a lot of blood.  “That thing’s real,” he gasped.

“Yes,” Hunt said, switching off the blow torch.  “Expended most of the fuel.  Running low.  Expected more on supply ship.”

“How’d it open the door?”

“Imagine by operating the controls.  Lock seems to have stopped it.  For now.”  Hunt stepped back into his own room and did not reemerge.

Rogers applied pressure to his bleeding shoulder.  The med kit was still in Burnham’s room.  Christ, Burnham, he thought.  That thing had him now.  Rogers hoped that Burnham had died from that first blow, for his sake.

He opened the door to Burnham’s room.  The med kit lay open on the bed, but Cali was nowhere in sight.  Rogers sat down on the bed and reached for the disinfectant.  He doused his shoulder with it, hissing with pain as it cleaned out the wound.  He wrapped it with gauze, and a tiny voice rose up from beneath the bed.

“Is it gone?”

“Yeah.” Rogers tied off the bandage.

“It’ll be back.”

“Yeah.”

Cali crawled out from under the bed.  “I’m scared.”

“Me too, kid.  The ship should be here soon, though.  If we can just hole up ‘til then, we can get out of here.”

Cali climbed up onto the bed.  “My daddy told me he made the bad thing to fight bad men, but it killed him.  Does that mean that he was bad, too?”

“I don’t know, Cali.”

She lay down on her side.  “I don’t think you’re a bad man, Rogers.”  She closed her eyes.

Rogers stood and dropped the med kit on the table beside the bed.  He took a chair and set it by the door.  She’s still doped up from the hyper-sleep, he thought.  He’d stand watch until the ship arrived.  Cali cradled herself as she fell deeper into sleep. Rogers stood, walked to the bed, and draped the covers over her.  Then, he sat back down by the door, and, despite his best efforts, fell asleep himself.

He woke later with no idea how much time had passed.  He cursed himself for being an old fool, and he saw that the bed was empty.

“Cali, people generally sleep on top of beds,” he said as he stood up.  He knelt down to check underneath.  He pulled up the dangling sheets and found no little girl under the bed.

“Cali?” he shouted.  No answer.  He rushed into the living quarters.  “Cali?” he cried again, louder this time.

“In here, Rogers,” replied her little voice.  It was coming from Hunt’s room.

“Christ, I was worried. I thought…” he began as he entered the other prisoner’s bedroom.  Cali sat in Hunt’s lap at his worktable.  Tools were spread over the desktop.  His hand was wrapped around the little girl’s waist.

“Mr. Hunt is showing me his tools,” Cali said.

“That’s right,” Hunt said.  “Handling them well. Aren’t you, honey?”  His hand slipped onto her leg.  He rubbed his thumb over her thigh in smooth circles.

“You sick piece of shit,” Rogers growled.  He marched across the room and grabbed Hunt by the collar.

“Rogers!” Cali tumbled to the floor and sat up against the wall.

“Now?  You’d do this, now?”  Rogers threw Hunt down to the floor, and he smacked his face.  Blood trickled from his lip.

“Don’t judge me.  Never hurt anyone.  You’re the murderer.”

Rogers lifted a boot, ready to cave in Hunt’s skull, when the room went black.  Dim red emergency bulbs flickered on a few seconds later.  “It cut the power,” Rogers whispered.  Hunt was no longer at his feet.

“Judge me?  Hurt me?” Hunt said from behind Rogers.  “Not smart, friend.”  He swung his toolbox down onto Rogers’ wounded shoulder, and his knees buckled from the pain.  Hunt brought the steel box back for another strike, aiming for the head, but Rogers rebounded back and jammed his skull into Hunt’s face, breaking his nose.

Hunt grabbed at his bloody face with one hand, and with the other, he fumbled for a screwdriver on the desk.  He aimed to stab Rogers with it, but Rogers caught his wrist.  He slammed his hand down onto the desktop, making him drop the tool.  Rogers lifted Hunt off his feat by the collar and smashed him into the wall.

“Stop!  Stop fighting!”  Cali screamed from the floor.

Rogers looked back at the little girl.  In that instant, Hunt was torn from his grasp.  A pair of long, graceful fingers sunk their talons into Hunt’s shoulders and heaved him into the air duct.  Rogers fell back from the force of it, and he found himself on the floor next to Cali.  Hunt screamed just once, and then a shower of blood fountained out of the vent and down the wall.

The vents, Rogers thought.  With no power, the fans aren’t spinning.  It came over in the vents.  The horror petrified him, but the sight of Hunt’s blood spreading down the wall drove him to action.  “Come on!” he said.  He dragged Cali to her feet and rushed out of the room.

Only one place left to go, Rogers thought.  He led Cali to the airlock.  With no power, he had to open the door the hard way.  He activated manual control and struggled with the heavy door.  Each second pounded away in his ears along with the door’s grinding gears.  He pushed Cali through as soon as she could fit, and he got himself in a second later.

He turned to shut the door behind him, but it was too late.  The thing’s awful face was right on the other side.  Its perverse grin slinked down out of its skull, and Rogers knew it was meant for him.  He retreated to the opposite wall and grabbed the breathers from their case.  He strapped one over Cali’s little face, and then put on his own.

The beast’s hands slipped through the crack in the doors.  It slammed them open with ease and advanced into the room.  The signal flares, Rogers thought.  They had to signal the supply ship to have any hope of escape.  The flares were in a crate by the outer door.

Cali was screaming, frozen where she stood.  Rogers grabbed her hand.  He’d never get the door open with that thing right on top of them.  He reached into the box of flares and stuffed a handful into his pocket.  The thing, as graceful as it was horrible, glided across the floor toward them.  “Close your eyes!”  Rogers shouted.  He lit a flare, dropped it into the box, and hurled it at the creature.  A furious light poured out of it, and it hissed like a crate of maddened serpents.  It crashed into the beast’s torso and dozens of smoldering flares cascaded down the creature’s body.

Rogers didn’t wait to see if his distraction worked.  The inhuman wails made him shiver, but they confirmed that he’d bought them some time.  He activated the manual door control and hauled it open with all his strength.

“Hurry, Rogers!” Cali cried, shaking his arm.  She grabbed onto the edge of the door and pushed with everything she had.  With the door just barely wide enough, they both squeezed through into the storm outside.

The freezing wind cut into them as they raced through the darkness.  Rogers had Cali by the hand.  He looked up at the raging electrical storm in the sky, and lightning crashed and forked across the atmosphere.

In the distance, he made out a steady source of light coming toward them.  I don’t believe it, he thought.  “Hang on to me!” he shouted over the baying wind.

He pulled two flares from his pocket and lit each.  He waved them in the air, two dazzling points of light against the moon’s ocean of shadow.  The supply ship’s engines roared as it approached.  It was slowing down.  Rogers held his hands over Cali’s ears, and the the fog churned around them as the dropship landed a few hundred feet away.  He put Cali’s arm around his neck and carried her for the final sprint to the ship.  He risked a glance back toward the base, but the fog was too thick.  He couldn’t see anything.

The dropship’s ramp was down by the time they reached it.  The pilot stepped out, pistol raised.

“Prisoner, you are not to enter this ship under any circumstance.  Put your hands in the air and… who the hell is that?”

“No time to explain.  We’ve got to dust off right now.”  Rogers took a step toward the pilot.

“You think I’m stupid?  Put the little girl down, and put your hands on the back of your head.”

“Listen to me!  We can’t…”

The pilot cocked his pistol.  “Do it now, asshole!”

Cali clung to Rogers’ neck.  “It’s okay, Cali.”  He set her down and put his hands behind his head.  He looked at the pilot with expectant eyes.

“Now turn around slowly, both of you.”  They did as he said.  “The three of us are going to the base, and we’ll see just what the hell is going on here.  Start walking.”

The pilot kept his gun aimed at the back of the prisoner’s head.  Rogers knew he couldn’t take the pilot from this distance.  He took his first forward when he heard the pilot’s high-pitched scream.

Rogers spun and saw the pilot lifted off his feet as blood spurted down onto the rocks beneath.  The tail of the creature exploded from the pilot’s stomach and raised him to its perch on top of the ship.  The pistol clattered to the ground.

Rogers hauled Cali onto his shoulder and put his hand over her eyes.  He charged up the ramp to the ship, scooping up the gun on the way.  The pilot was still crying in pain as Rogers raced through the hold and into the cockpit.  He shut the cockpit door, and he strapped Cali into her seat before taking his own.  Instinct and memory took over as his hands glided across the ship’s controls, pushing buttons and flipping switches he hadn’t operated in twenty years.

“Can you fly this?” Cali asked.

“I used to,” he said as the engines revved up.

As the ship lifted off, a hollow thud resounded through the cockpit, then another.  Rogers turned and saw the cockpit door buckling in behind them.  It was inside the hold.

He jammed the button to open the ramp, and he pulled back the yoke to put the ship vertical.  He could blow it out the back, but if the hold was open when they hit vacuum, they were all dead.

Despite the hold becoming a wind tunnel, the creature continued to savage the cockpit door.  Its fingers sliced into the opening it had made and pried the doors open.  It looked into the cockpit and stabbed an arm inside.  It swiped back and forth, grasping for Cali.

Rogers pulled the gun from his belt, and the beast squeezed further into the cockpit, gnashing its jaws.  He thrust the pistol into the creature’s hideous grin and pulled the trigger.  It screeched and fell back through the hold and down the ramp, plummeting to the moon’s surface below.

Rogers dropped the pistol and punched the button to close the hold.  They had just a few seconds before leaving the atmosphere.  He heard the hydraulic hiss of the ramp seal from the next room, and he exhaled slowly.  They’d made it.

Infinite, open space materialized before them as the atmosphere gave way to vacuum.  Stars pierced the darkness in every direction.  After spending half of his life a prisoner, Rogers was a free man once more.

“Hey,” he said.  “It’s my birthday today.”

“Happy birthday.”  Cali leaned over and hugged Rogers’ arm.  “Where do we go now?” she said.

He beamed down at her. “Anywhere we want.”

I generally prefer novels to short story collections, but I would read a shopping list if Gaiman penned it.

I received Neil Gaiman’s collection of short stories Fragile Things for Christmas, and I’ve been devouring it rapidly. My favorite so far has been a gem called “Other People.”

The story details a man’s punishment in Hell, where he is physically tortured by a demon. He’s then forced to recount his life aloud again and again, admitting to every bad thing he’s ever done, and then he’s forced to learn the repercussions of his selfishness on other people.

In the end, the torture has left him looking like the demon, a soulless husk, and a new wayward human enters the chamber. The cycle begins anew.

In the forward, Gaiman recounts the doubt he felt upon completion of the story. It felt too circular, too neat to be original. It nagged at the back of his mind. He was sure it must have been a story he’d heard years before and then forgotten. After reading “Other People” to a number of friends, however, no one could name a derivative work.

I think this is a problem all writers face. Whenever I get an idea for a story, if I don’t get it written within a day or two, I usually talk myself out of it. I tell myself it’s too much like this other story or it’s taking too much from this movie.

Art doesn’t exist in a vacuum – everybody draws from their role models and inspirations. What separates us from them, though? How do we differentiate our work, and how do we mark that difference between being inspired by an artist and stealing from them?

The interviewer made note that District 9 was so surprising because of its originality. It wasn’t based on a comicbook, and it wasn’t a remake. This is increasingly rare in sci-fi and horror films today.

When dealing with aliens, try to be polite, but firm. And always remember that a smile is cheaper than a bullet.

