Tree of Life

07.16.08
This was a land far from heaven. If angels watched it, they were surely fallen ones.--From Dead Again

Monkey Poo

Be myself? You're kidding right?
That life raft of tolerance does not hold air
Let out my primordial shout
And I'm stoned into a dis-re-pair
A voice said "You ne'er know what will come out of his mouth."
My retort: You'll never ask meaning, so why be demeaning?
When your wish for wavelessness
Pains me with your bravelessness.
And then what changes
In the world?
You've created the excuse
To throw your stone.
Look up.
Everyone else has stones too.
(07/16/08)

Believe it or not, I'm still here. Still busy. Still writing, drawing...still peering into the darkness. --FW

(Somewhat-daily/weekly Improv Continuing Saga)
***I added more to the tail-end as this is the end of the first draft of this long tale***
Already she had made a choice that surprised her, and the path of her unfinished business would lead back to facing that choice soon enough, she knew. The eagle was not truly gone; he was watching from afar to see what she would do next, what direction her heart would turn. Thus it hardly caught her off guard when she heard its cry in the treetops to her right. There was a nest there, a big one.
ï¿*Tell me about the cold room,ï¿* she quietly demanded. He would hear.
You fled from it.
ï¿*No kidding.ï¿* She grunted. ï¿*It felt like hell.ï¿*
Then why ask what you already know?
ï¿*Becauseï¿*ï¿* She stopped short, gazing nowhere in particular. ï¿*You make a habit of getting me to answer instead of answering yourself. Our conversations are very one-sided. I hate that.ï¿*
Then ask questions you cannot answer yourself. That demonstrates strength.
The woman grimaced sourly. Thad did this to her too sometimes, and Victor. ï¿*Alright,ï¿* she resumed evenly. ï¿*Tell me how to shut the door for good on the place the cold room leads too.ï¿* She waited, and then added, ï¿*You think I should have done something there.ï¿*
It will not change the consequences of it being opened.
ï¿*I would finish what I started.ï¿*
You severed a rotten branch. Then you would do more?
ï¿*Why would I waste breath saying so if I wasnï¿*t serious?ï¿* She commenced walking again, steering her feet towards the pines to the right where the eagleï¿*s nest rested high above. ï¿*And what was it you said about asking questions you already knew the answer too?ï¿*
Prerogative of position. I exercise it as I will.
Yasha started to respond but upon entering the tree line, the focus of her attention shifted immediately. Where the tree line began it was cold, colder than she could have anticipated. And everything was gray, concrete, the light dim and flickering. Abruptly she wheeled and looked back. The sun shown bright behind her in contrast. Clouds drifted across the big blue sky in formation, heading lazily for uncharted places. She returned her facing forward towards what should have been the forest interior. That same gray she knew too well waited for her to make a decision.
The sun heals and gives courage. Darkness opens old wounds and cares not that you were once brave.
ï¿*I know,ï¿* she responded with a shiver. Mechanically she moved into the place she dreaded most now, feeling the sun go cold behind her. The way back was closed now. There was only forward, and what she needed to do.
The color of the stripes on the floor did not matter anymore. She knew exactly where she was going. The door, down this hall, was on the right, yawning in cold silence that could not be ignored. Yasha could have fled again. The impulse to do so was strong in her. Her legs plodded suddenly on, picking up her feet, setting them down, taking her forward despite the screaming protests of her primal instincts to preserve every part of herself.
From the door came noises now, groanings, cries of untended misery; torments and tormentors alike found no peace, for who could provide it? Who would dare to enter and give succor?
Now she began to understand, even in her terror, the true danger. Never before did she understand, for the nature of fear is not that of explanation but rather instigation.
ï¿*Close the door,ï¿* she told herself, her voice so quiet it took her connected thoughts to amplify them. ï¿*All you have to do is to close the door.ï¿*
But she knew better now. It was not so simple. This was not the door merely to hell. This was but the door to a single hell. Behind it would be others, and if she was drawn into it, it became a maze from which there might be no escape. Thus was the complexity of it. This was SYNï¿*s hell. These groanings were his. The tormentors only he could truly know, but he was in some way unable to escape them himself. And that this hell existed meant only one thing.
SYN was not dead, not here, not anywhere, and this hell was his everywhere.
There the door stood, open and covered with frost. To touch it would invoke many things, the least of which was what it would physically do to her. It radiated a cold that indicated something about the deeper chasm of temperature the door itself could not entirely contain. She could touch it once and then it would rip the skin from her hand, freeze the sinews underneath, make brittle the slender bones within. This she would face were it the only concern.
It wasnï¿*t.
Standing there, on the threshold of perhaps the greatest darkness sheï¿*d ever known, Yasha knew she could not close this door. Not because she was afraid, though she was very much so. It was because she knew that she should not do this. To do so would make her the architect of damnation, worse than what SYN had once become. He had learned; she was certain of that now. He had risen above the evil of his primal beginnings. Should she close this door to his torment, he was forever bound to it. Everyone needed a god, she concluded warily, no matter where in existence it resided. For this one moment, she was his, the focal point of his appeal, the only one who could properly judge.
She left the door behind, knowingly putting it to her back and proceeding further down the tunnel. With each step she felt some of the coldness fade, and the maddeningly irrational fear release its frigid grasp. What she had decided took stronger, surer root and she did not regret having left without closing the door nor her not entering within.
There was a path to follow here now. It was fairly clear to her though she needed to make sure. In the great hall she found her affirmation. Belariusï¿* panicked path marked itself for the foreseeable future, every fallen mummy exactly as she remembered it. She almost smiled in recollection. The way now was not back and through the platformï¿*s portal but forward through the corroded doors to the surface. Yasha found each and passed through into a day mixed with gray and sun. Winter was in some remission; perhaps it was that early lie that whispered falsely of spring, she mused. Wet snow blanketed everything incompletely. Leaves underneath bore that familiar consistency to cereal in the morning when soaked with earthmilk. And in a broad stretch of snow she spied footprints that made her heart leap. Tears welled and she rushed to follow them, for they were fresh.
She spotted him fifteen minutes later, half slipping down a muddy embankment, his hands scrabbling at exposed tree roots for support. It is why he neither saw nor heard her rushed and careless approach until she was nearly on him. His expression of surprise turned to glad panic as they crashed happily together, falling into the bole of an oak which spared them both a roll in the wet melt of the low, wooded hillside. They fumbled for seconds, and then minutes, speaking almost unintelligably in their disbelief. Faces wet with more than snow pressed together so tightly they wondered if their souls would meld into one.
ï¿*I thought you were gone forever!ï¿* He whispered. I thought you were fucking gone for goodï¿*ï¿*
ï¿*Me too.ï¿* Yasha pulled back a bit and stared into Thadï¿*s sea-water eyes. ï¿*You didnï¿*t hurt him, did you?ï¿*
Thad looked away, not meeting her gaze, frowning hard. There was conflict there in his expression, and pain. ï¿*How could I?ï¿* When we wrenched away from him finally, he fell back and just sat there waiting for it. I wanted to kill him. I never felt like that beforeï¿*ï¿*
She pressed fingers to his lips, relieved. ï¿*Where is he?ï¿*
ï¿*Sarah drove him off.ï¿* He pressed his lips together decisively. ï¿*Enough of him. What happened to you.ï¿*
ï¿*Not yet,ï¿* she shook her head. ï¿*How long was I gone?ï¿*
ï¿*Three days,ï¿* he answered. I came up here looking to get in the portal and then lost my nerve. There are a billion worlds out thereï¿*Iï¿*d never find you if I went through it.ï¿* He looked suddenly very shaken. ï¿*I almost missed you.ï¿*
ï¿*But you didnï¿*t.ï¿* Yasha hugged him tight again, afraid he might turn into smoke. Suddenly she pushed back, still clinging to the sleeves of his leather jacket. ï¿*Youï¿*re not him, are you?ï¿*
ï¿*Eh?ï¿* Thad looked clueless. ï¿*Iï¿*m a him. What are you talking about?ï¿*
Her next word came as a faint whisper. ï¿*SYN.ï¿*
Thad blinked twice. ï¿*Am I SYN?ï¿*
ï¿*Thatï¿*s what I asked.ï¿*
He smiled and relaxed. ï¿*No more than you, honey.ï¿*
For a few seconds Yasha studied his eyes, attempting to read something in them. Her thoughts heard thunder, and granite blocks crashing together, smotes of lightning frying rivers of air. And then, she remembered the eagle and smiled back. ï¿*I want to find out what happened to Victor. And we should find Belarius before something finds him. He did what he had to do. I know that now.ï¿* Thadï¿*s sudden discomfort prompted her further. Comeï¿* She took his hand tightly in her own and led him on through the woods and in the direction of their distant, unseen city, wondering how they would leave the island, and then remembering that Thad must have had a boat. ï¿*Iï¿*ll tell you everything on the way.ï¿*

The editing and public offer of Dead Again is still on hold. I'm taking some classes (Religion and Philosophy) and my time is thus somewhat compressed for a time. I still fully intend to put it on public offer. Patience, please. I'll still post current projects. Unchanged, see below for additional 13 pages (total of 50 pages--standard agent request)
Want to see more? Contact me. I am very approachable.
Above all else: Please read everything below. It's worth it. God Bless. ;)
Dead Again ms. page count (standard MS-Word doc) is at 493 pages(144,438 words).

See below for first chapters of Dead Again, SYN, and Genexile

Native Sun: Genexile page count is up to 329 ms. pgs.
Native Sun: Edict page count is up to 6 ms. pgs.
Native Sun: Heretic Damned is still pregnant w/ print

"Dedicate yourself to upsetting the applecart just enough so that everyone may eat of the tree of knowledge."
ï¿*The Author