Blomkamp agrees. The director points out that the first question many people ask when they hear about a new movie these days is “Where did it [the idea] come from?” He argues that the most meaningful science fiction didn’t come from watching other films

He goes on to point out that many writers and directors say their stories are influenced by other films. Blomkamp argues that the best sci-fi comes from real life stimulation and experience. Many of the classics were based on the effects of the Cold War, experiences in Vietnam, etc, not just the movies you watched growing up.

This line of thinking really bothers me, as I agree with it, but I fall into the camp whose influences are other authors, not real life experiences. I’ve spent my entire life just going to school and university — that doesn’t make for the most unique or exciting stimuli for story telling.

I know my worries about this can’t be unique. How many other writers are out there whose most influential life experiences came not from life itself, but from their favorite books and movies? Can people like us still tell visceral, important, exciting stories armed only with our own mundane lives and our knowledge of literature and film?

District 9 is an excellent film that does what all good sci-fi should: take a real world issue and reframe it so that people will think about it differently. Just like any intro-level creative writing class will say, it’s a storyteller’s job to hold up a mirror to his or her audience.

Sci-fi writers choose to hold up a fun-house mirror instead, hoping that the distorted image their audience sees will cause them to stop for a second and think about what they’re looking at. Blomkamp holds his mirror up to South African society, but what else is out there that needs a good looking at?

Wallace blames James Cameron’s Terminator 2 for “inaugurating what’s become this [the 90's] decade’s special new genre of big-budget film: Special Effects Porn.” He’s referring to the blockbusters we’ve all become used to seeing every Summer: 2012, Transformers, etc. He describes them as a “half a dozen or so isolated, spectacular scenes … strung together via another sixty to ninety minutes of flat, dead, and often hilariously insipid narrative.”

The reason I find this article so ironic is that if you just cut and paste Avatar for Terminator 2, all of Wallace’s points stand strong. Thank the good Lord that Mr. Wallace, rest his soul, passed away last year, when Avatar was just an ominous blip on the dark horizon.

Say what you will about his movie, this T-800 is happy to be here.

My knee-jerk reaction to Wallace’s article was to think he was some elitist fascist who saw T2 and said “This is in no way superior to David Lynch’s 1977 classic Eraserhead, therefore it is mere rubbish for the plebs.” But he cut me off before I could judge — he avows his love for both Cameron’s original Terminator and Aliens right in the article. There must be more to his criticism than meets the eye.

Is Wallace right that all movies’ budgets are inversely proportional to their quality? I love T-1000, but if Cameron hadn’t spent a bajillion dollars on that morphing technology, I still would have enjoyed T2. Despite Wallace’s critcisms, I find the plot solid, the movie entertaining and exciting, and I really like the relationship between the characters. I even like the cheesy cyborg humor.

Take Avatar on the other hand. I excuse the movie’s shallow “corporations are greedy and bad” plot because the world Cameron has made with his new mo-cap technology is so vivid and beautiful. Now, take away the CG and just paint some actors blue instead. Uh-oh, now your movie is straight to DVD.

I don’t think exciting special effects are inherently bad for a film’s depth — they are just a tool. It is the person who holds the tool who should be held accountable. If I put a hammer and some nails in the hand of an architect, when I come home I want to see a house, not one board with ten thousand nails in it.

If you missed "Avatar," try messing with your TV's color settings until people are blue. Now watch "Dances with Wolves." There, saved you $12.

The only defense I can muster is that not all film is made for critics — it’s a free market economy. If Avatar’s special effects alone are causing it to break all kinds of box office records, what does that say about what the public wants? Cameron spent nearly a decade and poured head-ache inducing amounts of money into this new mo-cap technology, so of course he wants to be as audience-friendly as possible to ensure the financial success of his movie.

Now that the technology exists, film makers can do whatever they want with it. I like to think of Avatar as a glorified tech demo, and I’m hungry to see how directors (including JC) use it in future films with more discriminating tastes. Whenever technology moves forward, people are usually loathe to move with it. Somebody had to blow a ton of time and money developing the first camera, and all the Lumiere brothers shot with it was a train coming at the screen. Avatar’s plot holds up a little better.

In the post, Seth suggests that you shouldn’t look to the rats as warning of your boat sinking — you should look to the rich people. When all the major companies switched to faxes, letter delivery services had to go. It didn’t matter if Grandma would still use them to deliver a letter every six months — that’s not how the services made their money.

The Kindle is arguably the hottest gift this holiday season. It makes buying and owning books convenient for ravenous book buyers. It’s not a big deal for the average American though – all the reasons a Kindle is convenient don’t matter to someone who only buys one book a year. But, as with the fax machine example, these light readers aren’t how bookstores make their money. Seth predicts bookstores are the next to go, and it’s hard to disagree with him.

With the impending e-Book revolution, we’re one step closer to Star Trek technology, which I always assumed would excite me (first the Kindle, next the Holo-deck!). So why do I have a preemptive case of nostalgia instead?

An artist's representation of a Kindle actually incinerating a bookstore (image from telos.tv/blog).

Reading is already an isolating hobby. It’s comfy to curl up in bed with a good book, but sometimes I like to trick myself into thinking I’m social, and I’ll go into public to read at the Barnes and Noble up the street. It’s quiet, it has a nice atmosphere, and you may even look up from your book and actually meet another human being that reads (which is a trait that becomes rarer by the year). If I can buy and read all the books I could ever want right at home on my Kindle, my carefully constructed illusion of getting out of the house is shattered!

I wonder what place this leaves for libraries in our society. They’re already the victims of constant budget cuts. When reading words on paper becomes a laughable antiquity, how long will we set aside funds for libraries? And if libraries simply become a place to go to read digital files, why have a physical location at all? Just put it all online. I’ve never been one for the library — I generally like to keep books I’ve read. A full bookshelf is a comforting thing to me — evidence of my literary adventures. The Kindle, however, both defeats the purpose of the library and takes away the need for my shamefully large bookshelf. I hate the infernal device, but the technophile in me still wants one!

What do you guys think? Any of you get a Kindle this holiday season? Would you read more if you had the convenience of one? And do you think this e-Book thing is just a fad? Or is it the future?

Fear of the Dark

Good morning Caesarea.

Pure air slithered through the widening gap as David’s glass bedcover detached, retracting to the ceiling. He lay there under the covers, letting the familiar radio voice of Tom Tolleran erode away the sleep still in his eyes.

It’s a steamy ninety-two degrees today, no chance of rain. Forecasters predict no end to the draught any time soon. The Order of Health has extended their call for conservation of water. Daily allowances per household are still in effect, so don’t get your hopes up for long showers just yet, and keep praying for rain.

David fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table. He swung one leg and then the other over the side of his bed, slouching forward. The bedcover whined impatiently and began to lower, bumping into David’s head.

“I’m up; I’m up, damn,” he mumbled, starting towards the bathroom. Behind him, the air-tight bed sealed shut. The news followed David into the next room.

A neighborhood health clinic was bombed yesterday. This is the third bombing in a string of attacks on alleged abortion clinics. The Order of Justice has yet to name any suspects, but believes suicide tactics may be involved. Top story again today, as it has been for too long I’m afraid: Plague. Reports continue to pour in from all over the country. The death toll in Caesarea alone has reached nearly one million victims in just six months.

David splashed cold water on his face and leaned forward against the sink, one hand on each side of it. The water shut off after a few seconds, and he cursed lightly. Michael, his son, must have used up their morning ration of water already. Reluctantly rubbing extra deodorant under his arms, David stared past himself in the mirror.

Despite its pandemic magnitude, scientists are still baffled as to what is behind the now trademark red swelling of the head, delirium, and eventual death of victims. The High Order urges the public not to panic, to trust in God’s plan, and to pray for His mercy. We have to go to commercial, but after the break, we’ll hear from Susan with the traffic. This is Tom Tolleran, WHMG, and I’ll be back every hour, on the hour. God bless us, and God help us.

In the kitchen, Michael was already sitting down with a bowl of cereal. He was dressed in the black sports coat and pants uniform to his high school. Golden thread spelled HSS112 across his breast pocket: Holy Savior School 112.

David, now in his dress clothes and lab coat for work, crossed behind Michael and opened the fridge, producing bread, mayonnaise, and some turkey slices.

“It’s Wednesday,” Michael said, lifting a coffee mug to his lips.

“Shit.” David put the meat away and stuck a piece of bread in the toaster instead. “And when did you start drinking coffee?”

“Two years ago,” Michael replied flatly. He unfolded a newspaper and began reading.

David stood and Michael sat without talking. When the toaster broke the silence, David jumped in unison with the bread.

“You used our entire supply of water this morning yourself,” David said, scraping butter across the burnt toast. He missed Julia. She always got it just brown enough.

“Did I?” Michael said, not looking up from the paper.

David swung around the table and pulled the newspaper down from in front of his son’s face. “I’m just asking for a little courtesy, Michael. That’s all.”

“Sorry,” he replied, snapping the paper back up.

David’s stomach turned when he saw what his son was reading. “His Voice? How can you buy that crap?”

“It’s not crap. These are the only people that will tell it like it is. Look, this article here. Every other paper in the city is reporting the plague like a ball game. All they care about is the score and when it’ll be over. His Voice is calling it a test from God. The faithful will persevere in God’s love, waiting for Him to deliver the pure. They’re saying not even to wear those stupid masks and gloves – ‘Denunciations of faith by those who no longer trust in God’ they’re saying.”

“You’re not actually considering that rubbish, are you? You have to wear protection outside.”

“It’s not rubbish, and I don’t have to listen to you, I’m eighteen years old,” Michael spat.

“You’re still in school, and you still live in my house. Wear the damn…” David began, but the doorbell interrupted him.

David looked to the front door and then back at Michael. “Wear your mask and gloves, for me, please?”

Michael sighed. “Fine.”

“Thank you.” David left Michael to finish his breakfast before school and made for the door.

He strung the filter mask over his mouth and nose and plucked a clean pair of gloves from the box next to the door, pulling them on as well. The airlock door split and slid to either side, revealing two centurions of the High Order on his doorstep.

“Dr. Magnus?” the one on the right said.

“Yes. How I can help you, brothers?”

The other centurion slid one arm from within his flowing red robe, producing a decree with the High Order’s seal visible at the bottom. “His Highness requires your presence. We are to take you to His chambers. We are to leave immediately.”

“What is this about? I was just on my way to work.”

“That’s classified, doctor. Please come with us,” the right centurion replied, pulling his robe back slightly to reveal the gun on his waist. “We insist.”

The elevator ride to the top floor of the High Order’s Citadel was just as silent, and took nearly as long, as David’s escorted drive there had been. He always got a sense of vertigo as he approached the Citadel. It dwarfed even the tallest skyscrapers in Caesarea, jutting into the sky at the dead center of the city. It reached such heights that it seemed to bend with the horizon as you came nearer. How many floors the Citadel actually housed was, of course, classified.

With no indication of which floor they were passing, David spent the ride recalling the one other time he had been so far up the Citadel, thirteen years earlier. That was five years after Julia died. Most people would never meet Patriarch Gaius in person, let alone in his sanctum. Hopefully, the Patriarch would be happier to see him this time.

On the top floor, David and the centurions passed through a large chamber which served as a waiting room where all who called upon the Patriarch gathered, waiting their turn to see His Holiness, which may never come to pass. David was beckoned in immediately.