Dead Again Chapter One
It happened so fast. A searing, blinding, fiery flash, a thunderous roar truncated in the fraction of a second, and then naked.
If memory served him, the overpass cutting across Route 96 in New Jackson City was clogged with traffic just before it happened. In the distance, over the tops of cars, trucks, the renegade Harley Davidson still defiant in the absence of a summer sun, lights flashed in a slow officious staccato. There was no way on Godï¿*s green earth of knowing why things were snarled up. They just were.
The answer should be clear to him now. Given the news stories lately, given the threats and warnings in other parts of the land, why should it be any different in his city? If they could hit Pittsburgh, or Hampton, why not here? Someone, somewhere, should have seen it coming. It all had no business seeming fuzzy to him, but it did. And where were his clothes? He shivered, suddenly conscious of the pavement pressing against his face, chest, and legs. The chill of a sun-warmed autumn day on his back brought a thousand tiny points of skin to a confused state of pleasure and discomfort. He became distinctly aware of a strange, vacuous feeling underlying everything, elusive in that he couldnï¿*t zero in on its source, but peripherally its presence could not be missed or mistaken for a passing memory. In the mere absence of what was missing, it hurt. But even that pain felt like a distant ghost. That hurt too.
Next to his face, within six inches as a matter of fact, was a license with his photograph. The words next to it spelled out Jorj Tory Watchman. Underneath were separate lines. 2100 North State Street, New Jackson City. A smear of blood blotted out the state and zip code. He could read most of the rest. Sex: M, Eyes: HA, HT 6-00, Class: D, another crimson stain and finally, EXPIRES: 02-20-10. There were, of course, numbers, codes, and the like, but they were unimportant now. That much he guessed.
Something of a shadow passed his thoughts, memories from a distant where and when. His work, livelihood, everything he knew and was, looked back on him from above and then slowly winged itï¿*s way westward towards the inevitable path of the sun. Like his long-departed father, anything he set himself to do, he remembered, he did, so long as it didnï¿*t involve much commitment or more money than he typically carried in his wallet. He had not the patience for the former nor an abundance of the latter. But he was as accomplished as his considerable perseverance allowed, which meant that he was that unheralded ï¿*Jack of all Trades,ï¿* without sponsor, adequate means, or clear direction. Whatever he mastered undoubtedly meant something to him, but to the rest of the world, especially his last ï¿*careerï¿* which neither needs nor deserves a description here, there was only trivial interest and absolutely no courting of his ideas by anyone with the means to see them through.
For good or ill, the matter of this wielded no power over him anymore, at least none that he could see. He rose to his elbows, his knees, and then his feet, not tiredly but with a confused weariness. Above him, what should have blocked out the overseeing sun was the absence of a highway overpass, its rubble scattered in a harsh knot of concrete, metal, and mangled vehicles. His own, no more than twenty two feet away sat nearly sideways and angled up as if ready to take to the air. Of course it would go nowhere now and never would again until this wreckage was cleared away. It, like its crushed peers, was beyond repair.
He staggered up to it, turning his disjointed walk into a normal stride as soon as he realized his odd, misrepresentative steps were not true to his apparent good health, and climbed carefully the three boulder-sized slab sections to the edge of his broken, Deep Forest Green Jeep Wrangler. No more ï¿*Jeep Wavesï¿* for Johnny, he thought dryly. The door hung open, stuck where the twisted metal imprisoned it, never to function properly again. He turned his head to the spectacle below and around him, aware that there were no other bodies. Indeed it seemed as if this catastrophic bridge collapse was not new. Weeds grew up through many of the crevices, scorch marksï¿*he regarded them for the first time with a sudden inescapable ï¿*ah-hahï¿* notionï¿*were wind-abraded. He let his eyes drift off to one of the concrete supports, the one to his right. It was wide and oblong, sectioned off in thick segmented layers. Spanning the full breadth of itï¿*s inner face, the one directly facing Jorj, was a rectangular, maze-like piece of graffiti accomplished in an unassuming flat white spray paint. Underneath it were two words. ï¿*Dead Again.ï¿*
Unhurriedly, he reached into the jeep and took out a dusty black gym bag, still hanging from the emergency break where somehow the carrying strap miraculously caught. After a brief visual survey, he descended to the road, littered and deteriorated as it was, and rifled through the contents of his possession. His hands, strangely cleaner than he last remembered them being, extracted a pair of jeans, a wrinkled khaki shirt, and a hat, all of which he immediately put on. After searching in vain for socks, finding a broken watch, and an address book, he closed up the bag and shouldered it, but not before casting the watch aside. Like the jeep, its days of service were over.
Questions abounded, and he should have wondered greatly at his own acceptance of facts as he presently saw them, but all such things were put away when he heard voices. An instinct in him, perhaps the one in all of us that prompts us to seek others of our kind when we are compromised, started him walking in their direction. They would know what happened and why he found himself abandoned, healthy, and alone. Of course they would.
But then the emptiness clutched him again, and an even sharper instinct made him duck down in a clump of weeds behind the crumpled remains of a red Buick. Shatterproof glass fragments crunched under his feet, cutting the undersides minutely. He shifted to a bare patch of earth and waited. The voices drew near.
ï¿*Yeah Bob,ï¿* one said. There was an oddly familiar sound. Yes, a bolt was thrown back. Something else cocked. ï¿*We started getting a few here the other day. Pretty certain we got ï¿*em all. Canï¿*t be sure though. Never knew one to straggle far behind the others in such a wreck.ï¿*
The crackle of static. Semi-intelligible words followed. Something about ï¿*Got what we need for now.ï¿*
ï¿*Iï¿*ll look around a bit more with Tom here. He might see something I donï¿*t. Jeezuss itï¿*s cold.ï¿* He paused and then continued. ï¿*Just as soon get inside. I donï¿*t care what you say Rick. You got June. I got Januaryï¿*LATE January. Three years of that IS hell! Out.ï¿*
Two men came into view. One white, one black. Jorj remained still. Weeds were mostly what blocked him from sight. The white guy wore Bermuda shorts, red ones. An off-white muscle shirt hung loosely over his thin frame, giving the impression of a reasonably fit man with expectations far exceeding reality. The hunting rifle he carried was only marginally ready for action. Apparently he didnï¿*t honestly anticipate problems. Next to him was his opposite in many ways. The black skin of the second manï¿*s face was mostly obscured by sunglasses, the kind popular with skiers, and a pitch-black pull-over hood. A thick thermal jacket, gloves and green camouflage pants served most of the rest, with sturdy hiking boots on his feet to complete the need. Thick puffs of frosty air plumed sideways when he exhaled. He truly appeared as cold as he felt. ï¿*This is bullshit,ï¿* he muttered.
ï¿*You could be Freddy,ï¿* Bermuda shorts replied. He got it in a downpour. Never sees the sun. A miserable turd.ï¿*
ï¿*Fuck you July!ï¿* Frosty walked off. He didnï¿*t look like he was coming back.
In fact neither man returned once they departed. Jorj took note that men with guns dressed in such a bizarre fashion were unlikely to be very amiable towards strangers. Getting shot didnï¿*t suit him, though he wondered where it would put him. He wondered on a lot of things just now.
He decided to trail Bermuda Shorts and Frosty. They seemed about as likely to inadvertently surrender information as anything this moment, being the only other humans heï¿*d seen so far. In his bare feet he could move pretty silently, though it hurt to step on sharp rocks and there were several times he was forced to duck behind a bush or stranded vehicle, there being plenty of those anywhere there was a road.
The odd men were too far away to hear much of their conversation. It didnï¿*t appear Frosty liked Bermuda shorts very much. Probably not at all. Mostly B.M. just talked.
When they came to a bridge, the two men stopped and so did Jorj. The uncertainty was nearly overwhelming. If two guys with guns, dressed for every meteorological eventuality, were afraid, well Jorj guessed he would trust them. So far nothing was what it was supposed to be. Waking up naked in a pile of catastrophic rubble only served to amplify this fact.
There seemed to be a debate at work. Should they cross the bridge? Or should they just skirt the hundred miles or so around it to some marshy, trickling stream that helped to feed this swelled section of the Metoak river? Jorj filled in the voice-overs. He actually had no idea what was being said except that neither man ahead really wanted to cross the river.
But they did. Jorj bid them ado. He didnï¿*t have to cross the bridge. Contented for the moment to watch whatever happened to them commence, he sat down on a concrete barricade next to a construction site. Once a bank was getting refurbished, parking lot and all. The project never got off the ground for some reason and things just lay where they left off in limbo.
Weird.
About halfway across the bridge two clear shots rang out. They did not originate from either weapon belonging to the weather twins, and both men ahead of him fell over looking pretty dead.
In the backdrop of this, on the other side of the river, hills rose up far more persistently than behind. Lights popped on some of the larger ones in long strings, betraying ski resorts. The evening light was dimming everything else into an orange-purple sunset. Odd, Jorj noted. Hardly the time of year for Valhalla Slopes or Boarding Heaven to be open. His eyes scanned around for awhile, curious as to who guarded the bridge, and then, not seeing a damned soul, gave up the search. Time to go elsewhere.
Nothing was open and that was not surprising. There was no one manning the local Burger Flip, not a soul at the Jolly Bagger. He felt sort of hungry too, and sort of not. Okay, he decided, wondering why the thought didnï¿*t occur before. Home.
No one was home at his second floor 2100 North State Street Apartment. A good thing considering he lived by himself. Of course there wasnï¿*t any furniture either, and that was bad. No CDs, no DVDs, no refrigerator or television. No neighbors either, but upon closer inspection of three adjoining habitations, their things were unmolested. He could fix that.
He flicked on the lights at Sol Blumï¿*s place next door, made a brief search, and determined no one had been there for quite some time. Dust lay moderately thick on things, but not so much that it was disgusting, just a nuisance. Heï¿*d explain to Sol, if he ever saw him again, that the circumstances warranted invading the old gentlemanï¿*s apartment.
The first thing he checked, once the rooms were identified as vacant, was the refrigerator. It still hummed along nicely as it probably had the last time Sol used it. He found some steaks marked December 2nd and fried them up until all the pink within them was gone. A further search brought forth a bottle of Castle Red and together they sated his appetite, sort of.
When he awoke many hours later on Solï¿*s couch he felt pretty much the same, but it went below his radar. Eggs and juice turned up for breakfast. The bread was moldy so toast was out. Jorj found some undersized dress shoes, crammed his feet into them, and went out to see what was what.