When the doors to the inner sanctum opened, David’s breath was taken away, despite himself, just as it was last time. Patriarch Gaius’ inner sanctum was a sight to behold. The floor was one sprawling mosaic, depicting events from the Holy Book in vivid detail. Portraits of past Patriarchs lined the walls like soldiers, gazing back from beyond time. Silver candelabras – the sole sources of light in the room – spread out across the entire floor, leaving only a narrow path to walk. At the end of that path, a golden staircase with red carpet climbed up into the gargantuan depths of the sanctum’s ceiling, which lay unseen behind the blackness that the candlelight could not reach. On each step perched a pair of Little Sisters: united at birth, covered in robes from head to toe, and sworn to serve the Patriarch and God until death. At the top of these steps, illuminated by torches to either side of his ornate throne, Patriarch Gaius himself sat in meditation.

“Dr. Magnus,” the Patriarch called from atop his tower. David looked around and suddenly found himself the only one in the room not kneeling, and he begrudgingly did so.

“Patriarch Gaius,” David shouted up, a bit louder than needed, while keeping his eyes down “Closest man to God in the room, as always, I see.”

The centurions on either side of David shot him nasty looks. Patriarch Gaius held out a hand, letting out a wrinkled laugh. “Still sharp, after all these years. I like that.”

“It must be an acquired taste. I seem to recall words like “blasphemer” and “heretic” tossed around last time,” David said, raising his gaze to meet the Patriarch’s.

“How times have changed, yes? Plague besets our blessed nation, and we are powerless to ease the suffering of God’s children. One million dead, David. One million, and we are no closer to a cure or even a preventative measure than we were six months ago.” The Patriarch stood and began a slow descent toward David. The Little Sisters on each step parted as Gaius glided past them. “All our breakthroughs in medicine, studies in virology, bacteriology – all wondrous contributions guiding us toward God’s truth, sparked by you just thirteen years ago – have gotten us nowhere. It would seem we are lost.” Gaius reached the bottom of the staircase and extended his hand, lifting David’s chin. “God calls upon you once again for a miracle, David.”

“Well, if you’re still speaking for God, Patriarch, maybe you’ll be kind enough to remember that you’re the one who expelled me from the medical community and pulled me away from my own research in the first place. Maybe God should make up his mind before asking for my help again.”

Gaius scowled and turned his back to David and the centurions. “Leave us.” The centurions hesitated and then turned. “All of you,” Gaius shouted. The Little Sisters stood, beginning to cry, and filed out of the sanctum in two lines. David stood.

“Let me cut to the chase, as they say, Dr. Magnus. I am authorizing an emergency autopsy of a plague victim. It is held as an abomination by God, but I see no other choice if we are to survive.”

“Now? Now you authorize human autopsy? After all these years letting doctors fumble around in the dark when treating patients? Now, on the brink of extinction, you’re going to let us take a look under the hood? Don’t you think you’re a little late, Patriarch?”

“People are dying!” Gaius growled, “I will not let my country waste away. I will not let my people rot!”

“Don’t you mean God’s people, Patriarch?”

Gaius stretched his lips tightly across his face. “Will you or will you not attempt to save our kind? You have proven useful and eager to butcher your fellow man in the past, and your name is already spoiled. You can suffer no greater shame for this act than you have already.”

David closed his eyes. One million people.

“I’ll do it.”

David jumped back as a rock crashed against the bulletproof glass of the Citadel’s cruiser driving him to the morgue. It was the following day, and he knew it would be bad, but this was insane. It was all that ultra-conservative bullshit from His Voice that was stirring this up; it had to be. Protestors lined the streets leading to the morgue for blocks. Angry faces shouted – what, he could not hear. He could see the signs they held, though – ABOMINATION, BLASPHEMY, MONSTER.

“When we reach the front door, I’ll have my men inside the morgue open up – two centurions at the gates. You’ll only have to be out in the open for a few seconds, but move quickly,” Brother Virgil explained. He was a high-ranking priest in the Church assigned to protect David throughout his investigation into the plague.

The car pulled up alongside the building, having to move slowly to avoid running down the protestors. “Ready?” Virgil asked.

David nodded, and Virgil spoke with his centurions over the phone.

“Go!” he yelled, flinging the door open.

David was pushed from the passenger door of the car, Virgil close behind him. He could hear the car pull off as soon as they got out. The doors to the morgue pulled open ahead of him. He felt the cries and screams of contempt from the crowd wash over him. Halfway to the building, another rock whizzed by David’s face. He looked in the direction from where it came and saw a familiar face which also looked surprised to see him.

As soon as David and Virgil crossed the threshold, the doors snapped shut behind them, muffling the angry cries of the mob. David huffed for breath.

“Are you alright?” Virgil asked.

“Yeah. Yeah. My son. My son was in that crowd. He’s supposed to be at school. He didn’t know I was going to be here.”

Virgil stood for a moment in silence while David caught his breath. “This way,” he said, gesturing down the hall. David watched the priest walk away, his black robes billowing behind him down the hall, and then he followed. The two centurions posted inside stood guard by the door.

David caught up with Virgil. “I’m glad to see there’s at least one man of the cloth not quite so blinded by the light.”

“What do you mean?” Virgil asked, continuing to walk forward.

“Well, you’re here, right? There must be some part of you curious about the human body – our inner workings, the body, the mind – right?”

Virgil stopped. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear, doctor. I am here because Patriarch Gaius ordered me to watch over you and your little exploration into heresy. Personally, I believe what you are doing to be an abomination, and I would like nothing more than to be outside among the protestors, but I have far too much faith in our Father and his holy link to God to do so. Is that clear enough for you?”

“Perfectly,” David croaked dejectedly. Virgil led him to the autopsy room in silence.

The airlock leading into the morgue hissed open, revealing a sterile, white chamber containing masks, scrubs, gloves, and a pair of sinks. David took off the protection he had been wearing outside and began the familiar wash-up procedure, but Virgil did not.

“Not going to scrub up?” David asked.

“I’ll do without. It was you, yes? The one behind all this?” Virgil motioned to the sinks and air-locked doors.

David wiped his hands and began to dawn his medical clothing. “Yes, I’m that Dr. Magnus.”

“I’ve been serving under His Highness for thirty years, and I have never seen him so furious as that day.”

“The Patriarch spent his entire life trying to hide the truths evident to any man with a free, thinking mind. He wanted people to go on believing they got sick because they didn’t pray hard enough; their baby died because they didn’t love God enough.”

“How do you do it? Nobody asked you to loose this forbidden knowledge. Nobody wants airlocks or oxygen scrubbers – we are merely slaves to them now for fear of what you say lives in the very air we breath! The Patriarch was only trying to preserve God’s divine word and tradition, as the people have wanted for centuries,” Virgil said.

“He was preserving lies and fairytales! Once I got the truth out, he could not hold it back any longer – the people wanted to know. I spent just ten years researching how we transmit disease and infection, and look at how far we’ve come!”

“Why yes, you’re correct. Look upon it and despair,” Virgil said. The door to the next room opened, and the stench of death surrounded them.

The morgue did not resemble any of the sterile, hospitalized rooms the outside world had come to know. Autopsies were unheard of in Caesarea, thus morgues were nothing more than storerooms for bodies awaiting burial. The floor was black and white tile, which looked like it’d never been cleaned. Coffin-sized drawers lined the walls – who knows how many dead this room had seen passing through. A single light hung from the ceiling, providing an unhealthy glow across the table in the center of the room. A woman’s body lay naked on the table.

David approached it, the anticipation of dissecting a real human being swelling into terrible excitement within him. No more animal substitutes or theory-craft – he would be the first doctor in Caesarea to witness the inner workings of the human body. He picked up a scalpel from the tray of instruments provided for him next to the table. Virgil stood a squeamish distance back.

“Let us begin,” David said, lowering the blade to the dead woman’s chest. And then he cut.

“I can’t believe you would hide something like this from me!” Michael screamed. They were arguing in the kitchen that night.

“Michael, I’m sorry; it was classified. I thought only myself and the Patriarch knew about it – I wasn’t supposed to tell anybody, but judging by that mob outside, somebody certainly talked.”

“Yeah, well I’m glad they did. Now your face is all over the news, and everyone can see what a disgrace our family name has become.”

“Disgrace? The Patriarch asked me to do this! More people are dying every day. He’s trying to put a stop to it.”

“The Patriarch is obviously falling out of grace with God. Our God would never allow you to perform such barbarism. My friends at the protest had all kinds of things to say about that old man.”

“’That old man?’ He’s the Patriarch; have some respect!” David’s hand went to his mouth. “Oh God, did I just say that?”

Michael slumped down into a chair at the kitchen table. “Your shameful actions make mom cry in her grave.”

David bit his lip. “If everyone had listened to me instead of ‘that old man,’ your mother wouldn’t be in a grave.”

“Whatever,” Michael said, laying his head in his arms.

“And I don’t want you hanging out with those fanatics anymore. They’re putting crazy ideas in your head. Those are probably the same sick monsters that are blowing up health clinics when they suspect a doctor is giving abortions. They’re dangerous. I expect you to be at school tomorrow, not out on the streets trying to stone your own father, for God’s sake.”

“Whatever.”

David sighed and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “I’m sorry, Michael. I’m sorry you are part of this because I am.”

Michael looked up. “If you’re sorry, then don’t do it.”

David hesitated a moment, then headed back toward his bedroom to get ready to sleep. It had been a long day, and tomorrow looked no shorter.

The autopsy turned up nothing – no trace of viral or bacterial infection. No organs damaged beyond what was to be expected by normal decomposition – lungs, heart, kidneys, liver, stomach – everything checked out fine. It was certainly overwhelming for David as a learning experience in human anatomy, but he had turned up nothing about the plague.

He had checked the woman from neck to foot, unable to find anything. When he was about to begin work on the head, Virgil stopped him.

“I’m afraid I cannot let you continue, doctor.”

“What’s the matter?” David enquired, looking up from nearly incising the ear.

“Orders from the Patriarch.”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“I was to let you look at the woman’s body, not her mind, the holiest of holies. If you feel you’ve found nothing in her body relating to the plague, and you’ve wasted both our time here, I am to report back to the Patriarch for further instructions.”

David did not argue. There was no point. All he could do was wait. He sat up in bed studying the anatomy of various animal brains, waiting until the call finally came. It was Brother Virgil.

“It appears you will have your victory, doctor. The Patriarch has given his consent at further dissection. I will pick you up in the morning.”

David was quiet for most of the car ride to the morgue the following day. He woke face to face with his picture in the morning copy of His Voice. It had “HERETIC” scrawled across it in red ink. He could only assume Michael did it – most of his things were gone when David checked.

“Yesterday, brother, you asked me how I do it. How I can continue to search for the truth even if it seems like nobody else is interested in finding it.”

Virgil said nothing.

“You said, people didn’t want the truth; they are just too afraid of what I say to forget it and go back to how things were, but I think you have it backwards. It’s the Patriarch that breeds fear. It’s that fear of the dark that keeps people in line. As long as the truth is kept from them, they’re forced to believe whatever the man in charge wants to tell them. When you’re in the dark, false truths are more reassuring than the unknown.”

The Citadel cruiser began its run down the gauntlet of protestors – more than yesterday.

“You’ve got it all wrong, David. It’s not fear the Patriarch and the High Order wish to sow among God’s children. It’s hope. You offer them your version of the truth – scientific explanations for things people used to consider miraculous – but what do they gain? Nothing but despair and confusion. People seek comfort in the Order. What is more comforting? The idea that your loved one is part of God’s plan and was chosen join God’s side in the next life, or the idea that your loved one had a one in eight chance of catching the plague and, too bad, she was unlucky?”

David grimaced. “It’s not about luck and comfort. It’s about helping people. Did the Patriarch ever tell you why I became so obsessed with my studies in virology and bacteriology? I watched my wife, Julia, die of infection in the hospital after giving birth to our son. I had been saying for months that doctors should wash their hands between treating patients because of research I had been doing on bacteria, but people laughed at me. After Julia died, I became consumed by my work, and I stockpiled evidence until it could no longer be written off as coincidence. Doctors started washing their hands in the hospital, and guess what? Patients stopped dying of infections they didn’t have when they walked in. I’m not concerned with fostering hope in mankind – I’m concerned with keeping it around a bit longer.”

“We’re here,” Virgil said.

David had done it. He had found the cause of the plague. Shortly after starting work on the ear canal of the body, he took a nerve tissue sample from deep inside the ear. Studying it under the microscope on his equipment tray, David had to muster every ounce of control not to jump at what he saw. Bugs – tiny, tiny mites infesting the nerve tissue. Who knows where they originated, but it made perfect sense. The swelling, the delirium, they were the effects of the mites chewing away at nerve tissue around the brain. Enough inflammation would eventually put enough pressure on the brain to cause death. They didn’t show up on any tests looking for viruses or bacteria because they were neither. He had his answer.

“What do you see?” Brother Virgil asked.

“Nothing,” said David. He set the slide aside for later. He’d be damned if he was going to give Virgil another excuse to halt his progress in the autopsy. If he showed him what he had found, he may call a stop to the brain dissection, proclaiming the answer already found. David reached for the circular saw.

Virgil’s phone rang.

“I see,” Virgil spoke into the phone. He looked up at David. “They say one of the protestors approached the door and refuses to leave. He claims that his name is Michael and that he is your son.”

David set the saw down, unsure of what to do. Did Michael had a change of heart after running away? He couldn’t turn him away – he may never come back.

“Virgil, tell them to let him in. Please”

Virgil gave David a very suspicious glance, but nodded, relaying the message to his centurions.

David stepped through the airlock, took off his medical garb, and washed up. Virgil stayed behind to watch the body. After cleaning himself, David stepped into the hallway to meet a haggard looking Michael. He didn’t have his mask or gloves on.

“Mikey, I was so worried about you. I thought I’d lost you forever the way you left this morning.” David swept his arms around his son.

“Dad, I love you.”

“I love you too, Mikey.”

“Please stop what you’re doing here.”

David opened his eyes, which had been shut tightly attempting to hold back tears, and looked at his son.

“You know I can’t, son. People are depending on me. I’m going to put an end to this plague, I promise.”

“Dad, please, just leave with me right now. God will forgive you. Please leave while you still can.”

“Michael, what are you talking about?” David asked, pulling away and putting his hands on his son’s face.

“Walk down the hall and through those doors with me. Come back to God. Please dad, for both of us.”

David dropped his arms and his gaze. “I’m sorry Mikey, I can’t. What I’m doing is too important.”

Michael’s eyes sunk, and he turned around. “So is what I’m doing,” he whispered, beginning to walk down the hall.

David watched him go, and then turned around, his throat tightening up. The children of God better damn well appreciate the sacrifice of his own son to save them. He wondered if any of them even cared about saving their mortal bodies, or if all that mattered to them was some immaterial dream of an immortal soul. He’d never know.

He went back into the dank morgue, the stink of death stronger than ever.

“What was that all about?” Virgil asked.

“Nothing. It’s just… nothing.” David took his place next to the cadaver and reached for his instrument.

The airlock door shot open, startling both David and Virgil. Standing in it, the two centurions grappled with a snarling man, David recognized him from the crowd outside. They tried to get their arms around his right hand. David had just enough time to see that the man’s jacket was unzipped, revealing enough explosives strapped to his chest to level the building. The centurions were trying to wrestle away the detonator in the man’s hands, but he managed to free one hand long enough to jam his thumb down on the button.

“God,” Virgil whispered.

“Julia,” David whispered.

]]> http://www.shockinglyliterate.com/fear-of-the-dark/feed/ 0 http://www.shockinglyliterate.com/thezinger/ http://www.shockinglyliterate.com/thezinger/#comments Tue, 17 Mar 2009 17:41:21 +0000 jeremy http://www.shockinglyliterate.com/?p=113 This one is kind of nasty. Please excuse the uneven paragraph formatting in this one — the file itself is pretty old, and I had trouble transferring it onto the blog.  It’s a creepy piece I wrote for a fiction class in undergrad. It’s one of my favorites. Enjoy!

The Zinger

Paul and Stacy sat in the waiting room. Someone had scattered issues of Technology Today and Sailing Monthly, among other generic titles, across each of the three tables. Paul had thumbed through a few of them already and had moved on to twitching his leg up and down compulsively. Stacy kept busy going over various documents from her law office.

“Mr. and Mrs. Roper? Dr. Proley will see you now.”

Paul and Stacy exchanged glances as they stood: both hopeful but worried. Stacy rested her palm on Paul’s forearm, and it was enough to draw a smile as he squeezed back.

After being led down a narrow hall, they found themselves sitting in the doctor’s office. It smelled of leather and peroxide. Paul imagined that the sterile hospital smell he hated so much must completely settle into everything it touched, becoming part of it forever. Dr. Proley joined them after a few minutes of anxious waiting, and uncomfortable pleasantries were exchanged as each of them shook his hand. They sat.

“I’m very glad you two decided to come in. Assuming an active role is an excellent quality in future parents.”

Paul and Stacy smiled thinly as they held hands.

“Now, I see you came here today because you have been trying to conceive for several months now, to no avail.”

“Yes, doctor. We’ve paid very close attention to my cycle, been sure to… attempt conception” – Stacy blushed as Paul grinned wryly at her – “during the right times of the month. We weren’t entirely sure what we could be doing wrong.”

“Well, it’s very rare for a couple to ‘do something wrong,’” he said with a smile, “but I’ve got both good news and bad news. The good news is, after running some tests, we’ve been able to diagnose what is coming in the way of conception.”

Stacy squeezed Paul’s hand.

“And that is where the bad news comes in. I’m afraid your sperm count is incredibly low, Paul. More than likely, the problem originates from a lesion that appeared at a young age and has gone untreated for years.”

Dr. Proley swiveled in his chair and pulled the string of a rolled-up chart on the wall. It was a cross-section of the male genitals. Had Paul not felt so numb, the idea of a map of the US from grade school rolling down to reveal a penis instead would have made him chuckle.

Stacy peered into Paul’s glazed eyes. His hand, which felt so warm and comforting moments before, had turned cold around hers. She began to speak, wanting terribly to comfort her husband, but unsure of what she could say or do.

“Is there anything you can do, doctor?” she said.

Paul noticed Dr. Proley had a very nice, thick, white goatee. Why hadn’t he noticed that when he first walked in?

“Naturally? No, I’m afraid the damage has already been done. Now, there are alternative methods of conception…”

Paul drowned out the rest. He nodded when he was supposed to and thanked the doctor when he left.

Paul stood in the doorway of what was supposed to be his future son or daughter’s room. He was just a humble writer. A few good projects were on the horizon, but he did not kid himself, it was Stacy who brought home the money. Now in her late twenties, she had become a wildly successful lawyer at her firm. It was her job that allowed them to own a house like this.

As he leaned in the doorway, he turned a brown teddy bear over and over in his hands. He had won it for Stacy at a carnival on the night that he told her he was ready to have a baby. She had been hinting at it for a year. He told her they would start trying that very night, and that this stuffed animal would be the first gift for the little human being they would make together. She had cried.

He looked down at the bear. The threads of its left eye were coming loose.

“Baby?”

Stacy wrapped her arms around Paul from behind, resting her chin on his shoulder. Paul’s gaze remained fixed on the teddy bear.

“It’s going to be okay. You know that, right?”

“Yeah.”

“We have plenty of options outside of natural conception. With the places I’m going at work, money won’t be an issue. And even if all that fails, there are plenty of children in the world that need good parents, we could adopt.”

“Yeah.”

Stacy squeezed his shoulder but received no further response from her husband. She frowned and took her arm from around his neck. She went to get ready for bed.

Paul stepped into the room. It sapped any energy he had left in his bones just to cross the threshold. They had even bought a crib. He set the bear to rest where a child of his own never would.

* * *

“Could it be the same problem? The lesion?”

“I don’t know,” Paul said.

A week later, he lay in bed next to Stacy, staring straight at the ceiling. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t perform.

“We can call the doctor tomorrow. He didn’t say anything like this would happen. Do you want me to be with you when you call? I’ve got a meeting with clients until twelve, but I could come back home during my lunch hour to call with you.”

“No, I can call myself.”

Stacy clenched the sheet covering her naked body. The silence that followed seemed to stretch on forever.

“Is there anything you want to talk about?” she asked after a long while.

“I just want to go to sleep.”

Stacy reached for him, but he rolled over to the edge of the bed and closed his eyes.

The next day, Paul couldn’t stand the thought of spending another entire afternoon sitting in front of that infernal machine in his cramped office. Usually he and Stacy woke up early in the morning, had breakfast together, and he would see her off to work before settling down to write. Lately his nights had been long and restless in front of the typewriter, so he began sleeping later. She was gone by the time he woke up, so he just grabbed his car keys and headed for the mall.

He had a burger for lunch, rare. The juiciness of it pleased him.

After eating, he strolled around the stores aimlessly. Outside of an arcade, he saw a little boy riding in a fire truck with Big Bird. His mother and father were watching him from a bench and feeding quarters into the fire truck whenever it stopped rocking back and forth. Paul pretended to browse through the selection at a cell phone kiosk as he watched on from a distance.

He ended up in a sporting goods store, which he found ironic, having never played a sport in his life outside of golf once with Stacy’s father while he was courting her. He wasn’t sure you could call what he’d done on the course “playing” though.

He stopped at a row of baseball bats hung up on a shelf in one corner of the store. He had never played baseball before. He had bad asthma as a child, and when he grew out of it, the interest had passed. Right now, however, he felt like he wanted to hold one of these bats more than he’d ever wanted anything. He picked one up. The weight of it felt good. He turned it in his hands. Emblazoned on the side of the bat was The Zinger.

He didn’t have any cash on him, so he charged it. The lady at the register asked if he wanted a bag. He said no. He carried it to his car.

“Jason approached the door timidly extending his finger tips to touch the cold knob.”

Too wordy.

“Jason walked toward the door, scared. He reached for the cold knob.”

Too broken up.

“Jason walked toward the door, reaching for the cold knob, scared.”

Is Jason even a good name for this character?

Paul blew out an exasperated breath as he tore another page from the typewriter. He had been working at this damn thing for days. His laptop sat unused on the floor. This was an old trick he had learned just after college. When you have trouble getting into a story, change how you approach it. Whenever he was stuck, he would pull out his grandfather’s old typewriter. Something about the clicking of the keys and the smell of the ink on fresh paper usually got his creative juices flowing. Usually.

When he had visited the doctor, Paul was in the middle of a novel he had pitched to a publisher. They loved the idea, and he was contracted to finish it within the year. Such deals could be very rare, and the prospect of having a big hit had driven Paul to finish it as soon as possible. But now, writer’s block.