It didnï¿*t take him long to find entertainment, if you could call it that.
A large silver SUV screeched and crashed diagonally into the driverï¿*s side door of a late-model red Dodge pickup. The latter rebounded and spun 180 degrees before coming to a halt. He didnï¿*t physically see it but he heard the tragedy very clearly, even the color of the vehicles. Heï¿*d figure that one out later.
Yep. He didnï¿*t see the wrecks before, but there they were like theyï¿*d been there for three years. The passenger side of the red pickup creaked open on rusty hinges. Someone uttered an epithet from inside and promptly fell out, naked of course. He coughed twice, sat back on his bare ass and looked around him, a terrible expression of annoyance on his face.
Jorj studied him a moment. The lad was about his own age. His reddish hair as unkempt as his defunct pickup. There wasnï¿*t much meat on the man, the angles of every joint sharp enough to kill anyone unlucky enough to bump into him by accident. Jorj would have bet his last meal that this guy was a smoker. At any rate, he didnï¿*t look like much of a threat, not that Jorj was concerned. He could handle himself alright. As a matter of fact, the poor sap likely could use a hand. He slid unnoticed back inside, and found a pair of navy blue dress pants, an ugly but serviceable powder blue sweatshirt that belonged to Mrs. Logan upstairsï¿*she was eighty last time Jorj checkedï¿*and a pair of work boots from her sonï¿*s apartment next door to that. A pair of socks, some underwear from the same dresser drawer, and he was set. In a flash he was back outside. Red hadnï¿*t moved.
The newcomer noticed Jorj easily enough as he stepped lightly down the apartment buildingï¿*s front steps. He thought about getting up and then changed his mind. The man had clothes and they might be for him. ï¿*Who the fuck are you?ï¿* he asked as Jorj approached. He had to at least set an impression just in case.
ï¿*Your tailor,ï¿* Jorj answered easily. ï¿*Show some respect.ï¿*
ï¿*Iï¿*m naked. How much respect you think I got on me right now?ï¿* The answer came in the clothes that fell at his feet as he was getting up. He considered them a moment and then grabbed the pants, watching Jorj even though there was an easy seven feet between them. ï¿*You pick these yourself?ï¿*
ï¿*Yeah. It was the best I could do.ï¿* Jorj smiled. Even with his life turned upside down, he loved a good joke.
ï¿*Liarï¿*but thanks, I guess. Theyï¿*ll do for now. You didnï¿*t tell me your name.ï¿*
ï¿*Thatï¿*s right,ï¿* Jorj nodded. ï¿*Guys with clothes on get to introduce themselves last.ï¿*
Red paused, frowned, and then zipped up his fly. ï¿*What the hell. Doesnï¿*t really matter anyhow.ï¿* He stuck out his hand. ï¿*Nameï¿*s Dennis. Dennis Brinks. You can call me either or in combination, I donï¿*t care. Just leave ï¿*Assholeï¿* for when I deserve it. Whatï¿*s yours?ï¿*
Reluctantly the hand was taken. One never knew where such things found themselves before the shakeï¿*or after. ï¿*Jorj Tory Watchman. Iï¿*m pretty sure the only part that matters here is Jorj. You can work with that.ï¿* He pried his hand away.
ï¿*George, huh?ï¿*
ï¿*Jorj. J-O-R-J. Just like it sounds.ï¿*
Dennis put the rest of the clothes on, grimacing at the granny shirt. ï¿*#1 Grandmaï¿* was plastered on the front in tacky pink lettering. ï¿*The chest is a little stretched and it smells like vapor-rub. You know how to pick ï¿*em George.ï¿*
ï¿*Jorj.ï¿*
ï¿*Ah, yeah. Well thanks. Maybe Iï¿*ll have a look-see for something better now. No offense.ï¿*
ï¿*None taken.ï¿*
Dennis started off towards another building. ï¿*Hope thereï¿*s something left,ï¿* he remarked. ï¿*At least something in my size.ï¿* He turned abruptly, facing Jorj who fell in beside him. ï¿*Who do you work for?ï¿* His face looked suddenly very angry, even suspicious.
ï¿*Me.ï¿* It was a simple enough answer, and an honest one.
ï¿*No, no, no,ï¿* Dennis held up his hands, two primary fingers and thumb prominent on each one. A grin that was neither friendly nor amused split his unshaven face in two. ï¿*Everybody works for someone.ï¿* He looked up and left as if an answer were waiting to be plucked out of the sky, and then darted his eyes back at Jorj. ï¿*Theo? No, Iï¿*ve never seen you in his crowd. Benedict. You look like someone heï¿*d scoop up.ï¿*
ï¿*No Theo. No Benedict. Just me.ï¿*
ï¿*Look, whatever you guys want, I donï¿*t have it.ï¿*
ï¿*What?ï¿* Jorj now began to reconsider this new acquaintanceship. ï¿*I know you donï¿*t have ï¿*it.ï¿* Not unless itï¿*s in that truck back there, and I doubt ï¿*itï¿* is.ï¿* Should he tell this guy he didnï¿*t even know what he was ranting about? Eh, let him rant a little more.
ï¿*Funny. Very funny.ï¿* Dennis started walking again. ï¿*You couldnï¿*t even bring a few more guys to at least make it look like Iï¿*m a challenge? Howï¿*d you find my place anyhow?ï¿*
ï¿*Your place.ï¿* It should have been a question, and Jorj knew it, but it came out as a tired statement.
ï¿*Yeah, man. My Kamaloka Crossroads, portal, keyhole, pinhole, Kharmic funnelï¿*you know what the fuck Iï¿*m talking about.ï¿*
Okay, enough of the charade. ï¿*Honestly, I donï¿*t.ï¿*
Dennis stared at him like he had three heads. ï¿*What are you, a newbie or something?ï¿* A light bulb blinked on above his head, flickered for a few seconds, and then stayed lit. ï¿*You just got bagged, didnï¿*t you? I mean for real. This is your first time?ï¿*
For once Jorj didnï¿*t know what to say. The Red-headed bastard had him at a loss.
ï¿*Youï¿*re a fucking virgin!ï¿* It couldnï¿*t have sounded any more demeaning. ï¿*A goddam cherrypie!ï¿*
Jorj did the only thing he could have under the circumstances. He hit Dennis Brinks squarely in the jaw with a solid right. Dennis hit the pavement on the opposite side of his face with a cataclysmic smack. It was about as lucky a hit as anyone could hope for, except that it was a little too lucky. Dennis lay there very still.
ï¿*Dennis,ï¿* Jorj coaxed. ï¿*Cï¿*mon, I didnï¿*t hit you that hard.ï¿* He knew it was a lieï¿*well, an exaggeration anyway.
Nothing from Dennis. Not a peep. Jorj closed his eyes and growled out a sigh. Nice. Not a good start, he thought miserably. He was about to open his eyes and see if the little smart-mouth still breathed when a distant creaking door interrupted Jorjï¿*s stunned attention. He turned.
Quite a ways back, the rusty red Dodge vomited a second time. Dennis Brinks tumbled out in a tangled pink heap, angry but ready to deal. ï¿*What the fuck did ya do that for?!ï¿* he complained forcefully as his new acquaintance walked back to meet him.
Jorj, feeling a little better now, shrugged involuntarily. He really didnï¿*t have a good answer.
Dennis did. ï¿*Oh, you ab-so-lutely work for Benedict!ï¿* He shook off the frizziness he felt whenever he came through. ï¿*Thatï¿*s right up his alley!ï¿*
ï¿*Look,ï¿* Jorj tried to explain, totally flabbergasted as to why the actual irrationality of the moment didnï¿*t phase him one bit. ï¿*Youï¿*ve got this all wrong.ï¿*
ï¿*Oh do I?ï¿* Dennis exclaimed. He was getting his second wind back. ï¿*You think Iï¿*m a Cambrian man or something?ï¿*
ï¿*Cambrian Man?ï¿*
ï¿*NEVERMIND!ï¿* Dennisï¿* frustration was showing through the thin veneer that was his patience. ï¿*Iï¿*d like to get through the day without another horseï¿*s ass telling me something I know is BULLSHIT!ï¿*
They stood staring at each other for another thirty seconds before Jorj spoke. ï¿*I need a cup of coffee.ï¿*
ï¿*How about a beer?ï¿* Dennis asked carefully, his words slowly pronounced.
ï¿*Lead the way.ï¿* Jorj paused and then added. ï¿*Clothes. I should find you some clothes.ï¿* He did an about face, unsurprised that Dennis was not lying on the asphalt where he had knocked him cleanly to. Nothing surprised him much today.
Next door to Finnanï¿*s Threads, a small shop Dennis considered his own private clothing stash, was the Riverside mini-mart, most notable for the fact that it wasnï¿*t on the riverside but in fact three blocks away from it. Jorj ducked in and grabbed a dusty, un-refrigerated bottle of 7-UP with the date stamp of January 15. No telling whether it was January past or future. The year was worn off. He unscrewed the top and took a long pull before catching his breath. By the sun it was only midday, but the chill was lessened for it. He was unclear whether he was just not as thirsty as he thought, or if the soda lacked something. Eh, he thought, he wasnï¿*t a big fan of soda anyway. Too much sugar. He took another swig and stepped outside the mini-martï¿*s front door.
Across the street, North State Street to be exact, was Mikeï¿*s mechanic Shop. Always a ï¿*Mikeï¿* wherever there was a car being worked on, Jorj noted, wondering why that was. It was a yellow building, made of brick, with the paint peeling away from the brick in hand-sized patches. There were two garage bays on the left end, one with a cracked window pane, and a front door next to a dirty nine-pane window on the right. From the bay with the cracked glass came a distinct crash followed by the ring of a tool sliding across a concrete floor. Faintly visible through the dirty film on the glass of the left bay was the blur of a red sports car, a BMW possibly.
ï¿*Ready?ï¿* It was Dennis, now the proud owner of a pair of jeans slightly too big, a belt to hold them up, a blue t-shirt, socks and white, geeky-looking canvas sneakers.
ï¿*Sure,ï¿* Jorj answered, playing eye tag with the garage bay door and its red sports car. ï¿*Weï¿*ve got company.ï¿* He nodded to the shop and raised the bottle to his lips for one last swig before chucking the bottle in an over-filled recycling bin.
ï¿*Forget it,ï¿* Dennis said quickly. ï¿*I want to introduce you to a friend of mine.ï¿* He whipped out a 45 and pointed it right at Jorjï¿*s face. ï¿*Jorj, meet Clint.ï¿*
The target of Dennisï¿* affections froze in mid step. ï¿*I thought we were going for a beer,ï¿* he remarked uneasily.
ï¿*Depends on how much you hold a grudge.ï¿*
ï¿*Iï¿*m pretty forgiving.ï¿* Jorj answered, trying to smile.
ï¿*Weï¿*ll see.ï¿* Dennisï¿* hand tensed slightly. ï¿*Meet me back at my truck and Iï¿*ll buyï¿*for real, okay?ï¿*
ï¿*Huh?ï¿* Jorj frowned, puzzled. Logic told him he should feel relieved. He didnï¿*t feel relieved. ï¿*Where are you going?ï¿*
ï¿*Iï¿*m not. You are.ï¿*
The crack of a fired 45 caliber slug split the air. As it slammed home into Jorjï¿*s skull, spoiling everything between his eyes and messing up his day worse than before, thunder roared in, gravity sucked him down, and suddenly he was flying. He landed with a thud. Blackness, and a horrible headache teamed up against him and then there was nothing but the feel of cold asphalt against his skin. He opened his eyes and spied his Deep Forest Green Jeep Wrangler perched in its odd parking spot, nose pointed at an angle towards the sky. ï¿*Shit.ï¿*
His clothes were gone, leaving him shivering in the suit he was born in. Was he mad?ï¿* he wondered. If so, he was disappointed. He always thought going mad meant that everything was hunky-dory because you wouldnï¿*t even realize or care when things werenï¿*t right. Of course he cared very much at the moment that he had no clothes, and that his Jeep was not drivable. He still owed over a year on the damned thing.
And then there was the little problem of being shot. Yes, his memory couldnï¿*t be faulted. He thumbed the space between his eyes, feeling no scar, no pain. Well, he thought angrily, he did get shot, at point blank range too. Okay. One thing at a time.
He rose to his feet and clambered up to the Jeep. The driverï¿*s side door, bent unnaturally on its hinges, neither opened nor closed. He reached in and flailed his hand around. No bag. That meant a lot of bad thingsï¿*well, just one at the moment. He climbed down and surveyed his surroundings. Lots of junk cars, the shattered overpass, and that stupid graffiti on the bridge support that read ï¿*Dead Again.ï¿* What the hell did that mean?