He laid his head back and spun around in the desk chair. His feet scraped against the discarded drafts and failed sentences littering the floor. The Zinger leaned against the side of his desk. He reached over and picked up the weighty wooden instrument. He kicked back from the desk and just sat, holding The Zinger and thinking.

After a while, the phone rang, and he took his time answering it.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Roper? Please hold for Dr. Proley.”

The doctor told him the problem he had should have no such side effects. Sterility, in his case, should have no relation to erectile dysfunction. Paul thanked him and clicked off the phone before he was done speaking. He rolled The Zinger around in his palms a moment, and then he propped it back up next to his desk.

“Jason tiptoed toward the door, clearly afraid, but nonetheless reached for the cold, brass knob.”

Better.

The next day, after another unproductive early afternoon at the typewriter, Paul felt like going out. He grabbed his car keys and got up from his desk, heading for the door. Then he thought better and grabbed The Zinger. He had grown accustomed to carrying it with him wherever he went, and why should that be limited to the house?

He drove around for a bit and ended up at the grocery store. The Zinger rolled back and forth in the passenger seat as he pulled into a parking spot. Nobody in the parking lot or the store gave him more than a glance – there could be all kinds of reasons for a man to be carrying a bat in a grocery store.

He wandered through the aisle with the shampoo and soaps, then through the bread aisle, finally to the snacks. He paused in front of a box of Oatmeal cream pies. He looked around, and then looked down at The Zinger.

Who’s gonna know?

He opened one of the boxes of cream pies and grabbed one of the individually wrapped confections, stuffing it in his pocket. He resealed the box and put it behind a new one.

Stepping out of the aisle, he pulled the cream pie out of his pocket and unwrapped it. He took huge bites, stuffing his face as he strolled into the produce aisle. Cantaloupes. That’s what Paul wanted, and that’s why he came here. He walked to the front of the store, grabbed a cart, and wheeled it back to the aisle with the melons. He dumped ten ripe, round cantaloupes into the cart and brought it to the pimply faced teenage kid at the check out counter.

“What are you going to do with all these melons, man?”

“I’m gonna smash each of them with this baseball bat in my back yard. What do you think I’m gonna do with them?”

The kid laughed, and so did Paul.

* * *

Stacy got home that night and found papers scattered all over the floor, spilling out of Paul’s office.

“Paul?” she called. No answer.

She opened the door and a small avalanche of crumpled up paper spilled through the crack. A chilling breeze wafted through the doorway – the door to the backyard must be open, she thought. The backyard was nothing special, just a cement stoop leading down from the door. The rest of the yard was just plain grass with one tree and a picket fence walling off the neighbors’ yards.

She stepped out onto the stoop and found Paul on the lawn mid-swing. It was freezing outside, but he seemed unfazed by it. He had pushed two concrete blocks together at the base of their willow tree. A pile of melons was lying beside the blocks. With a thick smack, the baseball bat in his hands crushed the melon. Seeds and juice burst all over the sterile concrete.

“Oh, hi honey,” Paul said.

“What are you doing?”

He began setting up another melon on the slab he had built under the skeleton branches of the willow tree.

“Oh, you know, nothing.”

He lifted the bat high overhead and brought it down again with the same results. The fruit shot everywhere: sticky clumps of it stuck to the concrete, to Paul, to the tree.

Paul hadn’t shaved in a few days. Stacy couldn’t tell if he’d been skipping showers too, but he’d been wearing the same clothes all week. She wondered if he’d change now that melon had been smattered up and down his shirt and pants.

“Sweetie, I know that what you’re going through is tough, but I –“

“You don’t know shit. Okay,” he breathed, “Sweetie?”

Paul didn’t turn around to say this, but he paused from his task long enough to glance over his shoulder. The look he gave her nearly knocked her down. Her throat clenched tight. Her chest swelled.

“This isn’t hard just on you, so don’t take it out on me, goddamn it!”

Paul stood calmly for an instant, shadows dancing across his face as the willow branches overhead rustled in the wind, and then he bent down to grab another melon. He placed it on the block and brought his bat down again. He did this two more times before Stacy stumbled inside, no longer able to hold back her tears.

As he reached for another melon, he heard the cawing of a crow overhead. A large black bird perched in the tree above him. He paused for just one moment to look up at it. It looked back down at him. He wouldn’t remember this later.

He slept at the desk in his office that night. He couldn’t stand the thought of sleeping in bed with that prying bitch. All he wanted was some peace and quiet. He just had to finish this novel, and his career would take off. Maybe enough that he wouldn’t even need her anymore. He just needed an ending. So close to finishing, but still no ending. He really thought he was getting somewhere in the yard, but then she went and interrupted his train of thought.

Support group, psychoanalytical, pussy, bullshit is what it is, he thought. If she really wanted to help him, she’d just pay the bills and leave him alone.

The next day, she went to work again without waking him. He opened his eyes and immediately began typing. Page after page was wasted and ripped from the typewriter, crumpled up, and thrown away. The piles on the floor were beginning to achieve true depth. The Zinger leaned against the side of the desk, mucked with red goop.

After a few hours of typing, Paul wandered out into the kitchen, commenting on what a fucking mess this place was becoming, and pulled the radio out its socket below the microwave. He holed himself back up in his office and plugged it in. Maybe some music would help stir the imagination. Amid the songs on the various stations, he heard a report of a blizzard coming that night. It was supposed to be pretty bad. Another shitty song came on after that, and he just turned the radio to a random station filled with static. It was oddly soothing. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, allowing the white noise to cleanse his troubled mind.

Stacy.

The phone rang. Eyes still pressed shut, he answered.

“What’s up, buddy?”

A shocked silence staggered the other end of the call.

“Is, ah, Paul there?”

“You got him. What do you want from him?”

“Paul, it’s Roger Klein, from Arklay Book Publishers. We haven’t heard from you for some time now. I was just calling to see how the book was coming along – I’m just trying to get some idea of when I’ll be able to start the editing process.”

“Oh, it’s coming just swell, Roger. Boy let me tell you, it’s a real hoot.”

“Paul, if this is some kind of joke, it’s not funny. The people writing your checks are getting antsy. What am I supposed to tell them?”

“Well, I tell you what, Roger. If you’re so anxious to have this book done, why don’t you come on down here and pick one of these endings I have lying around on my floor? It’ll be like those choose-your-own-fucking-adventure books from when we were kids!” Paul began grabbing the crumpled up papers from the floor, “Here’s one: Jason gets hooked on smack and gets HIV turning tricks in bus station bathrooms! Oh! Another good one: Jason picks up an electric guitar and plays lead for Jesus and the second coming. I’m a fan of that one, but if you don’t dig either of those, I could write up a new one for you. ‘Jason marches down to Arklay Book Publishers and shoves Paul’s king-sized typewriter right up Roger Klein’s gaping asshole.’ Do you like that one?”

The other party had hung up long before Paul finished speaking. He clicked off the phone and turned the static back up.

She found him in the backyard again when she got home from work. The sun was beginning to set, and the temperature was below freezing. He wore the same, sticky clothes he had worn the day before. He must have run out of melons, because new victims had been crushed on his altar below the willow. Among the broken pieces, Stacy could make out what looked like a lamp from the living room, the home phone, and Paul’s laptop. Next up on the block was Paul’s old typewriter.

“Roger Klein called me at work today and told me about your phone conversation. Are you crazy, Paul? He’s trying to help you! Your book is never going to see the light of day at this rate, if you even finish it. I told him I was sorry for what you said.”

“You are pretty sorry, aren’t you Stacy?” Paul said, turning around and resting both arms on the tip of the bat planted in the ground in front of him.

“Paul, why are you doing this? I expected the news from the doctor to get to you, but not like this. How could it change you like this? I know deep down, under all that pain and fear and anger, you’re still the man I love. The man that loves me.”

“You are so wrong!” Paul shouted. He punctuated each word with a swipe at the typewriter, bashing it to bits. Stacy screamed and winced at each strike, tears welling in her eyes.

“You’re scaring me, Paul!”

“Scaring you? I’m just taking out a little frustration on an inanimate object, honey. If I wanted to scare you, I’d do this.”

He reached back, poised to strike Stacy, but stopped at the last moment, laughing.

“Just kidding!”

Stacy stared wide-eyed at the man she once loved, horrified. She realized that the stuffed bear he had won for her at the carnival so long ago was among the pile of things he was planning to smash. She began to gag and turned to run inside.

“Come on!” he shouted after her, “Can’t you take a joke? Goddamn it!”

Paul stormed over to his pile and thrust the bear onto the concrete blocks. He lifted The Zinger high above his head and brought it down repeatedly on the stuffed animal. It just bounced around limply and then fell off the blocks onto the grass.

“Piece of shit,” he grunted, putting it back up onto the concrete amid the melons’ remains.

He brought the bat down again and again, but the bear wouldn’t break like the rest of the things Paul had done. He cursed and spat, and finally he picked up the bear and hurled it over the fence into the next yard. His face was covered in sweat and an ugly shade of purple. Chest heaving, he stumbled back into the house with The Zinger and collapsed into his chair, turning the static back on.

“Paul, I’m leaving. You need help. I can’t be around you like this. If you manage to become yourself again, maybe there will be enough of us left to salvage. Goodbye.”

Stacy stood in the doorway to Paul’s office, suitcase shaking in her hand. Paul was reclining in his office chair. The static coming from the radio was loud enough it almost drowned Stacy’s voice out completely. After a final sob, Stacy wiped at her nose and turned around, heading for the front door.

After she left the room, Paul leaned forward in his seat and clicked off the radio. He heard the front door open.

“Stacy! Wait! You’re right – I’m so sorry, baby, I do need help! Please don’t leave me here alone!” The panicked crack in his voice contrasted with the dead calmness of his face.

He listened, picturing her lingering in the foyer, unsure whether her husband’s words were sincere. She called his name, her voice trembling.

Paul stood up and began to whistle quietly to himself. He grabbed The Zinger from its place next to the desk and gave it a few good practice swings through the air in front of him. He patted the bat against his open palm and headed for the door leading to his wife, still whistling. The weight of it felt good.

This one I’m not quite happy with, but I couldn’t bring myself to edit it any further.  ”Teardrop” became my first story to appear in print in the 2007 edition of Bartleby.  It won the award for short fiction that year, so now I can pretentiously refer to myself as “award winning author, Jeremy Hentschel.”  This story is about a little girl growing up in the sticks, and it’s dedicated to my mother.

Teardrop

I hated Christmas time. Some kids got presents on Christmas. Momma and Daddy told me I was a bad little girl, and I didn’t deserve no presents. Every year I woke up hoping Santa came, and every year I saw nothing under that tree. After a while I didn’t even bother to check no more.

The only presents I ever got were for my birthday, but they weren’t from Momma or Daddy neither. My grandma and grandpa sent me a birthday card every year, and inside it there was always a five dollar bill. Daddy always took it out before he gave me the card, but I didn’t care. The cards were always beautiful, and I kept them all in a shoe box under the bed. The best part was what my grandma and grandpa wrote inside each card. Every time I went over to their house they made sure I practiced my reading so I could read what they sent me. My favorite one came on my eighth birthday, April 10^th, 1969 – the last year I ever saw them. It went like this:

“Happy Birthday Rose! Every year you get prettier. We hope we even recognize you next time you visit! Love, Grandma and Grandpa.”