At some point he started walking, not realizing that he had done so until well past the opening steps. He knew where his feet were taking him. Bullet or no bullet, there was going to be a reckoning. No one shot him and got away with it. As soon as these thoughts passed between his ears he rolled his eyes, realizing how dumb it sounded. Was he that much of a lunatic to be thinking revenge when the existing picture was so much bigger? He shrugged impulsively. If he was a lunatic, he was certainly in the right place for it.
The red Dodge was right where he last saw it. The door hung open just enough for someone to get in if they wanted to. He didnï¿*t. He stopped at the edge of things, not ready to commit to coming out into the open. Dennis likely still had that damned gun. Instead, he snuck over to a side street and came up on the other end of North State where he thought he saw a few shops just before he got capped.
The front door of Finnanï¿*s Threads had a bell attached to the top to let the former owners know when a customer walked in. There was no one to greet him when the bell jingled so he took it as a good sign. He needed clothes in a hurry and had no means or intent of paying. The pickings were slim. It looked like someone had wiped out everything even close to his size, at least on the racks. He ran down the aisles to the back. A door marked ï¿*employees onlyï¿* filled a narrow wall space, sandwiched between a rack with a few womenï¿*s sweaters on hangers. He tried the knob. It was locked. Without knowing why, he looked left and right before kicking the door in. It gave at the expense of his footï¿*s well-being. The pain, he decided, would pass. Heï¿*d check back later to see if it agreed. In the meantime, he entered past the ruptured portal and flicked the light switch. Nothing happened. Fortunately there was some light entering through the open doorway and he could see inside a short distance. There, on a table surrounded by pulled-back chairs, were three boxes. He rushed up to them and opened the first. ï¿*Jeans, all the same size: 36-30. Unimpressed, he opened the remaining two. White T-shirts and mixed socks, respectively. ï¿*God this sucks, he mumbled,ï¿* but it beats being naked.ï¿* He dressed himself quickly, noticing a locker off in one corner next to a vacuum cleaner and a small cart filled with cleaning supplies. The former he popped open, after finding it lacking a padlock, and found cases of toilet paper stacked all the way to the top. Any space that could take it found the odd roll stuffed in to fill it. Gold, he realizedï¿*no, better than gold. He shut the locker and exited the room, regretting the need to break the door down. This was a safe place, well, not an easy place for someone to get nosy. Of course it didnï¿*t stop a naked man, but that man was desperate. Desperation wields its own power.
Behind the check-out counter, in a corrugated cardboard box, he found a roll of duct tape, not the kind of thing youï¿*d expect in a clothing store but it wasnï¿*t alone in being out of place. In the same box was a hammer, a sawed-off shotgun, a box of shells, a map of New York State, matches, a lighter, three packs of cigarettes, and a half bottle of Jim Beam. All he wanted for the moment was the tape which he took over to the front door. Carefully, so as not to make it ring, he taped the bell and itï¿*s clapper together with a single, torn-off piece. Sure, he thought idly, he could have just ripped it down, but he might want it there another time, like if he had to return. The previous owners werenï¿*t the only ones who might want to know when someone was entering their store.
Shoes would have been nice, but this was not a shoe store. What footwear existed was for women. Nothing fit him and even if it did, he wouldnï¿*t wear it. He wasnï¿*t that desperate anymore. He lifted his left foot, tugged off the sock, and repeated the exercise with the right foot. Might as well save them the wear, he realized. When he got some shoes they could go back on. He put them in his back pocket and left the store by way of the front door. The bell obeyed him nicely and kept its mouth shut.
There, in the middle of North State Street, was Dennis, still palming the 45. Looking gravely disappointed, he waved it idly at Jorj. ï¿*Did you break my door down?ï¿* He didnï¿*t wait for an answer. Instead he pointed the 45 right at Jorj, but not in a threatening manner. ï¿*My shirts! My jeans!ï¿* He paused, gazing at the feet below his pilfered items. ï¿*At least you left my sock stash alone.ï¿*
Jorj smiled tightly and turned, pulling the socks, still hanging out of his right back pocket, into view. ï¿*No I didnï¿*t.ï¿*
Dennis put his left hand over his eyes and then wiped it away slowly, deflated. ï¿*If you had just askedï¿*ï¿*
ï¿*You shot me,ï¿* Jorj replied, the tension in his voice quite apparent. ï¿*I thought maybe youï¿*d say no.ï¿*
ï¿*I shot you for two good reasons.ï¿*
Jorj blinked. He wasnï¿*t going to ask, but he guessed he was going to hear the answer anyway.
ï¿*You one-punched me,ï¿* Dennis said with an I-told-you-so tone. ï¿*That wasnï¿*t nice, especially since it killed me. I lost valuable clothes that time too.ï¿*
ï¿*It was an accident.ï¿*
Dennis let that one pass. ï¿*I did you a favor. That was the second reasonï¿*to do you a favor.ï¿*
ï¿*Favor?!ï¿* Jorj took a step forward, eyeballed the big pistol, and took the step back. ï¿*You call that a favor?ï¿*
ï¿*Sure I do,ï¿* Dennis smiled, guarded friendliness creeping back. He approached until he stood on the sidewalk not five feet away from Jorj. ï¿*Now you know what to expect when you get killed. Itï¿*s important, especially since there are a lot of people who might just try to make that happen.ï¿*
ï¿*Like you.ï¿*
Dennis huffed. ï¿*Fine.ï¿* The pistol spun in his hand until he held the barrel. He extended the handle to Jorj. ï¿*Want to shoot me? A show of good faith. Just so you know you can trust me.ï¿*
Jorj stared at him a moment. Reluctantly he took the 45 into his own right hand, hefting its weight, feeling its balance. Dennis looked for all the world like a picture of trust. His hand offered no resistance when relinquishing the weapon. The guy was smiling like an idiot, content that Jorj would give it back. Bygones were bygones.
Like a bolt from the sky, Jorj raised the 45 and put a fist-sized hole in Dennisï¿* chest. The shocked expression on Dennis Brinksï¿* face plummeted to the sidewalk, revealing an exit-wound in the manï¿*s back the size of a basketball. Calmly, even leisurely, Jorj walked the short distance over to the red Dodge pick-up truck. From deep within Mikeï¿*s mechanic shop, something crashed and a tool slid along the floor. He glanced at it distractedly but didnï¿*t break stride. In less than a minute Dennis groaned from inside his truck and slid through the open door out onto the road. ï¿*Are we even yet?ï¿* he asked. The fight certainly sounded like it had gone out of him.
ï¿*Yeah, I guess that about does it.ï¿* For a guy without a pistol permit, he sure was getting the hang of this, Jorj mused with a little satisfaction. ï¿*After we get you some clothes, can you take me to a shoe store?ï¿*
The clothes were easy, although Dennis winced when he saw the ï¿*Employees Onlyï¿* door. He shook his head through the entire ordeal but said not a word. Jorj, perhaps because he felt sorry for popping the man off, offered the pistol back. It did belong to Dennis after all. The latter gestured to the locker. ï¿*Underneath the toilet paper. Iï¿*m sure you saw it earlier.ï¿*
ï¿*I did,ï¿* Jorj acknowledged and hid the weapon away.
ï¿*Weï¿*ll stop at Dimbyï¿*s.ï¿* Dennis announced, getting his second wind back. ï¿*Thereï¿*s at least three pair left there that I know of.ï¿*
Dimbyï¿*s wasnï¿*t a shoe store. It was a dark blue colonial-style house on Peat street that once belonged to Theodore Dimby, current self-proclaimed ï¿*Baronï¿* of Prattï¿*s Crossing, about 2 miles west of New Jackson City, of which he was mayor. They entered through the cellar door and went up from there to the first floor, dodging the cobwebs.
ï¿*He never comes here himself,ï¿* Dennis explained, ï¿*but he doesnï¿*t like others trespassing. Iï¿*ve never seen that he has the place watched so I rob it from time to time. He has an old pair of Addidas in his closet. I think theyï¿*ll fit you. The Nikeï¿*s are mine.ï¿*
The made the taking clean, snatching the shoes and nothing else. Dennis told him he considered Dimbyï¿*s more or less of a last ditch storehouse. ï¿*Break glass in case of emergency,ï¿* he quipped, laughing at his own joke. Of course none of the windows were actually broken.
ï¿*About that beer,ï¿* Jorj reminded him as they strode down the driveway from the side door of Dimbyï¿*s.
ï¿*West Side Tavern,ï¿* Dennis said casually. ï¿*My friend Nick runs it.ï¿* He paused and glanced sidelong at Jorj uncomfortably. ï¿*Donï¿*t shoot him, okay? Heï¿*s a decent guy.ï¿*
ï¿*Why the hell would I want to shoot him? And with what? I left the 45 under the Dead Sea Scrolls.ï¿*
ï¿*Look,ï¿* Dennis went on, ï¿*all Iï¿*m saying is that heï¿*s special. Iï¿*m pretty sure that if he gets killed, he wonï¿*t come back.ï¿*
ï¿*What makes you think that? His feelings hurt that easily?ï¿*
Dennis gave him a sharp disapproving look. ï¿*He says so, and I believe him.ï¿*
ï¿*You also gave a loaded gun to the guy you just shot. Not that I mean anything personal by this, but thatï¿*s not too smart.ï¿*
ï¿*Well Nick is.ï¿*
ï¿*Nick.ï¿*
ï¿*Nick DeMoss. Heï¿*s really old. You wonï¿*t see it right away, but if you spend any real time with him, youï¿*ll know.ï¿* They came to a red door in a green-trimmed beige, single-story building with a wide, low-pitched roof. ï¿*Here we are. Remember what I said.ï¿*
ï¿*Sure thing.ï¿* Jorj marveled that Dennis went ahead of him, not even concerned that Jorj could hit him from behind, or just leave. He was either naï¿*ve or he just didnï¿*t care. Either way was bad by his book.
It was a lounge atmosphere, low lighting, browns and reds for the furniture and carpeting, tarnished brass fixtures, and an off-white tiled ceiling. Paintings hung on the walls, landscapes mostly, along with some blown-up photographs of Bavaria. Jorj knew this because one in the lobby had a caption which read: Bavaria. It looked pretty much like the rest of them. Even the paintings looked like Bavaria. Mountains and castles. If this place couldnï¿*t provide a beer, even now, it was sad.
A lone, dark figure with longish hair sat in a booth near the back, casually sipping a drink from a short glass. There was no ice in it, but he probably wished there was. To Jorj, he looked like the kind of man who put ice in his drinks. He was well dressed, probably in his fifties, although if someone said sixty-two, it wouldnï¿*t have surprised most people. He reminded him a lot of Willy Nelson, only without the bandanna. A cigarette burned in a green plastic ashtray at his elbow. When he saw them approach from the lobby, he plucked it up, took a long drag, and set it back it itï¿*s notch. The smoke drifted out of his nostrils in wisps before he blew the rest out of his mouth in a cone of thick gray haze. ï¿*Good afternoon, Dennis.ï¿* He spoke leisurely. To Jorjï¿*s ears he sounded just a little bit tired, but amiable enough. ï¿*Whoï¿*s this with you?ï¿*
Dennis smiled, genuinely pleased to see his friend. ï¿*Nick,ï¿* this is Georgeï¿*ï¿* His smile faded while the pulleys of his mind creaked suddenly to bear on old, frayed ropes. His smile returned almost immediately. ï¿*George Tory Watchman.ï¿*
ï¿*Thatï¿*s Jorj, with a ï¿*Jï¿*.ï¿* The owner of that name extended his hand.
An amused expression appeared on Nickï¿*s face. He took the hand and shook it slowly, gripping it just firmly enough to command respect, and then released it. ï¿*Not too many exchange the pleasantries these days,ï¿* he remarked. ï¿*That marks you as new. Iï¿*d watch that from now on.ï¿*