***

I was dreaming about moving real far away. The road was open, and the sky was clear. A handsome man was driving me east, out of West Virginia. He was shaved real clean, and his long hair flowed in the wind, rippling like silk. He was wearing sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes. As I reached up to pull them away, my whole body froze up in shock. I felt like a thousand pins stabbed me all at once up and down my face and chest.

“Wake up, you lumps!”

I choked and reached up to my face, wiping the freezing water from my eyes. Suzy was crying. She was still little, and she hadn’t gotten used to this like we did yet. This is how Momma woke us up every morning when she was in a nasty mood.

Our bedroom was a little part of the house that was supposed to be for one person. When I was born, it was. Then Brittany and Suzy were born, and we had to share. Our bed sat under the single window in the room. Our house was right up against the woods, so the view out the back window was nothing but trees. We had a lamp sitting on the dresser across the room from our bed. Sometimes we could use it, other times we just had to use the window for light because Momma said a man came and took away the power.

I got out of bed shivering and stumbled over to the dresser where I had folded up the clothes I wore the day before. I liked to pretend like I had a huge closet in my room, like a movie star. Every morning when I woke up, I could step inside the closet in my huge house and think real hard about what beautiful dress I wanted to wear that day. I stripped off the soaked jammies I was wearing and pulled the t-shirt and overalls that I wore every day out of my tiny drawer on the bottom of the dresser. The shirt had a stain, but I could cover it up if I wore the pants and ‘spenders right. The overalls had holes in the knees, but I could pretend like they was there on purpose, because then it was cool. I grabbed the brush off the top of the dresser – all four of us had to share one – and plucked the girls’ hair from the night before out of it. I looked in the cracked mirror and brushed, pulling through the knots and trying to make my hair as straight as I could. As I put the brush down next to the card my grandma and grandpa sent me the month before on my eighth birthday, I looked behind me in the mirror. Suzy was still bawling. Brittany had taken to yelling at her to stop.

“Shut up, baby!”

“I can’t help it!”

Brittany reached back and smacked Suzy across the face. Suzy screamed even louder now, a hurt look in her eyes as she touched her face where she was hit. Slamming the brush down, I walked over to the bed and socked Brittany in the arm as hard as I could.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Don’t hit Suzy, Britt. You used to cry louder than she does.”

Brittany shot a look at me, both hurt and embarrassed, and stomped off to the kitchen. I could hear her tattling to Momma that I hit her, but Momma didn’t care. She probably asked why she didn’t just hit me back.

“Are you okay Suzy?”

“Yea,” she sniffled and wiped the snot from her nose.

I kissed her on the forehead and walked out to the kitchen too. Momma and Daddy had a room next to ours, but the kitchen and that were the only other rooms in the house. The kitchen smelled real bad most of the time. It was the greasy pans in the kitchen sitting in the sink that made it smell like that. The floor was plain wood, just like the rest of the house, but this was the only room with wallpaper. It used to be pretty – white with flowers. Now, the white was turning yellow, and the flowers look like they were going to rot.

Brittany was sitting at the table already, crossing her arms and sulking. Momma was fixing us breakfast. All we had was toast, and each of us got two slices. Sometimes Momma burnt it, but we ate it anyway though. Otherwise, we just didn’t eat.

“You hurry up in there, Suzy, or else I’m giving yours to the dogs!” Momma hollered to the next room.

Suzy hurried in, tears still fresh on her face, because she knew from experience that Momma meant it. We all sat down together at the table and ate. Daddy had left for work long before we woke up. He worked all day in the mine. He’d be back tonight, dirty, drunk, and in a nasty mood.

A horn blared from the front lawn twice. The school bus! I didn’t go to school much. I didn’t like it there at all, so lots of times I pretended like I was going to the bus, but I really snuck out to explore the woods or crop fields, but today I had to go. I was going to visit Grandma and Grandpa tomorrow, and they always liked to see me do well on my spelling tests. I had one today, and I studied real hard to make them happy. I just knew if I brought that test to them with a big “A” in red on the top they’d just cover me in kisses.

“Love you, Momma!” I yelled as I crammed down the last piece of toast and ran out the front door before the bus left me behind.

“Love you too, darlin’.”

***

The next morning I faked getting on the school bus and snuck around back of the house. I began my proud victory march through the woods path toward my Grandma and Grandpa’s house. I learned the way there back when Grandpa used to visit us. I could go through the forest, and there was a path that led almost all the way there. They lived about an hour’s walk away on a farm up in the hills. They raised all kinds of animals. Chickens, goats, cows, and they even had a bull. He was a mean one. I didn’t like him much at all.

I practically skipped through that woods path. My spelling test, marked with a “B+” on the top, rested up against my stomach in the front pocket of my overalls. The warm feeling inside me matched the beautiful sunny sky of that spring day. As I walked through the forest, I could hear, smell, and feel the life all around me. The birds up in the trees were singing, the flowers along the path swayed in the wind, and warm rays from the sun poked through the tree branches overhead, showering down to light my path.

After about a half hour, the woods stopped and the fields of my Grandma and Grandpa’s farm began. A stroll through the high grass took me to their land. A big wood fence marked where it started. A cold knot wound tight in my stomach and took away that nice feeling the spelling test gave me. I shoved my hands in my front pockets, gripping onto that test tight. Somewhere beyond that fence Teardrop, their bull, was waiting for me. He was a nasty monster. I begged grandma and grandpa to get rid of him every time I saw them, but they said they needed him. I didn’t know for what. I stood there for five long minutes, just like I did every time before, wondering if it was worth it. The front entrance to their farm was on the opposite side of their land, so I would have to walk a big circle around the whole field to get there. If I did that, I’d not get much time with my Grandma and Grandpa at all. Just like every other visit, I made the same choice. I bent down and stuck one leg through the fence, then the other, ducking my head through the center. Maybe I wouldn’t run into him today, I thought.

I walked quickly with my hands in my front pockets, holding on tightly to my test. I kept my head down, half of me scared to see him, the other half scared not to. If I didn’t see him, maybe he couldn’t see me.

After walking for fifteen more minutes, I reached the middle of the field. I knew because there was a single tree growing along the path I take. Keeping trees growing in your field is not something most take to, but Grandpa said the tree was just too beautiful to tear out of the ground. I always rested there beneath the tree, like a big leafy umbrella, and that day was no different. I sat down and plopped my back against the trunk. From the middle, the field is beautiful and scary. Looking out into the wide, open space, I felt at home and lost. From the middle, I could look in every direction and see nothing but grass and sky.

I made it all the way to the other end of the field before I ran into him. I looked up and caught sight of the fence up ahead, and then I saw him. He was grazing off to the right, not quite between me and the fence, but, if he caught wind of me, he could be fast. I didn’t want to get his attention, so I didn’t just run for the fence. I tried to be as calm as I could, just walking fast, keeping my eyes right on him. I started sweating something fierce. I made it about halfway to the fence, then he looked up. He saw me.

Teardrop turned and looked my way with that crazy look in his eyes that I had seen too many times for my own good. He stood out something fierce against the soft field – there was nothing soft about Teardrop. His skin was black as night, and his eyes were dark islands in oceans of white. I looked at him, and he looked at me. I ran.

I yanked my hands out of my pockets and sprinted for safety. He kicked up dust, getting ready to charge. I was almost there. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten. I tripped. My arms flew in the air, trying to break my fall. They failed, and I got a face full of dirt and grass. I pushed myself up off the ground, spitting crud out of my mouth. Where was he? I looked left. I looked right. He wasn’t anywhere. I got to my feet and ran with all my might for the fence. I could hear him charging at my back. His warm breath shot out onto the back of my neck. My legs burned. The cuts on my arms from the fall hurt so bad, but I didn’t dare stop running. Finally, I reached the fence! No time to go through the middle. I threw myself to the ground, hoping to God in Heaven that Teardrop didn’t stomp all over me, and rolled under the fence.

I made it! I shook the dirt out of my hair and got to my feet, brushing myself off. Teardrop bucked fiercely on the other side of the fence, but he knew his bounds.

“Beat you, you dumb bull!”

I flipped up my middle finger at him – even at my age I knew when to do that – and I stuffed one hand in my pocket to check on my precious test. It wasn’t there. I turned my pocket inside out – nothing. Did I… ?

I looked over the fence, past Teardrop, and saw my test laying in the dirt. It must have fallen out of my pocket when I was running or when I tripped. It was only ten feet into the field, but Teardrop ran back and forth just beyond the fence between me and my test. It may as well have been on the moon. I dropped down to my knees and began crying. I was so close. Tears rolled down my face, mixing with dirt to make muddy trails down my cheeks.

“It’s not fair!” I cried.

After a few minutes, I just stood up. I hung my head low and started the last part of the trip to Grandma and Grandpa’s house defeated. As I walked away, I could hear Teardrop snorting and stomping behind me in victory.

***

“You poor thing!” my grandma said. She rushed toward my sorry figure standing in the doorway to their house. I was still sniffling. She wrapped her arms around me and kissed my hair three times.

“What did you go and get yourself into?”

“Teardrop.”

“You silly girl! I told you not to mess with that ornery critter! He could have killed you!”

“I’m sorry, grandma.”

“Aww, baby, let me get you cleaned up.”

Grandma took me into the kitchen and sat me down at the table with a glass of apple juice. It looked like she had it waiting for when I got there.

“You just wait right here, and Grandma will be right back.”

I sat in the kitchen chair, my feet not quite reaching the floor, and looked around the familiar place. It wasn’t brown and dirty like my house. Grandma had beautiful flower wallpaper all around the kitchen. The flowers were purple and blue, and they grew all over the clean white wall. Pots and pans hung above the stove, and a sweet lemon smell came from the sink where dishes were soaking. Pictures of the family hung on the wall over the table. There was a picture of Momma and Daddy with me when we was all younger, and above that there was a picture of Grandma and Grandpa at the same age with Daddy when he was little. Grandma told me one day, when I met the right man, there would be a picture of me and him on the wall with our baby. I didn’t care if Teardrop broke every bone in my body. If I could stay here forever, it would be worth it.

“Here you go kiddo,” Grandma said, returning with a bottle of peroxide, cotton swabs, and a cookie, “This is going to sting, but just munch on this cookie, okay baby doll?”

I nodded, taking the cookie and biting down into the soft dough just before the first splash of peroxide soaked my cuts. I cried, but the cookie helped. When it was all over, I sipped at my apple juice and Grandma told me how brave I was.

My Grandma had smooth skin. Lots of old people got all wrinkly and dry, but Grandma looked real pretty. She had a full head of thick, grey hair. Her eyes were soft and blue, and looking at them made me forget about my bumps and scrapes right away.

Grandma and I talked about this and that for awhile, went over my grammar and spelling, and then she let me bake a new batch of cookies with her. I thought about mentioning the lost spelling test, but I decided not to. The next one would be more special if I just didn’t say anything then. She got the ingredients together, but she let me mix them and scoop the dough onto the tray. I slid it into the oven, and she set the temperature. While we waited for them to cook, she tickled me and blew raspberries on my tummy. Before long, Grandpa got back from working on the farm.

“Grandpa!” I squealed and ran to him.

“Munchkin!”

Grandpa was tall as a tree. He had hair like salt and pepper, and sweet blue eyes like my Grandma. His features were harder than Grandma’s, and his hands were rough, but they still made me feel so safe and wonderful when he held me.

I leapt into his arms, and he lifted me high into the air, spinning in a circle. When we came to a stop, he raised me to his face and kissed me on the nose. I giggled, and he set me down.