ï¿*I will,ï¿* Jorj said, nodding curtly. ï¿*Consider that my last shake. This townï¿*s a bit more lawless than I remember it.ï¿*
ï¿*Eh,ï¿* Nick shrugged, picking up his cigarette again. ï¿*I wouldnï¿*t say lawless. We have laws, theyï¿*re just different than what youï¿*re used to.ï¿* He eyed Dennis for a second. ï¿*You helping him out, are you?ï¿*
ï¿*He needs a friend.ï¿* Dennis let his own eyes drift towards the bar.
ï¿*Of course, go get yourself a drink. The beers cold too if you want some.ï¿* He turned again to Jorj. ï¿*Thirsty?ï¿*
Come to think of it, he wasnï¿*t. He wasnï¿*t hungry either. In fact, the one thing he was noticing with growing certainty was that he wasnï¿*t much of anything. He felt kind of empty inside. ï¿*Uh, yeah. Iï¿*ll have a beer if you donï¿*t mind.ï¿*
ï¿*Not at all. Dennis! Give him something in a tall bottle from the cooler, will you?ï¿*
ï¿*Sure thing,ï¿* Dennis answered. A sealed door opened and closed. The sound of a compressor mingled the air in-between.
ï¿*Have you met Theodore yet?ï¿* Nick asked, saw the head shake, and then shook his own in response. ï¿*I donï¿*t suppose youï¿*ve met Benedict, either, or Daniel, or even Kathleen? The woman you can trust, when you do meet her, but I dare say Iï¿*d watch most women you meet from now on. We get fewer women than men and they tend to be worseï¿*have to be, I guess, though I think theyï¿*d be nasty anyway. Itï¿*s the nature of why weï¿*re here and what we are.ï¿*
ï¿*And where is that?ï¿* Jorj asked.
ï¿*That, my new friend, is the million dollar question.ï¿* He crushed out the cigarette that burnt nearly to his fingers and replaced it with his short glass of amber liquid. ï¿*I have my suspicions, useless as they are.ï¿*
The sealed door opened and closed again. Glass clinked in the background.
ï¿*Useless?ï¿* Jorj prompted. He found listening to the old man was enjoyable, or at least intriguing. He had a way of sucking you in.ï¿*
ï¿*Iï¿*m still here.ï¿* Nick raised an eyebrow and pressed his lips tightly together, pondering the whiskey swirling around inside the glass.
ï¿*Ah,ï¿* Jorj, nodded.
Dennis returned with two bottles of an off-brand beer Jonah never heard of before. ï¿*Texas Red.ï¿* The crimson bullï¿*s head against the black background of the label proclaimed a promised boldness. Jorj didnï¿*t hold his breath. He knew where promises got you.
Jorj took his beer in hand and blew the mist from the long brown bottleï¿*s mouth. The usual satisfaction he got from that small act wasnï¿*t there. He took a sip and turned his attention back to his host, a wry smile poised gently on his face. ï¿*Whatï¿*s everybody do around here besides drink and die?ï¿* Why was he not bothered by that question? The preponderance of madness was not far from his thoughts.
Distaste arranged itself like an intricate web over Nickï¿*s features. His eyes, bright within their wrinkled wreathes, flicked to Dennis for an explanation.
ï¿*Itï¿*s pretty much his experience today.ï¿*
Further explanation demanded itself.
ï¿*Uh,ï¿* Dennis took on a slight stammer, ï¿*I shot him, he shot me. Pretty much the rest of the day was spent clothes shopping.ï¿*
ï¿*Hmm.ï¿* Nick regarded Jorj with an air of disappointment and raised his short glass to his lips for another sip.
ï¿*What do people do around this town?ï¿* Jorj asked when he didnï¿*t see an answer forthcoming.
Nick sighed and slid his ass around to the end of the booth. With an effort, encumbered more from the age of his soul than of his body, he stood up and faced Jorj. ï¿*Nothing worthwhile, I assure you.ï¿* He started walking off in the direction of the coatroom.
Jorjï¿*s gaze followed him until he saw what had to be the reason for his abrupt departure. About fifty feet away, next to the coat room, was a small rectangular sign extending out from above a door to the side. On it was the word ï¿*MEN.ï¿*
ï¿*Nature calls,ï¿* Nick echoed Jorjï¿*s thoughts. ï¿*Dennis, see if Franklinï¿*s in the kitchen, will you? Weï¿*ll be getting the usual crowd in soon.ï¿*
Jorj turned to Dennis, aware that unseen, Nick was even now pushing against a heavy wooden door into a tiled room of porcelain urinals and hand-crank paper towel dispensers. ï¿*Usual crowd?ï¿*
ï¿*Itï¿*s one of the things we do here,ï¿* Dennis explained with a sarcastic smile.
ï¿*I donï¿*t get the humor.ï¿*
Dennis shrugged. ï¿*Gotta check on Franklin. Stick around, have a seat, and enjoy your beer. Iï¿*ll be back in a sec.ï¿*
While Dennis wandered off to the kitchen, a set of double doors just left of the bar counter where it took a short turn towards the back wall, Jorj took a stroll down the aisle. He noted with amusement that everything was in its place, the salt and pepper shakers, the condiments, napkins, menus, plastic stands holding the nightlyï¿*and probably unchangingï¿*drink specials. Everything just like normal, as if he could eat, pay both for meal and tip, and go off home without getting shot and waking up naked under a demolished overpass. An angered sigh hissed passed teeth he didnï¿*t realize had clenched and he whipped around sharply. There was Nick, ten feet back up the aisle, standing with his hands in his pockets, a cigarette in his mouth, observing him patiently. ï¿*How long you been there?ï¿* Jorj asked, debatably trying not to be rude.
ï¿*About five seconds,ï¿* Nick replied with a dry smile that came at some effort. ï¿*Why donï¿*t you have a seat and tell me a little bit about yourself Misterï¿*Watchman?ï¿*
ï¿*Jorj is fine.ï¿*
ï¿*Okay Jorj,ï¿* Nick returned to his former place in the booth and relaxed a little until he noticed his drink lying low on the level. ï¿*Dennis!ï¿*
ï¿*Geez!ï¿* cried a voice, muffled behind the double doors next to the bar. The doors swung open and hung for a second as an angular, red-haired head popped out between them. ï¿*Whatï¿*s up Nick? Iï¿*m watchinï¿* a pot in here for Frank!ï¿*
ï¿*Well, whatï¿*s he doing?ï¿*
ï¿*Peeing.ï¿*
ï¿*Oh.ï¿* Nick waved him off and roused himself. ï¿*Never mind. Go back to it. Iï¿*ll serve myself.ï¿*
Dennis rolled his eyes and shook his head. In the next second the doors were closed and he behind them again.
The creases between Nickï¿*s eyes deepened into a double furrow and his head took on a kind of comical tilt. ï¿*Sorry Dennis,ï¿* he murmured loud enough so that Jorj would not miss it. He took his drink to the bar and raised the partition so that he could pass through, setting his drink on the counter first. ï¿*Howï¿*s your cooking skills?ï¿*
ï¿*My what?ï¿* the question took Jorj by surprise. He heard it well enough and grimaced that he did what he hated other people doing. ï¿*Uh,ï¿* he recovered himself, ï¿*average, I guess. Why?ï¿*
ï¿*Just wondering.ï¿* Nick found a bottle on a shelf behind the bar, read the label and put it back. He picked another and unscrewed the cap. ï¿*They find a lot of the booze with the seal broken, the bottles half full or less. We try to keep like kinds mixed together. Sometimes,ï¿* he sighed a little at this point, ï¿*they get lazy, or sloppy. I hope this is good stuff.ï¿*
ï¿*Whoï¿*s ï¿*they?ï¿*ï¿*
Nick looked up at Jorj a moment and then filled his glass to the three-quarter mark. ï¿*The scavengers. Most work for Theodore and Benedict. Others come in from farther out. We get a few independent contractors too, but they take a risk doing business with us.ï¿*
ï¿*Whyï¿*s that?ï¿* Jorj wasnï¿*t certain whether he was merely trying to be conversational or was sincerely interested. Not that it mattered so far, he acknowledged.
ï¿*Theodore wants order, and good clean business,ï¿* Nick answered amiably. But you havenï¿*t met him yet so you wouldnï¿*t know.ï¿*
ï¿*Theodore runs New Jackson City.ï¿*
ï¿*You catch on fast,ï¿* Nick laughed quietly and with good-natured sarcasm. ï¿*Theyï¿*re regulars here. Tonight he and his ï¿*cabinetï¿* will be coming for their weekly meeting.ï¿* He took a sip, smiled with relief, and continued. ï¿*ï¿*Iï¿*ll be putting them up in the east wing for the night.ï¿*
ï¿*This place is a hotel too?ï¿* Jorj was surprised and wondered how much he sounded so.
ï¿*Not originally, but we reorganized.ï¿*
ï¿*Couldnï¿*t they just stay anywhere?ï¿* Jorj really didnï¿*t understand any of this. ï¿*I mean, the cityï¿*s wide open. Thereï¿*s got to beï¿*ï¿* He stopped short.
ï¿*Nicer places?ï¿* Nick shot him a raised eyebrow. He gave Jorj a second to hide his awkwardness and continued. ï¿*Sentimentalityï¿*s a funny thing. Theodore likes this place. I guess he used to come here a lot on the other side. And, if I do say so myself, we are the best in town.ï¿*
ï¿*But why do they stay overnight? Itï¿*s not like they need a designated driver anymore, right?ï¿* The questions were half heartedly asked. Jorj turned peeling the label off his beer with his right thumbnail. Heï¿*d always done that at some point when he had one. ï¿*Why not just go home afterwards?ï¿*
Nick turned his head to the window. Red and orange were spilling onto everything. The shadows were taking on a distinct purplish-blue. He took another sip of his drink, a small one, and let out a quiet sigh. ï¿*What did you do on the other side, Jorj?ï¿*
ï¿*Drove a flatbed for a building supply outfitï¿*Blackwellï¿*s. Heard of them?ï¿*
Nick shook his head.
ï¿*That was just money, and not much of it.ï¿* He tipped his beer back and let the last of it slide down his throat, foam and all. It was kind of unsatisfying, but habits were habits. Before he set it back on the bar with its label half pulled away, he shook it slightly and raised both eyebrows at Nick. ï¿*Got another?ï¿*
The old man half smiled and took the empty from Jorjï¿*s hand. ï¿*We almost never run out.ï¿* His smile turned sardonic, even a little grim. ï¿*See that stool?ï¿* he indicated a red vinyl seat with chrome legs three spaces over to the left of where Jorj stood. The rest of the stools were black leather with dark-stained wooden legs, and they had backs. The red one did not.
ï¿*How could you miss it?ï¿*
ï¿*Wellï¿*ï¿*,ï¿* Nick gazed at it through his long eyebrow hair and then back at Jorj. ï¿*Donï¿*t ever sit in it.ï¿*
ï¿*Itï¿*s specialï¿*Theodoreï¿*s?ï¿*
ï¿*Not Theodoreï¿*s,ï¿* Nick replied dryly. ï¿*Sonja Fries choked on a peanut in that chair.ï¿*
ï¿*And if she diesï¿*ï¿*
ï¿*There she is,ï¿* Nick raised an eyebrow and the right corner of his closed mouth, ï¿*naked as the day she was born.ï¿*
ï¿*Doesnï¿*t sound too bad for the guy sitting there,ï¿* Jorj observed, eyeing the stool.
ï¿*You havenï¿*t seen Sonja.ï¿*
ï¿*Ah.ï¿* Jorj watched as Nick set a new beer in front of him. ï¿*Happened much?ï¿*
ï¿*Numerous times.ï¿*
They let the subject die a quiet death.
ï¿*I guess you find this all a bit puzzling.ï¿* Nick glanced out the window again. There was more purple on things than red, and almost no orange. He seemed a little on edge.
Jorj sucked in his upper lip and stared off at nothing for exactly three heartbeats. ï¿*Curiosity and ambivalence are fighting over my brain right at this very moment,ï¿* he replied, ï¿*assuming I still have a brain.ï¿*
A rare moment of amusement, genuine humor, momentarily erased lines of tension on Nickï¿*s weathered old face. ï¿*You do, Jorj, and thatï¿*s why I havenï¿*t kicked you out onto the streets yet.ï¿*
ï¿*Come again?ï¿* Jorj made no attempt to hide his confusion.
ï¿*Why donï¿*t you step into the kitchen,ï¿* Nick said casually. He was looking out the window again. There was a mixture of relief and tension in his posture. ï¿*Have Dennis introduce you to Frank. Help them out if they need it. Mostly,ï¿* and here he turned to face Jorj with the most business-like of friendly smiles, ï¿*stay out of sight. Iï¿*ll put you up for the night and feed you if you do these things for me. What do you say?ï¿*
ï¿*I, uhï¿*ï¿* Jorj cut himself off as he saw several large cars, all of them black or gun-metal and top of the line, pull up outside. ï¿*Sure. Iï¿*m sure weï¿*ll talk more later.ï¿*
ï¿*Of course.ï¿* Nick closed and opened his eyes deliberately, still smiling. ï¿*Best be off.ï¿*

* * *

Franklin Wells was a fat man with few words, so few in fact that Jorj was still waiting to hear one. The off-white, stretch-fit hat on his head, covered his near-baldness neatly. He wore it more to keep himself warm than to keep the stray hairs from falling into the food. His age could easily be placed at about fifty years, but even sixty was a reasonable guess, for the hair of his eyebrows and armpits was all gray, the shades just differed in places. He kept the short sleeves of his tee-shirt rolled up past the shoulders. Jorj really wished heï¿*d roll them down, but that wasnï¿*t going to happen, not while the man worked. The dirty white apron caught all manner of the eveningï¿*s labors, lending him the look of a painter, and perhaps he was, in his way. Whatever his shortcomings where hygiene was involved, he knew his business in the kitchen. Whether he was stuffing mushrooms or creating ruffled garlic potatoes with chive and rosemary, he made the work look easy, the final product beautiful. Fighting off a nagging trace of ambivalence, Jorj ran the tip of his index finger through some cake icing when Frank had his back turned. It was sweet, but lacked the intensity he felt it should have wielded. It wasnï¿*t the icing though, and that was the problem. It was the place, or worse, it was himself.
Dennis was quick to pawn off the dishwashing on him, but it was something he could do, and in another incarnation, one still in high school, heï¿*d operated the steaming, double-hooded dishwasher in a restaurant named the Kuntry Kottage. It was a name that kept the locals busy when they werenï¿*t shoving down hash browns or returning under-cooked eggs. While Jorj cleaned the bigger pots by hand, Dennis went out to take drink orders. It must be a full day, Jorj noted wryly, when you could died twice and still be nice to customers, that is assuming Dennis was polite.
He could hear them all gabbing it up out there. The intercom ran one way in the kitchen. If Jorj guessed rightly, and he would put money on it, whatever was said in the common area was piped into other places too, like Nickï¿*s office, wherever that was. There was something about the old man that didnï¿*t exactly put Jorj on edge, but it made him pay attention. And he was sure Nick never missed a thing himself. Whatever the old man might say, he heard more. Jorj had to do a rewind to see if heï¿*d said anything stupid, revealed too much. ï¿*What could be dangerous,ï¿* he pondered? Lots of things. The trouble was in not knowing exactly what mattered here. Of course thereï¿*s been no discussion into the manner of his own demise. Somehow Nick stayed off that subject, though theyï¿*d get around to it eventually. The place would remain a secret. That, he decided, was a must. They all had to know that little unwritten rule. Who wanted to pop in naked and vulnerable into the waiting clutches of an enemy, real or potential? The obvious aside, there had to be other things. At the moment he just didnï¿*t know what they were.
Jorj took his time with the pans, for they made too much noise against the stainless steel sides of the rinsing sink. Even Frank took care not to out-do the intercom. The conversations in the other room were still in their infancies, guests were yet arriving.
Dennis popped in between orders and identified some of the voices for Jorj. There was Thomas Francesco, once on the state legislature of New York, now a lawyer of sorts for Theodore and the Cabinet of New Jackson City, population numbering at best little more than a thousand by some of the idle supply and demand being discussed. Amazingly everyone followed a loose form of law, mostly involving trade. Another prominent citizen present was Anthony Scalatto. He ran a crew that kept lights on where needed. Frieda Mueller was water commissioner. Jack Rinaldo was Chief Constable. Henry Hooter was trade commissioner. Then there was Big Al Frazier. His appointment was unofficial, but few would ever argue what his duties were: protection.
There were other cities than New Jackson City, a great many of them. In fact, no one knew the extent of things, only conjecture. On a break, while everyone stuffed their faces and downed wine and spirits, Dennis poured out a few more facts. No planes flew, ever. No, that was not entirely true. But it was rare. There was enough ordinance floating around to discourage such modes of travel. Cars were dangerous too. The routes between New Jackson Cityï¿*s Inner Circle District and places like Dimbyï¿*s were well guarded. The cars themselves were virtually bullet-proof. RPGs were another matter, but there were the Rights of Retaliation, laws that encouraged documenting ï¿*new immigrantsï¿* and keeping an eye on things in general. If the wrong people blew up, etc., other things would too in adjoining cities. ï¿*It happened before some time back and it got real bad,ï¿* Dennis pointed out. ï¿*No one wants to go through that again.ï¿*
ï¿*Whatï¿*s the difference?ï¿* Jorj asked, realizing the stupidity of the question almost immediately. ï¿*No one really dies.ï¿*
Dennisï¿* face looked stunned. ï¿*I thought you were smart.ï¿* He threw the towel that was in his hands on the counter and went to the fridge, opened it, extracted a Dr. Pepper, and closed it again. With a quick twist he unscrewed the top and raised the bottle to his lips, draining half in a single pull. Sweat was rolling down his cheeks and forehead from all of his running around. ï¿*All we have around here is stability and profitï¿*whatever you consider the latter to be. It equals motivation to keep your sanity. Every time someone gets popped off, he loses. Get popped off too many times, you donï¿*t return.ï¿* He took another draught, gasping at the end and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. There was a scuffing noise as the skin rubbed against his unshaven face. ï¿*Thatï¿*s reason number two why the population isnï¿*t out of hand.ï¿*
ï¿*Whatï¿*s reason number one?ï¿* Jorj asked, leaning back against the counter. About three feet away Frank was smoking a cigarette. A short stack of ash tumbled from the end of it onto the floor. The old man dispersed it with the tip of his right, flat-soled work shoe.
ï¿*Lots of people donï¿*t come here in the first place,ï¿* Dennis answered, pulling out his own pack of smokes. ï¿*Take that demolished overpass that appeared the other dayï¿*ï¿*
The double doors opened and Nick appeared between them, straddling the line between bar and kitchen. ï¿*Dennis! Tables need bussing!ï¿* He withdrew immediately, the doors closing behind him. His laughter permeated them as he greeted Theodore on his way to the menï¿*s room.
ï¿*Fuck!ï¿* Dennis rolled his eyes and put the cigarette heï¿*d extracted back in with its mates. ï¿*See ya later.ï¿* He snatched up his towel and went back out into the common area.
Jorj looked over at Frank. ï¿*Busy night.ï¿* The other stared dumbly at him for a second and then looked away, the smoke from his near-spent cigarette adding to the haze heï¿*d created near the ceiling. Jorj nodded blankly and went to the doors, pushed the left one open a crack, and peered through the seam.
Even here, where very little seemed to matter anymore, the status quo on aptly-named Old Earth, ruled. These bastards still chose to wear suits and ties, Jorj noted with irritation, like the old power symbols would carry their asses through the rough times. But they were patterns, and patterns also governed this Twilight Earth. He found himself wondering with some discomfort if they also had adjusted so quickly. Did the hollowness of their new existence so quickly dull the memories of home?
They all sat at a table, or covered connected tables, off to the right of the bar. A handful of armed men in charcoal gray suits blended in with the perimeter, speaking into small ear-mounted devices and occasionally peeking out windows. One came through the kitchen earlier, looked around, and disappeared through the back door where Frank and Jorj dragged the garbage cans to the dumpster just before full sundown. Frank locked the door immediately following. Now they just watched and kept automatic weapons handy. It was amazing anyone could relax around them, but they did.
To the right of the empty seat on the far end was the one named Thomas. He didnï¿*t like ï¿*Tom.ï¿* It was always Thomas. He looked stuffy at first glance, but then something about him, and Jorj couldnï¿*t place it, made him think otherwise. Perhaps he was just disciplined, something Jorj took to his own way but resisted when it was pushed upon him. Thomas looked for all the world like a quiet, no-nonsense man, but it was noted by the balding Henry Hooter that the lawyer already had several drinks in him.
They all did. That was plain. Dennis kept a running count on the kitchen chalkboard. It wasnï¿*t the kind of thing anyone but an unrepentant alcoholic could place pride in. And it bordered on alcohol poisoning by Jorjï¿*s standards, for at very least Thomas lacked the weight to absorb so much booze. Then again, he thought quietly, the beers he drank earlier lacked much past that initial blanket of calm. Something about the whole thing deeply disturbed him.
When Theodore returned, Jorj understood why he was the leader. It wasnï¿*t that he was a big man. In fact, he wasnï¿*t. Nor was he small. It was that he exuded confidence, and that said confidence bore no hint of malignancy. There was an intelligence on his face, in the eyes mostly, that commanded a special form of charisma. He was not loud, nor boisterous, and he watched everyone, though you had to look closely to see this, and Jorj did just that. The man was a bean-counter, but not an anal-retentive one. Unlike many accountants Jorj got to know over the years, something odd for his previously nomadic lifestyle, this Theodore looked every bit in possession of a creative twist. So why, Jorj wondered, didnï¿*t Nick want him to meet this man?
He felt a tug on his shirtsleeve. It was Frank. Those old eyes stared at him like a mole, but the wiry finger of his left hand pointed to the sink, a sink filled with dishes.
ï¿*Right,ï¿* Jorj sighed. ï¿*Iï¿*m on it.ï¿* He took one last glance through the space between the doors and saw Nick, his right hand resting on Anthony Scalottoï¿*s left shoulder. The two were exchanging easy words. Through the intercom, Jorj thought he heard the word ï¿*Ogam.ï¿* It was meaningless to him, as was everything else in the jumble of conversations. He turned back to the dishes and Frankï¿*s smoke with dull tiredness. Through the single kitchen window, well to the right of the sinks, past the back door and on the same wall as both, he saw how utterly dark it was outside. But he saw something else too. He paused over the dishwater and then walked over to the window, feeling a slight draft as he passed the back door. In the distance at the edge of a large parking lot some three hundred feet away, give or take, was a handful of people around a barrel fire, their open palms and faces to the wavering orange light. They were all dressed in black. In particular he noticed a young woman, maybe in her mid to late twenties, short, punk-styleï¿*or Gothï¿*jet-black hair on one side of her head, long hair over her face on the other, and she wore lots of leather. As if reading his mind, she turned her face and looked directly towards his window. ï¿*Who are they?ï¿* Jorj asked.
Frank strode over and abruptly pulled the shade down. He poked a finger into Jorjï¿*s shoulder and nodded at the sink, never speaking a word. Jorj regarded him a moment, weighing his annoyance against the consequences of ignoring the old man and rolling the shade back up. Later, he decided. He was tired and really needed time to think. It was a lot to absorb, the events of this day, and it was all just starting to catch up to him. He started longing for the sweet oblivion of sleep and then realized with a shadow of horror how un-sweet the darkness would be in this Twilight Earth. Was there another version darker still, he asked himself silently? Would he see it in nightmares, or worse, in reality. His hands dipped into the dishwater, steaming from the heat, after he walked the short ways back to the sink. Frank lit another cigarette and began peeling potatoes. Maybe, Jorj suddenly considered, the answer to his prior question was precisely why Frank did not speak.