“I swear, if you keep getting so big, Grandpa is going to throw his back out trying that one day.”

“Never!”

The cookies were done cooking not long after Grandpa got home. Grandma set them by the window to cool off while she made dinner for us. I sat in Grandpa’s lap at the kitchen table and listened to his stories about the farm that week while Grandma fixed us eggs and bacon. I was so hungry, but I ate slowly. I always did at their house.

“Dinner is delicious Grandma, thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome sweetie pie.”

“Grandma?”

“Yes?”

“Can I stay here?”

The smile faded from Grandma’s face. Grandpa looked down at his plate, picking at the eggs with his fork.

“Rose, you ask every time you come visit. You know you can’t baby.”

I leaned forward against the table, looking up at my Grandma with pleading eyes.

“But why? I’m so happy here. And you and Grandpa love me, right? I could stay here and help Grandpa with the farm, and we could be together like this every day!”

“You heard your Grandma, Rose. Don’t push it. You got a good home and loving parents right where you are.”

His eyes stayed down at his plate when he said the last part.

“Okay,” I said.

The rest of dinner had a gloomy silence to it, but by the time I helped Grandma with the dishes, we had started giggling again. With the plates clean and the sun going down, I said goodbye to Grandma. Just like every week, Grandpa took the truck and drove me back to the house. He never wanted to come in. He dropped me off down the road and sat in his car to make sure I got inside the house safe. Every time I visited always ended the same way, but there was always hope that next time would be different.

***

I lay in bed that night crying. The room was pitch black, so it didn’t matter if I had my eyes open or not. One of my sisters had peed the bed. This happened a lot. Brittany blamed it on Suzy, but I lay between those two, and I know what side it started at. There was nothing I could do but lay there in it, holding my breath between tears.

Daddy came home late that night. He seemed like he was in a better mood than his normal self. He wasn’t hollering like he usually did, not at first at least.

I could hear them through the wall.

“Well look what the cat dragged in. What are you doing walking in here so late, Roger?” Momma said.

Daddy closed the door behind him and then threw his heavy tools down next to it.

“Don’t take that attitude with me. I got good news from work today.”

“You actually went to work today? That sounds like good enough news for me.”

“That’s real cute, Sue. They need a new assistant foreman over at the Oldtown mine in Maryland. I told them yes.”

A sharp crash shot through the door. Momma must’ve dropped whatever she was holding.

“You did what? Roger! You know my whole family lives here in Keyser. I don’t want to move to some town in another state!”

“It’s not a choice for you to make, Sue. The decision’s been made – I signed the contract. We’re moving next week.”

Momma cried too.

“That’s just like you, woman! I come home from the mine where I break my back all day to provide for you, and this is the thanks I get – for getting a promotion!”

“I didn’t ask you to take no promotion! We’re happy right here in Keyser!”

“How long do you think we’ll be here in Keyser if the bills keep coming like they do, Sue? They’re about ready to cut off the power. The water’ll be next! If I don’t take this job, we’re through.”

“We could make do,” Momma said.

“Oh, really? How do you think we’ll ‘make do,’ Sue? What are you willing to give up? We got three little girls to feed, unless, of course, we take my pa up on his offer. We might be able get by with Rose living up there on the farm.”

“I told that nosy man last time he was here, and if he ever shows his face in this house again, I’ll say the same thing! Nobody is raising my babies but me! We don’t need no charity.”

“We do need charity, Sue. We either give up Rose or I take this job.”

“You heard what I said.”

“Oh, to Hell with you, woman! I’ll make the decision for us. I’m taking that job, and we’re moving to Maryland. That’s final. Now, clean this damn mess up!”

I heard the door slam again as Daddy stormed out, and then another crash ripped through the house.

“I hate you!” Momma yelled.

She cried a long time. When I couldn’t hear her no more, I slipped out of bed, put on my clothes from the day before, and snuck out of the house. I didn’t want to go to Maryland neither, but I wasn’t going to give up that easy.

***

Trying to find my way through the woods at night was tough. I held out my hands in front of me and they got cut up on the tree branches that reached over the path. My heart stopped every time I started to trip over a rock or root, but somehow I made it to my Grandpa’s field. I climbed between the fence posts like normal, and I prayed to God in Heaven that Teardrop wasn’t out that night.

Since I was out of the woods, the stars and moon in the sky helped me see my way in the field. After a while, I made it halfway to my tree. Something didn’t look right. A big heap of something was lying at the bottom of the tree. I crept closer to see what it was. It was moving! I nearly jumped out of my skin when I realized it was Teardrop. He was sleeping deep. I started to sneak away, but before I got out of sight, I turned back and looked at him. His chest went up and down slowly in the darkness. I had never seen him look so peaceful.

Soon enough I made it to the other end of the field. I climbed through the fence and made my way up to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. It was real late, and I didn’t know if they were asleep or not. I didn’t even know what they’d say when I got there. I couldn’t just tell them I ran away from home. Grandpa would just take me back. I stood on the porch a long time trying to think what to do, but finally I gave up. I couldn’t go in there. I climbed down the steps from the porch and wandered around my Grandma and Grandpa’s land. I saw a shed in the distance, and it gave me an idea. The chicken coop! I could hide in there for the night. That would have to do.

I tried to be real quiet as I snuck inside the coop, trying not to wake up the chickens and cause a racket. They all sat sleeping in all their little pens. I found a corner to curl up in, cried for a little bit, and then joined them.

***

“Rose! What are you doing in here?”

I woke up and saw Grandpa hunched over me, concern on his face. He must’ve thought there was an emergency at my house.

“I ran away.”

Grandpa’s face slacked a little. A different kind of concern entered his eyes. He took off the gloves he wore to handle the chickens and sat down next to me.

“Ran away, huh?”

I wrapped my arms around my legs and pulled my knees into my chest.

“Uh-uh,” I sniffled.

He nodded his head.

“You want to talk about it?”

“No,” I said.

“Okay.”

We just sat there for a long time, and finally I broke down into sobs and grabbed on to Grandpa. He held me close, and I cried into his chest. He ran his hand over my hair, whispering to me that it would be alright.

“Are you mad at me, Grandpa?”

“No, I’m not mad sweetie. I just think you need to think this through. Running away is no answer.”

“Daddy says we’re moving real far away, to Maryland. I’m not going to get to see you no more.”

“Is that so?” Grandpa said.

We sat there a little longer, my Grandpa’s rough hand caressing my head.

“You know I got to take you back home, don’t you Rose?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Good girl.”

We stepped outside into the morning light and walked down to his truck. Before we got in, he kneeled down and put his hands on my shoulders.

“You just remember Rose, your grandmother and I love you very much. You’ve become such a fine young lady, and you got your whole life ahead of you. Don’t let nothing that happens at home keep you from living that life. You’re going to be real happy one day. You’ll always be in our hearts, and we’ll be with you in yours, no matter what. Okay kiddo?”

“I love you, Grandpa.”

“I love you too.”

***

Momma must’ve seen us coming up the road. She stormed out the front door as Grandpa’s truck pulled up to the front porch.

“You better have a damn good explanation for this, Wilbur!”

“Hello, Sue,” Grandpa said.

He stepped out of the truck and came around to the side to let me out. I held his hand as we walked toward the house, but Momma rushed up and pulled me away. She squeezed my arm so hard I thought she was going to pull it off.

“Get your hands off her! I ought to call the police down here right this instant and have you slapped in jail for kidnapping!”

“Ain’t no kidnapping if the kid comes to you, Sue. I found Rose holed up in the chicken house this morning, and I brought her straight back to you. That’s all.”

Momma turned her fiery eyes at me.

“What did I tell you about going up there? It’s dangerous! We don’t want nothing to do with this man, Rose!”

“Momma, you’re hurting me!” I cried.

Grandpa stepped forward.

“Damn it, Sue. You’ve never gotten along with my wife and I, but she is our granddaughter. You have no right.”

Momma shot a finger out at Grandpa.

“You’re the one with no right to come onto my land and tell me what I can and can’t do! Ain’t nobody going to tell me how to raise my children.”

Grandpa sighed and looked at the ground.

“I can see I’m not wanted here. Okay Sue, have it your way. Best of luck to you in Maryland. Goodbye, Rose. I love you.”

“Grandpa!” I yelled.

I tried to run to him, but Momma held onto my shoulder so tight I couldn’t move. As Grandpa got into the truck, he glanced toward the house. Daddy stood at the window, holding onto the frame, looking out at Grandpa. Their eyes met for a second, and then Daddy looked away and turned around. Grandpa’s eyes went dull for a moment, and he just stood there, half in the truck, half out.

“Go on, git!” Momma spat.

Grandpa pressed his lips together and sat down in the truck. He pulled away in silence, and that was the last time I ever saw him.

***

Two weeks later, we started packing up our few things to move to Maryland. We didn’t have enough suitcases for all of us, so I had to put my clothes in a grocery bag. Brittany and Suzy did the same, but Momma and Daddy had real bags for themselves. We loaded it all up into Daddy’s truck that rainy Sunday morning and got ready to leave Keyser forever.

The last thing I took from the house was my shoe box with all of Grandma and Grandpa’s cards in it. I held on to it real tight for the whole car ride. When Momma asked me what was in it, I told her school stuff.

As Daddy pulled out of the lawn, I turned around, stuffed between Brittany and Suzy in the back seat, and took a look at what I called home since I was born. The tiny thing, not too much bigger than Grandpa’s chicken coop, got smaller and smaller as we drove away until it disappeared. I miss that house. I miss Grandma and Grandpa. I even miss Teardrop.

Here is a movie poster of The Big Sleep, because movies are inherently more interesting than books.

For the Cyberpunk class I’m taking this semester (if you don’t know what Cyberpunk is, get educated) , the first book we checked out was Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep.  That probably rings a bell because of its film incarnation starring Humphrey Bogart as the protagonist, Philip Marlowe.

The story of The Big Sleep isn’t especially important for what I want to talk about today, and on top of that, it has one of the most convoluted plots I’ve ever had the displeasure of deciphering. While trying to adapt it for the screen, the team of writers simply could not tack down who murdered one of the characters.  They got Chandler on the phone, and his response was, “I haven’t a clue.”

That being said, it is still a great book, both as a detective story and as an exploration of 1930’s culture.  Since his appearance in The Big Sleep, Philip Marlowe has become an archetype in American storytelling.  He’s a hard-boiled detective in Los Angeles during the 1930’s mobster era.

A recurring symbol throughout the story is the white knight.  As the first image in the book, Marlowe stands in front of a tapestry hanging in his the front hall of his wealthy client.  Upon it, a knight tries frantically to free a naked maiden from the tree to which she is tied.  He is having trouble doing so, and Marlowe feels like he should give him a hand.  Later in the book, in Marlowe’s apartment, he examines his chess board.  He’s been belaboring his next move, fingering the white knight piece and then putting it down again over and over, unsure where to move it.  ”This isn’t a game for knights,” he comments.

I see in Marlowe a very American ideal of the white knight.  As an honorable detective, he ends up in a position above the law because the law itself is corrupt.  In the story, he faces bribed policemen, wealthy gangsters, and even wealthier (and even more corrupt) blue-bloods who hire him to do their dirty work.  Throughout the story, he is put in a position to take bribes, have sex with troubled women, or walk away from the case without uncovering the whole truth, but he carries on for seemingly no reason other than his dedication to a convoluted, twentieth century knight’s code.