Chapter Two

It was decided by the great minds of New Jackson city that there was a slight but persistent problem with their neighbors. In short, there existed a disconcerting reluctance of late to trade goods, and what did cross the accepted borders generally did so to the advantage of everyone but the people of New Jackson City. The reason for this did not escape the likes of men like Theodore, or Thomas Francesco. They knew well enough where the matter of un-cooperation resided. South of wherever, probably Pennsylvania by the most credible accounts, someone stirred the pot of trouble, sparing only they who fell into line with their goals, choking anyone else went their own way. The means employed killed no one outright, for dying was so temporary these days, save for the ï¿*thinï¿* ones. But madness was always around the corner, and the line that needed to be walked was narrow. That line was paved, brick by merciless brick, with the patterns and trappings of Old Earth.
If Mammon called to man on Earth that once was, then his was a confusing
cacophony here on Twilight Earth, where beauty was dulled, and brilliance dimmed. For the double hunger within could not be sated anymore, nor could it be ignored. Its gnawing teeth were ever a distraction to clear consideration. Even among those souls of a moderate disposition, indifference laid desperate hands upon desire in a constant death
struggle that saw no foreseeable end, no light within the tunnel. One had to wonder at first that it was manageable at all, but then again, if another way existed, it was quite out of everyone's grasp, for all were caught in the same web of nerve and callous.
Before Jorj went to sleep that night, in a room he had to share with Dennis, an incessant practitioner in the art of snoring, Nick made all of this very clear. ï¿*Better to know the devil exists, and ward him off,ï¿* he advised, ï¿*then to close your eyes a free man and wake up in chains of madness.ï¿* Jorj was grateful for the old manï¿*s wise consideration, but it didnï¿*t help him sleep any better.
He remembered reading a book on folklore once when he was younger. It used to be believed that sorcerers existed and that they sold their souls to the devil in order to attain their powers. The sorcerers inevitably realized the wisdom of ï¿*finding Godï¿* at the end of their lives, but by then it was too late. In the darkness, night after night until their graves took them all, gnashing and clicking teeth kept them awake in the devilï¿*s anticipation. He understood it all now, even though he was anything but a sorcerer. Dennis made sure, unwittingly, that demonic noise was amply provided.
It wasnï¿*t just him though. That was the real scary part. There were sounds, barely perceptible and murmuring, but he remembered them now. They were there the first time he woke naked under the demolished overpass of highway 8. They were there the second time too. He thought, if he chose to listen to them, he might be able to describe them, even single out their differences from each other, but he let them become background noise, for he was afraid of them. That is the other reason he could not sleep that first night, Dennisï¿* snoring being the first. In the morning he found himself quite un-refreshed, but he could function. The nightï¿*s hell departed, or at least retreated, with the rising of the sun. Not everything here was without hope, he decided, so long as the sun rose.
He took his breakfast out in the common area. Everyone else was gone from the night before but the employees of the Westside Tavern. Nick fried the eggs himself for Jorj, Dennis, and Frank, accepting only the latterï¿*s involvement in the rest of their fare. It was, Dennis explained, his tradition.
Whatever anyone worked out the night before, whether personal or bureaucratic business, largely was forgotten. Nick liked to know what to expect, and wanted witnesses among those loyal to him of anything relevant, but rarely was there any threat or otherwise direct connection to himself that needed to be addressed.
The proprietor of the establishment sat down last, once everyone else was served, at the head of the table in the seat occupied the night before by Theodore. Dennis sat to his right, Frank to his left. Jorj sat on Dennisï¿* right. ï¿*Sleep well last night, Jorj?ï¿* He was smiling, but it was pretty clear he knew the answer, and that his was a joke, a rather grim, unfunny one.
ï¿*Probably as well as you,ï¿* Jorj replied. He wondered if that were true.
ï¿*I sleep alright,ï¿* said Nick. ï¿*Just like the dead.ï¿* Nobody laughed. He bowed his head. So did Dennis and Frank. Jorj, startled at this sudden, unexpected piety, reluctantly bowed his head, but he watched everyone carefully as he did so.
ï¿*God is an unbroken circle,ï¿* Nick proclaimed in a clear, respectful voice.
ï¿*God is an unbroken circle,ï¿* Dennis repeated, uncharacteristically reverent.
Frank made the cross over his chest with his right hand.
Amen brothers,ï¿* Jorj added. Had he not died twice the day before, and had his sleep been better, perhaps his veiled disdain would not have flowed so close to the surface.
Dennis grimaced and picked up his fork. ï¿*Donï¿*t fuck with our prayer, man.ï¿*
ï¿*A hand touched Dennisï¿* shoulder. It belonged to Nick. ï¿*Jorj, we may not look all that spiritual most of the time, but believe me, we still hang on to the safety line.ï¿*
ï¿*No offense,ï¿* Jorj replied out the side of his mouth, ï¿* but you think God hears your prayers here in hell?ï¿*
Frank slammed his cup down, spilling coffee onto the white table cloth.
ï¿*This ainï¿*t hell!ï¿* Dennis growled. ï¿*Whatï¿*s with you anyhow? Just eat your goddam breakfast.ï¿*
ï¿*Where are we then?ï¿* Jorj wouldnï¿*t let it go. ï¿*Purgatory?ï¿*
Nick tossed Frank a napkin to soak up the coffee and stifled Dennisï¿* next retort. ï¿*He has a right to want to know, same as we do.ï¿* He faced Jorj sympathetically. ï¿*The trouble is, my young friend, that we donï¿*t have an answer, at least not a satisfying one.ï¿*
ï¿*Why did you hide me from Theodore last night?ï¿* Jorj decided it was best to change the subject for now. Heï¿*d come back to it later.
Nick, having just torn off a piece of toast with his teeth, chewed slowly and swallowed. Before answering he took a sip of coffee and wiped his mouth with his napkin. ï¿*Theodore is a man with many ideas, mostly good ones. His problem is that heï¿*s quite limited to one plane of thought. Also, and this sort of ties in here, heï¿*s not very religiousï¿*ï¿*
ï¿*Neither am I.ï¿* Jorj cut in.
ï¿*Yes,ï¿* Nick nodded mechanically, ï¿*but we are talking about Theodore. If you pleaseï¿*ï¿*
ï¿*Go on.ï¿*
ï¿*He sees this all as merely another place. Thatï¿*s it. He gives no thought to leaving it, only to surviving, and holding power. There are other cities, Jorj, besides our own lovely one. Some of their leaders have less benign objectives than Theodore. In short, he has his sights on building an army for defense, perhaps even pre-emption. Itï¿*s only a matter of time before things come to a head one way or another and heï¿*s beginning to show signs of desperation. Heï¿*d snatch you up in a second, use you to kill and control.ï¿*
ï¿*And you care that much.ï¿* Jorj knew there had to be something more.
ï¿*What I care about is that there are other deaths far darker than what you could ever experience here. Of course Theodore has no chance of success with the plan he has in mind, for the lack of permanency in death will lead us into chaos. We must leave this place, ascend. First we must discover how.ï¿* He took another bite of toast and continued talking between chews. ï¿*I need people on my side Jorj. There is another way. It just needs to be found.ï¿*
ï¿*Sounds like youï¿*re offering me a job.ï¿* Jorj smiled skeptically. ï¿*Whatï¿*s the pay?ï¿*
ï¿*You donï¿*t get it, do you?ï¿* Dennis scoffed. ï¿*The man is offering you something better than a job.ï¿* Nick kept eating but nodded in agreement.
ï¿*Whatï¿*s so special about me?ï¿*
ï¿*Very simply put,ï¿* Nick answered with a smile. ï¿*Youï¿*re off the radar. They donï¿*t have your name. That is useful to me.ï¿*
ï¿*How so?ï¿*
ï¿*God,ï¿* Dennis shook his head, ï¿*think.ï¿*
ï¿*Just a question, Son of a Dodge.ï¿* Jorj pushed his plate away. He wasnï¿*t very hungry, in fact not at all.
ï¿*Son of aï¿*ï¿* Confusion gripped Dennis momentarily and then broke like a sheet of ice. ï¿*Ha. Ha. You better not ever tell anybody you saw that! Youï¿*re the only one who knows besides Nick and Frank, and Frank ainï¿*t talkinï¿*.ï¿*
ï¿*Theodore keeps track of everyone,ï¿* Nick explained casually, his eyes telling Dennis to shut his mouth. ï¿*He wonï¿*t notice when you come and go, as long as you donï¿*t attract attention.ï¿*
ï¿*And you want to send meï¿*ï¿*
Here Nick leaned back in his chair, satisfied. He was winning this one, as he knew he would. ï¿*Not just yet, Jorj. You can pair up with Dennis for awhile. Let him show you around.ï¿*
ï¿*What if weï¿*re stopped?ï¿*
ï¿*Then weï¿*re stupid,ï¿* Dennis cut in. ï¿*The idea is not to get caught nosing around.ï¿*
ï¿*You died yesterday,ï¿* Jorj pointed out. ï¿*Howï¿*d that happen? Part of some master plan?ï¿*
Dennisï¿* face contorted into a goblin grin. ï¿*Accidents happen.ï¿*
Jorj put his face in his hands and shook it gently in disbelief. ï¿*You must have some ideaï¿*a lead to follow, or you wouldnï¿*t be going to all this trouble.ï¿*
ï¿*What trouble?ï¿* Nick shrugged. ï¿*You work for me, as long as you like, and I give you a place to stay among people you can trust. It is a fair bargain.ï¿*
ï¿*Okay.ï¿* Jorj pulled his hands away from his face. ï¿*Tell me about the barrel fires, and the people around them, and why everyone else Iï¿*ve met or seen so far doesnï¿*t go out at night?ï¿*
ï¿*Tonight,ï¿* Nick replied, wiping his mouth one last time and then throwing the napkin on his empty plate. ï¿*Over dinner.ï¿* He looked out the window nearest to their table. Whatï¿*s it look like out there, Jorj?ï¿*
Jorj turned, puzzled, and followed the old manï¿*s gaze. ï¿*Sunny, a typical day inï¿*ï¿* He frowned and looked back at Nick. ï¿*Why do you ask?ï¿*
ï¿*No need to be alarmed. As I said, you can trust everyone here at this table.ï¿* He continued to gaze outside. ï¿*Sunny, did you say?ï¿*
ï¿*Yeah,ï¿* Jorj affirmed. ï¿*Sunny.ï¿*
ï¿*Good!ï¿* Nickï¿*s smile was genuine. ï¿*Give thanks for that! Best be off, eh Dennis?ï¿*
ï¿*Should we clean up first?ï¿* Dennis began to take up the plates.
ï¿*Iï¿*ll get them,ï¿* Nick stood up, taking the plates from Dennisï¿* hands. ï¿*Show him around the better parts of town, especially the campus.ï¿* His smile broadened. ï¿*Introduce him to Father Tierney. Heï¿*ll keep our secret.ï¿*
ï¿*Aye,ï¿* Dennis nodded. ï¿*Weï¿*ll stop there after a few other places.ï¿*
ï¿*Avoid the bridge.ï¿* Nickï¿*s tone was firm.
ï¿*Of course,ï¿* Dennis rolled his eyes. ï¿*Like Iï¿*m an idiot?ï¿* He took a last gulp of orange juice and rose to his feet. ï¿*Cï¿*mon George. Places to go and people to see.ï¿*
ï¿*Thatï¿*s Jorj.ï¿*
ï¿*Right.ï¿*
They walked out the front door of the Westside Tavern and paused on the sidewalk. Dennis let out a terrible belch and smiled proudly. ï¿*You think you know this city, huh?ï¿*
ï¿*I did once.ï¿*
Dennis nodded slightly, squinting in the morningï¿*s early light. ï¿*Forget what you knew. Itï¿*s all changed, baby.ï¿*
Their way took them up Myrtle street once again, retracing their steps of the day before. The passed by Mikeï¿*s mechanic shop. Again there was a crash and the sliding of a tool on the garage floor. Jorj stared at the closed bay doors suspiciously as they passed by on the opposite side of the road.
ï¿*Forget it,ï¿* Dennis said impatiently, reading his mind. ï¿*Weï¿*ve got a few appointments to keep.ï¿*
Jorj gave the shop a last look over his shoulder as they neared the truck of Dennis past and inevitable rebirth. He considered asking Dennis about it and then changed his mind. The dork wouldnï¿*t say anymore than he did yesterday, which was nothing. Instead he considered the rusty red pickup truck, door half open, and then a revelation struck him, though there was no obvious connection. ï¿*No birds,ï¿* he remarked.
ï¿*Huh?ï¿*
ï¿*No birds.ï¿* Jorj pointed all around him. ï¿*No crows, no pigeons, no gulls. Whatï¿*s with that?ï¿*
ï¿*No souls,ï¿* Dennis smiled sarcastically, turning around and walking backwards for a few steps so he could face Jorj. He nearly tripped on a crack in the sidewalk and wisely returned to the style of travel favored by millions.
ï¿*Or maybe they all go to heaven.ï¿* There was no visible trace of jest in Jorjï¿*s voice. ï¿*Generally speaking, animals are better than people.ï¿*
Dennis sighed. For once he didnï¿*t know what to say.
When they passed a few more blocks they entered what used to be commonly called the ï¿*university area.ï¿* It meant more old houses, fewer businesses, and unique places , most of which Jorj wouldnï¿*t see that day. They crossed over Stockholm and under an arch made of red stone, each piece rough-cut but precisely seamed with itï¿*s neighbor. Inscribed in big Romanesque letters was the word Mosswood. Beyond was a huge, wooded cemetery, itï¿*s tombstones and mausoleums riding hills and valleys in a sea of green. Almost immediately Jorj sensed something unique about the place, though just how unique he had yet to fully appreciate. But there was plenty to see on the surface. According to Dennis, no more than three roads led in and out. There were paths in addition to the road, too narrow and overgrown to allow for vehicles, and it was one of these that he intended to take once they were further in. ï¿*A body could get lost in this place,ï¿* Dennis remarked as they passed one of the hundreds of very old, and very large mausoleums. ï¿*You wouldnï¿*t catch me hanginï¿* around here after dark.ï¿*
ï¿*You go out at night?ï¿* Jorj inquired, not really believing that the other man did.
ï¿*No,ï¿* Dennis immediately responded. ï¿*I donï¿*t.ï¿*
The dirt road turned left at a cannon and the statue of an elk. ï¿*Youï¿*d think only rich people get buried here,ï¿* Dennis said as he pointed to another statue, a towering angel, hands splayed outward as if in appeal. Time had turned itï¿*s former bleached marble surface into something macabre, so that the angel neither instilled hope nor trust in the object of its adjuration. ï¿*That was the case one time, but in other parts of the cemetery thereï¿*s some pretty cheap-ass markers. See that?ï¿* He pointed to a silouetted hill in the far distance that poked out from the trees. There was a small stone cross at the top.
ï¿*I see it.ï¿*
ï¿*This place has a frigginï¿* pyramid. Thereï¿*s a stone church at the far end too. Once,ï¿* and here his voice became noticeably lower, ï¿*Theodoreï¿*s boys cataloged the city in photographs. They gave up on that place. It cracked every lens that accompanied a snapped shutter. Thatï¿*s the word I got.ï¿*
If not for the events of the day before, Jorj might have thought Dennis just a superstitious fool. He didnï¿*t think so now, at least not the first part. The jury was still deliberating the second half. ï¿*We going to go see the pyramid?ï¿* he asked, mildly hopeful.
ï¿*Maybe later,ï¿* Dennis answered. ï¿*Business first.ï¿*
They skirted a low hill, itï¿*s peak flat and ringed with markers as if it were a miniature Stonehenge without the crosspieces at the tops of the stones. Halfway around they broke free of it and cut over to another dirt road, and then to a foot path that ran through some trees. Through the leaves ahead, Jorj thought he saw the glint of chrome and a headlight. ï¿*Parking lot?ï¿* he asked.
ï¿*Forestry school, where the ï¿*stumpies used to take their classes.ï¿* Dennis looked above them and squinted. ï¿*Howï¿*s the weather?ï¿*
ï¿*Why does everyone keep asking me that?ï¿*
ï¿*Is it sunny?ï¿*
ï¿*Yes,ï¿* Jorj answered impatiently. ï¿*Whatï¿*s the deal?ï¿* His thoughts resurrected Frosty and Bermuda Shorts. A light bulb blinked on somewhere nearby. ï¿*You see something different.ï¿*
ï¿*No, actually,ï¿* Dennis remarked almost happily. ï¿*Itï¿*s sunny alright.ï¿* He turned and looked back behind him one last time and stepped up to the end of the path. Casually he peeked through the leaves and then, satisfied, pushed through. ï¿*I hate hoofinï¿* around with some guys,ï¿* he added on the other side. ï¿*Thereï¿*s this one guy who never sees the sun. On a day like today heï¿*d be soaked clean through. You canï¿*t hand him anything made of paper.ï¿*
ï¿*Freddy.ï¿*
Dennis stopped short. ï¿*You know Freddy?ï¿* He asked suspiciously.
ï¿*Nope,ï¿* Jorj shook his head. ï¿*Heard two dudes talking about him though yesterday. They didnï¿*t know I was nearby.ï¿*
ï¿*What did they look like?ï¿*
Jorj leaned back on one foot and hung his thumbs off of his jeansï¿* front pockets. ï¿*One had a parka on, a big black guy. The other was a skinny little white guy in red shorts. Ring any bells?ï¿*
ï¿*Oh yeah,ï¿* Dennis nodded. ï¿*They work for Theodore. Headhunters. Whenever something new shows up, like the collapsed overpassï¿*ï¿* A strange light entered his eyes and he smiled, ï¿*Thatï¿*s it, isnï¿*t it?ï¿*
ï¿*Wazzat?ï¿* Jorj kept an even keel, but he didnï¿*t like where this was going.
ï¿*Thatï¿*s how you died, when the overpass collapsed.ï¿*
Jorj sucked his front teeth a moment while staring at Dennis. ï¿*Whatever you say. So Frosty and his buddy were looking for victims.ï¿*
ï¿*Frostyï¿*ï¿* Dennis grinned. ï¿*I like that. He wouldnï¿*t, but I do.ï¿* He studied Jorjï¿*s expression and the grin relaxed. ï¿*Fear not, man. Iï¿*m not one of the ones you have to watch out for. Stay away fromï¿*Frosty,ï¿* Here the grin returned, ï¿*and his buddy. Bad mojo, both of them, especially the skinny one. Nick thinks he works for Benedict, you know, duel loyalties. Donï¿*t trust him ever.ï¿* He started walking again, keeping to building edges. His vigilance notched up but his mouth seemed not too distracted. ï¿*Frosty would be okay if he didnï¿*t die in the middle of winter. That fuckerï¿*s got one nasty disposition. I canï¿*t blame him, but I stay out of his way. You should too.ï¿*
ï¿*I intend to,ï¿* Jorj agreed.
A road slipped up the side of a hill in between a campus lot with a guard shack and a large brick building with a curved wall running alongside the road. A ways up and on the left, opposite from where the road turned, sheltered wooden stairs ascended in stages towards more brick buildings high above. Dennis gestured towards it. ï¿*ï¿*Summit of Zeus,ï¿* ï¿*Pantheon Hill.ï¿*ï¿* He laughed suddenly. ï¿*For such an un-ivy-league outfit, they sure had big dreams!ï¿*
ï¿*You go here?ï¿*
Dennisï¿* laughter subsided and he grew quiet. ï¿*Yeah, I went here, for a couple of years anyway. Wasnï¿*t my gig.ï¿* He hiked on up the road along the curved wall. ï¿*Cï¿*mon.ï¿*
The road leveled out once it split between woods and tennis courts. There was a softball field nearby, on the corner opposite several houses by what once must have been a busy light to their right. ï¿*What a stupid place for that, huh?ï¿* Dennis pointed at the backstop. ï¿*Wonder how many windshields got smacked in the summer time by foul balls.ï¿*
Past another guard shack they crossed over a patterned brick three-way intersection to a corner next to a large, semi-modern brick building, built much more recent than the ones theyï¿*d just left. To the left there were other buildings. The shadows in between them looked chilly. ï¿*I should think to grab a jacket at some point,ï¿* Jorj remarked, catching himself starting to shiver a little. Once the day warmed up it wouldnï¿*t be so bad, but he remembered the weatherman on the radio yesterday saying it was forty-three degrees, and it felt it.
ï¿*Weï¿*ll see what we can do.ï¿* Dennis paused and then led on along College Ave, one of the main streets bordering the Quad. Sykes Hall was on their left. They passed it and cut left again once they reached the bus stop, climbed three steps between some untended shrubs, and entered the east section of the Quad. Jorj didnï¿*t need Dennis to tell him what was what. Heï¿*d been here before too, or at least a place just like it. To the immediate right was the business school. Adjacent further in was Alliance Hall, one of the oldest, and largest examples of architecture, and once the self-styled United Nations of the university. Past that, the observatory, now dwarfed by itï¿*s neighboring structures, protected a telescope within a small, modest dome of iron and copper.
To the left, an administration building, all brick and boring, laid out itï¿*s two stories like multiple shoeboxes put end to end, then kicked in the middle and finally once on the far end for good luck. Rising above and behind it, built with no more concern for integration than the administration building, was the Geology School. But it was larger, and therefore commanded at least a modicum of respect. Rising even beyond this was the Coliseum, a sports arena that used to play host to the only team that ever did New Jackson City right: the NJU Thunderheads, champs of the 1968 Norï¿*eastern College Conference. Jorj smiled to himself when he saw the big block building. The only reason he knew that bit of lost trivia was because his Dad, once a point guard for the team, never let him forget it. This wasnï¿*t a sports college, he acknowledged, however much some once wanted it to be.
Straight ahead, with the crimson Frankenstein castle of the Reiss School for the Visual and Performing Arts hovering in the background, was a large domed building of brick and granite, Whoever designed it assuredly had the Roman Pantheon in mind. This was the humble sounding, but quite un-humble looking, Concord Chapel. Dennis jerked his right thumb directly at it and said, ï¿*The Padreï¿*s in there.ï¿*
...Thus ends the first 50 pages of Dead Again per standard agent request. If you're interested in publishing it, contact me. I'll send you the manuscript, provided you are legit.

SYN
Chapter One
God guards his secrets well, with ability his earthly creations seem not to possess to any satisfying degree. That the defective nature of what they call souls should be responsible for such deficiency is of no great surprise, although, for the most part, they are unwilling to acknowledge this. In his omnipotence, God knows exactly how to manage his secrets, which ones to bury, which ones to set free. Surely, in the descending chain of creation, from God, to man, to machine, this wisdom skipped a generation.

His name is Capt. Jonah Arturis Ryanis. By the officially recognized calendar of the western world, it is early October in the year 2077. In a little over three weeks, Mercury, the place he is currently stationed, will reach Perihelion. It is a day he and three others, the sole occupants of the United States Research and Engineering Facility (USREF) Sol P1, have been working diligently towards. Before that day arrives, all of them, to the last, will cease to care about the success of their mission.
The structure he stands on is three stories tall, all framework except for the white patches of ceramic shielding fused in place this work cycle. They catch the glare of the setting sun, a triple-sized glowing ball of yellow fire still many weeks away from sinking below the jagged western horizon. He needs to have everything finished by the end of seven standard Earth days. Whether or not this will actually happen depends on his endurance, he tells himself. A driven man can accomplish anything.
Next to him, exactly the same height as the solar array he started building from scratch eleven days ago, is another assembly, only this one walks. It is called a ï¿*Crab,ï¿* and for good reason, although it could just as aptly be named a ï¿*Spider.ï¿* Jonah finds no comfort in either name for reasons he considers quite understandable. Every time he interacts with it he is reminded of childish nightmares he will never discuss. Though, at times, the damned thing nearly raises every brown hair on his head, he knows it is just a necessary tool to aid in getting his job done. It canï¿*t help what it is.
Arguably, the ï¿*Crabï¿* is the most versatile, under-rated, vehicular construction unit (VCU) to accompany man in the twenty-first century. Since most everything that moved either flew or rolled, the Crab took some getting used to. Allow an AI to drive or otherwise manipulate the thing, as often happens, and it is, at very least, disturbing. Its eight legs allow it to walk and climb almost anywhere, and over anything. Protruding from the front edge of its gleaming white, clam-shaped chassis, and poised to do any number of tasks, is a pair of heavily reinforced robotic arms, capable of lifting any of the other construction vehicles used on Mercury. Immediately behind this sinister-looking frontal ensemble is a heat-resistant platform with handles to hang on to, both surrounded by a low retaining wall of the same ceramic material. No controls are visible, nor are any needed. Whether or not an AI guides its motions, all human commands are interfaced directly into the spacesuit, leaving the hands of the controller free to do more useful things. It is a piece of equipment given to many sides of the imagination. Once, Jonah recalls, the squirrelly technician named Dennis Brinks installed cup-holders on this particular model as a joke. The station commander ordered them removed immediately and the man reprimanded. This was not Earth. There were no cup-holders on this model, and no good times to go with them, so Jonah was told. That incident was before his tour of duty, but the story never got old.
In silence, he bitterly ruminates how heï¿*s come to all of this.
He wonders, for instance, just how much he changed in the last eighteen months, or the three positively excruciating ones in training before that. Is there a tiny piece of him left that remembers acutely his last breath of unventilated air, or the delicious sting of hundredsï¿*no, thousandsï¿*of spent pine needles stabbing the once calloused soles of his feet? He dreams sometimes, when he can relax enough, of walking in his native gravity, even swimming, and heï¿*s been told that such dreams are normal in the beginning, that they will pass. Yet the dreams are more frequent now than ever. He doesnï¿*t tell anyone about that part. This isnï¿*t the beginning anymore. And he doesnï¿*t need their advice on how to ï¿*adjust.ï¿* He knows. He knows very well: slog through the discipline of exercise and take the drugs that will supposedly keep his body from degenerating any more quickly than it already hasï¿*and that in and around the labors he was sent here to accomplish. When he first roused himself from sleep on this eternally-baked rock a year and a half ago, he noted how diminished he felt, and noted it every new sleep cycle thereafter. By now, he estimates himself barely a shell of the man he was when he last walked the face of Mother Earth. And some might deem that a very bad thing. But that was just part of the job, was it not? Abandoning the self and turning it over to duty for the two years or so he signed up for? Forced to piss in his suit when his bag was full and the work wasn't done? Every ï¿*dayï¿*, in an odd mix of bottled-up rage and cowardly surrender, he hides in his white metallic foxhole while the extremes in temperature wage war around him; all the while knowing that a mistakeï¿*of which any little one might doï¿*could end his life in a way either tragically quick, or agonizingly slow. And just who, he wonders, would cry for him then? The deep chill of space, as always, answers that it cares not. So why should he? He is a drone, a tech with tools. One more or less of himself hardly matters. But in fact, it matters just a little. Replacements are not next door, but two very distant doors away, spinning and revolving around the same colossal yellow eye that stares at him so closely now, waiting for him to mess up. Were he to have an accidental demonstration of his own mortality, his death would mark grave inconvenience to some, yet, in the grander scheme, heï¿*d be really nothing more than baggage to be replaced by the next pulsating piece of flesh ready to do mankindï¿*s bidding. This he reminds himself of continually; it is a discipline both morose and darkly funny, and one not lost on his dwindling sense of humor. It is in this mesmerized utero that he now drifts, indulging in musings unwise for a life in space. Not that he cares much. He is what he was always meant to be, and he knows it. Damn anybody with the balls to deny him even that small bit of unfortunate destiny.
A curved bit of light appeared in a man-made cave about fifty meters to the west of where Jonah was changing the tip of his fuser. A dark shape emerged, the light shrinking to a dim white slit behind it and then closing shut before leaving the cave in blackness again. At the opening, a man-shaped bit of reflected light appeared. It stepped out into the full brilliance of the relentless Mercurian sunset, the latter casting long shadows to the newcomerï¿*s left and Jonahï¿*s right. The sun, itself three times visually as it appeared from Earth, floated against a star-filled sheet of jet-black, devoid of any atmospheric beauty by Earthly standards, and one that seemed to move in such slow motion as to stand perfectly still, that is unless the observer had the patience to watch it for months. Without any pause, the man from the door bounced lightly down the brick ramp to the gravel-covered surface surrounding USREF Sol P1. Though Jonah was, by now, quite accustomed to seeing his fellow team members garbed in the latest of environmental suits, his first sight of one filled him with a mixture of admiration and dread. In a well-paired marriage of micro-technology and materials science, the Halcor DS-179 bore the slight resemblance to a white, armored knight, only with an egg-shaped bubble for a helmet that went gun-metal under the naked sun. Faced with the necessity to not only protect the wearer from natural debris, but also to give resistance to man-made irregularities of international and inter-corporate conflict, each predecessor to the Halcor DS-179 became industry standard, culminating in this beautiful example of human creative engineering, a thing borne out of a terrible, self-inflicted need. One well-foreseen upside of the tough materials that afforded this level of protection was that it supported another: that being the ability to maintain Earth atmospheric pressure. Consequently, the inconvenience of lengthy preparations prior to space walks was no longer necessary in order to avoid the bends. The best part, Jonah observed, was the head-bubble and itï¿*s wondrous molecular circuitry that enabled not only protective functions such as instantaneous polarizing but also complete computer visuals and enhanced audio capabilities within, vibrating with every sound it produced like a very thick membrane. Like that of the ï¿*Tomato Worm Suitï¿* created one hundred and fifty years ago, the bubble allowed for excellent visibility, a full 360 degrees, provided you could swivel your head that far.
A voice came over the intercom in a crackle of static as the figure easily covered the distance to Jonahï¿*s worksight. Behind the voice, in an overlay subtle enough to be considered audibly translucent, a band played old Country-Western, music his father would have loved had he still been alive.
"Jonah!" There was laughter in the tone. "Iï¿*m beginning to think you could live out here! You need to eat and then give your bone mass a reason to stay up someplace reasonable. You may only have a couple of weeks left but thereï¿*s still the trip back. Doesnï¿*t take long to go brittle out there."
"Ye