Marlowe is not all flowers and sunshine, however.  He chugs alcohol throughout the story, and he is not afraid to point a gun to get the information he seeks.  In the end, however, its his superior logic, morality, and intuition that prove him right, and everything works out for the best.  Sort of.

There is a long trail of characters since Philip Marlowe that channel this knight’s code.  From John Wayne to Clint Eastwood to John McClane to Jack Bauer, America has had an absolute obsession with this noble figure who will get the job done when the law falls short.  We want to put our trust in someone incorruptible.  We have to believe that, somewhere in the world, there exists a man who knows what is right and will fight to the death for it.

Imagine what having an action figure made of you must do to your ego -- what if it's more attractive than you are?

Where does this fantasy take us?  In 24, Jack Bauer proves repeatedly that he knows best, can get the job done, and will sacrifice everything for his country.  We love him and idolize him for this selflessness. He’ll do illegal, immoral, and dangerous things because he believes they are necessary to guarantee our safety, and he’ll stick to his guns no matter who tries to stop him.  The pleasantness of fiction is that we can write the ending to show that Jack was right all along. That seemingly innocent man he tortured actually DID turn out to be a terrorist, and the information he gave Jack saved thousands of people.  The white knight prevails.

What about real life, though?  In a sense, George W. Bush was a Jack Bauer figure — he believed he knew what was right for the country and did it to keep us safe, regardless of protest, and yet he is arguably the most hated president in American history.  Unafraid to bring out the guns, using torture as a method of interrogation, and belief that what he was doing is right — all these things could describe either Jack or George, yet one is lauded as an American television icon, the other dismissed as an out of control executive.

The mythos of the American Badass stretches deep into our history and has been reborn in various incarnations.  What does it say about us?  Our rough and tough image of the frontier plays a big part — it’s no coincidence that we love cowboy stories as well.  On top of that, I would wager the above-the-law aspect of the white knight (one of the reasons The Dark Knight hit such a strong chord with us) has something to do with our severe distrust of the government, stemming back to our colonial days.

Deep inside all of us, there is a repressed figure who believes he is right and wants to take measures to prove it, even if it means imposing that inner vision of how things should be by force. When we see someone in a book or on the big screen act out this fantasy, it sticks with us.  Philip Marlowe and Jack Bauer both agree that the world can be a nasty, filthy, cold place, and they do their best to clean it up, although they know it’s beyond their ability –  especially because they know it’s beyond their ability. That’s the beauty of the white knight, though: in the face of the impossibible, he never gives up.

What do you guys think?  Would it be a good idea to put a select few morally superior agents above the law? Could we give them unquestioning resources to get the job done, trusting that they’ll do what is right? If that sounds like as bad an idea to you as it does to me, why do we absolutely adore the action heroes that do exactly this in so many famous movies?

Thanatos

Later, under sweaty sheets in a dim bedroom, a woman would ask me what it was like to kill a man. Not taking my eyes from the ceiling, I’d tell her it felt no different than breathing. But that’s later.

Adrenaline – the body’s natural defense mechanism. Afterburner fuel. When your mind perceives a life or death event, it sets off the red alert for your body. Your adrenal gland fires into action, pumping your brain, your blood, with the stuff. Juicing you up for what’s to come.

Fight or flight.

Some people spend their whole lives chasing that thrill. Sky diving, bungee jumping, roller coaster theme parks – all of them in pursuit of that adrenal high, all of them shams. Phonies. Fakes. They’re for kids that’re too rich to die and too dumb to know it. Their parachutes have two fail-safes. The rollercoaster has a seatbelt, a lap-bar, and three separate emergency braking systems. These things lie to the body.

There’s only one way to get that perfect adrenaline high. Those knockoffs produce a cheap copy of the real thing. The only way to get there is to fight another man. There are many ways to battle another human being. Warfare, debate – hell, even video games. All of them tap into that primal killer instinct inside all of us. For me, it’s boxing. Two men fight until only one is standing. And that’s how it should be. It’s beautiful.

It’s a minute into the third round when his right connects with my left cheek. Adrenaline does funny things to the body. It super charges all the senses. At the moment his glove comes into contact with my head, I can count the lashes on my opponent’s left eye. The smell of burning fat and oily smoke coats the air, rolling up off the grills in the back of the arena. Cheers from the crowd wash over me in waves, pulsating with my heart, against my heart. I can taste the blood pooling in my mouth. I would choke on it in a few seconds. What I can’t do, however, is feel. I don’t feel the smooth, plastic glove grinding into my cheek bone. My whole body aches, but I can’t feel that shattering blow that knocks me back, stumbling, until I collapse to one knee.

The referee storms between us as Chris “The Executioner” O’Kieff winds up for another blow. The ref puts one arm on my shoulder, the other on O’Kieff’s chest, screaming something I don’t hear. I’ve lost the roar of the crowd under the throbbing in my skull, so they cheer louder, and the throbbing pulses harder. If anyone were there to look into my eyes, pupils dilated, they’d see straight through to my mind. Months of training slipping away. Running until I could feel my ankles grind and my lungs burn. Taking hit after hit from my sparring partner. Endless pull-ups. The ringing in my ears lets up enough for the ref’s haggard voice to pierce through. He’s counted up to six.

I steady myself, putting a hand down on the mat, and I lift my head. O’Kieff is dancing around the ring, hyping up the crowd, and they love it. The ref is in my face, another number bursting from his fat lips, along with a flood of saliva that splatters against my naked shoulder. Behind me, I hear my trainer and manager screaming at me to get up. All around me, I hear the crowd just plain screaming. The lights put a kind of halo around the ring. I can hear the crowd, and I can smell their sweat. But I can’t see them.

I wobble to a standing position, then take control of myself and lift my fists. The ref takes a look into my eyes, touches my gloves, and cuts his hand through the air between me and O’Kieff. He steps aside, and O’Kieff comes at me, intending to put me down for good before I get my head back.

I’d already lost too many points by taking that knee. We were evenly matched going into this fight, and that was the advantage he needed to win by ruling. If we both go the distance, the judge’s are going to give him the match. I would have to knock him out now to win, and I only have one and a half rounds to do it.

Mid-stride, O’Kieff brings his elbow back into a haymaker, planning to tear through my guard in a single swing. Or maybe it’s a feint, so I’ll dodge to the side, stepping into the hook he has planned for me. I never find out. I drop my hands and dash forward. Two steps: my left foot, and then my right, and with it comes everything I have. My arm locks, a perfect line extending in sinew, bone, and muscle from my shoulder to his face. His mouth guard shoots out to the left, followed by a tidal wave of sweat, spit, and blood. By all means, he should have gone down in that moment, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, looking dumb. His face goes slack, and he raises his fists in a mockery of a guarded stance. I push him back across the ring with combinations of left, left, right, taking him all the way to the ropes. He blocks most of what I throw. The crowd goes insane, feeding on the frenzy I’m entering, devouring it. O’Kieff drops his guard.

There’s another funny thing about adrenaline. Maybe this dates back to the days where we trudged around in the rocks and mud, spears in hand, hunting for survival before we began hunting for sport. Adrenaline lets you, no, it makes you focus. You enter this perfect tunnel vision – all of your senses brought to one terrible point. You can taste your enemy’s pain, smell his fear, feel the blood pounding through his veins. They told me later his manager had thrown in the towel after my first big punch connected, when he saw that I intended to follow up. I never saw it. My goal, my thrill, my life depended on knocking this man down, and that’s all I saw and all I wanted.

When he dropped his hands, the ref should have been quicker. He should have dove between us, halting my attack. He was too slow. I tense my abdominal muscles, bending forward ever so slightly, and then release them in a surge of energy directed from the core of my being, through my arm, and across O’Kieff’s chin. My fist nails his head to the side, a jerky, violent motion. As the plastic padding of my glove drives into his head, sweat leaps from both our bodies, droplets colliding in the air, hailing down in sheets on the mat. He collapses backwards into the ropes, a rag doll caught in a spider’s web. He flips over them, the top rope wrapping around his body as he falls out of the ring. The rope reverses its force, bouncing back to send O’Kieff spinning as he tumbles to the floor of the arena.

Every muscle in my body is saturated and ready to snap. The fiery hormone slices through my brain layer upon layer, lightning behind my eyes. As O’Kieff’s trainer and manager rush to his crumpled body, I stab both my fists into the air. The ringside bell shoots off three shrill notes declaring the end of the match, but they are lost in the raucous screams of the audience. You beat a man senseless, and that adrenaline gets pumping. You do it to the cheers of an insatiable mob, you’re positively soaking in it.

My manager, a real slick douche named Tony, who I don’t know outside the time I put in at the gym, steps into the ring. It’s around now that I realize something’s not right. I’m undefeated in the ring, and after every match Tony swaggers across the mat with the same shit-eating grin and puts his arm around my shoulder and raises his fist into the air next to mine, like he was fighting right alongside me the whole time. Not this time though. There’s no smile on his face. He’s got my robe, “Derek Jett – When In Doubt, Knock ‘Em Out” (his slogan, not mine) stenciled across the back, and he’s rushing it to me. He slips it over my shoulders and whispers into my ear that we’ve got to go, and it’s then I realize that I can hear him. The arena has gone silent. As he hustles me under the ropes and out of the lights, I get a glimpse of the ring doc on all fours next to O’Kieff. Then my manager has me through a door and back in the locker rooms.

There’s a sick humidity unique to locker rooms. It’s so hot the sweat boils right off a guy and coats the air. Every breath is thick with it. You’re floating in it, smelling it, tasting it. My manager sits me down on a bench in my private room. He goes off in a hurry. Says he’ll send in a kid to get my gloves off and unwrap me. The hammering in my chest starts to slow down the longer I simmer in the locker room’s stew of stink and sweat, but the thrill of victory isn’t quite the same. I wonder what’s going on out there. The kid comes in a minute or two later, scrawny and in a too-big white tee. He starts taking my gloves off. While he’s still unwrapping my right hand, Tony comes back in. Looks like the wind is knocked out of him. He says I need to get out of there. It’ll probably be okay, that he knew what he was getting into when he stepped in the ring, and I’m not legally liable, but to be safe I should get out of there. I ask him what’s the matter with him. He says O’Kieff is dead.

He must have landed on his head, twisted his neck, something. They carried him off on a stretcher, and after a few minutes back in his own locker room, the doc made the call. My manager starts off telling me it’s not my fault, he knew the risks of the game, all that shit. I’m not listening, and I don’t need to hear it. That could have been me sprawled out on the floor, my head twisted at an impossible angle. That could be me tomorrow, or the next day, or next year. We all die. We’re all dieing. We’re all dead. It doesn’t matter when it happens. I’m not even sure it matters how it happens.

I sneak out the back entrance with Tony. He’s driving me home. I hear the announcer inside begin to introduce the next bout as we shuffle through the parking lot. They won’t tell the audience what happened. It would ruin the rest of the matches for the night. People got money and careers riding on them. The crowd won’t know until tomorrow, if they care to check. We get into the car and pull out onto the main road. As we drive, an ambulance with its lights and siren wailing soars past us. Too late, buddy. Too late.

I won’t tell that woman any of what I just told you. I won’t tell her about the adrenaline coursing through my veins, and I won’t tell her about the visceral explosion I feel when the other man crumbles under his own weight. When she asks me what it feels like to kill a man, I’ll only tell her the truth of it. Killing’s no different than eating, breathing, or taking a shit. It’s in our nature to kill, and it’s in our nature to die.