“What are we doing here?” Molly asked. She held the pistol at her leg. Her heart thundered madly. Every errant sound in the big empty hallways made her jumpy and anxious.
“Looking for someone.”
“Care to share a little?” Molly complained.
Doug stopped before a large directory. White plastic letters were pressed into a black board set into the wall and covered by glass. Doug touched the glass, running his finger down until he came to a name.
“Louis Purvich, Professor.” He said.
“Who?”
“When I called my old editor he said we should talk to his son-in-law.”
“And this is important at this moment?”
“I need some information or I’ll look like a fool at that Press conference. I have one shot. I have to put all the pieces in place.”
Molly nodded. “We better hurry then.”
They ran down the hall and up two flights of stairs, finding a small office at the back of lab. They lab itself was like something from a tinkerers dream. The machines seemed haphazard and strange. Doug was by no means an uneducated man, but he could not make sense of any of them.
“Looks like a hi-tech junk shop,” Molly remarked for the both of them.
There was a small wood-cut sign on the door. It was simple, like a child had created it. A crudely etched tin-can robot frowned while sniffing a daisy. There was a question mark over the robot's square head. The sign read:
DEPARTMENT OF CYBER-ETHICS AND THE PHILOSOPHY OF TECHNOLOGY
Doug didn’t bother knocking. There was no time. He reached for the doorknob. It turned easily. He pushed it open, startling the professor inside. Molly pushed past Doug and went to the phone on the Professor’s desk, lifted the receiver and dialed the emergency operator.
“This is Agent Karaman again. I phoned in the emergency. I am located on the third floor of the Technological Institute, North End in one of the labs. I have a Federal witness with me and will need security immediately to protect him.” She hung up the phone, took the badge from her pocket and hung it around her neck where it would be seen plainly. “No need to get shot by friendlies.”
Doug looked to the astonished young man. He couldn’t have been older that thirty, though a deeply receding hairline made him look a bit older at a glance. It was offset by long straight blond hair. He was skinny and t all, and a awkward, with bright blue eyes and a two day growth of beard. The office was a mess, dominated by a chaotic bookshelf filled with reports, hastily stuffed files and an eclectic mix of philosophy and computer books.
“Professor Purvich?” asked Doug.
“Doug Springer? Arnie said…”
“Is there another way out of here?” asked Molly, returning to the door, now holding the pistol in both hands.
“If you can fly or bounce!” the Professor replied, sarcastically, but quickly thinking better of it when she glared at him. “What’s going on?”
“We don’t have much time,” Doug began. Molly moved across the lab to the door. “I’m trying to put together the pieces of a weird puzzle…”
“Nano-weapons.” Purvich said abruptly, taking Doug a little aback.
Doug looked curiously at the sign on the door. “Cyber-ethics?’
“The digital revolution is overwhelming us,” said Purvich. “It’s evolving faster than humanity’s ability to understand it. Some would call it a new life form, maybe the replacement form for humanity. Twenty years from now machines will be autonomous, self replicating and doing things we cannot even conceive of. Question is, will they perceive us as their Adam and Eve, as nuisances or enemies? Will we perceive them as enemies, God’s or both? The ethics of all this is that we need to find a way to program basic ethics and morality into our machines, or they will fashion their own, and we must come to some understanding and perspective in machines of our creation which, one day, will likely not need us to exist.”
“How does that work for nano-weapons?”
“It doesn’t,” Purvich said simple.
“I don’t get it.”
“You’re not asking the right question,” said Purvich. “What happened in Iran two days ago has all the hallmarks of a Nanobot attack. No ethics, just machines programmed to function on its designer’s shifting sense of ethics. Nanobots are simple, dumb things.”
“Nano-what? You have to forgive my ignorance.”
“Not your fault,” he said. “Nobody knows about this stuff. Nobody in the government and nobody in military, that for sure. Nano-technology is not on anyone’s radar yet, but it is definitely the future. If we’re smart it will change humanity forever. If we ain’t it’ll hit us like a bullet between the eyes.”
“Fallahi said it was like the discovery of fire; a Frankenstein monster.”
“Purvich nodded. “Not far off the mark. What we’re talking here is infinitesimally small, on the scale of millionths of an inch. By contrast, the diameter of a human hair is colossal by comparison. But the applications are infinite; phenomenally better processors, incredibly efficient fuel cells, revolutionary medical applications, like little robots that would hunt down and eradicate tumors before you knew you had them, un-dreamed of textiles and fabrics and warfare.”
“And how would those applications work for weaponry?”
Purvich chuckled. “How good is your imagination? Right now we’re sort of theoretical with carbon silicon Nano-tubes a thousandth the width of a human hair, with a sort of tube and soccer ball configuration, but from that we can build and program and amazing array of nano-machines.”
“How difficult are these to produce?’ asked Doug. Molly was listening from the door, while keeping a wary eye on the hall. Outside the sirens had risen to a racket. There was gunfire in the distance. Purvich led Doug across the room to an odd looking machine. It was hardly bigger that a small chest of drawers.
“A couple of geeks, a million and a half dollars and an internet account to buy a thimble full nano-tubes and you, my friend, could bring the world to its knees.”
“And where does one logon to but nano-tubes?”
Purvich went to a blackboard and quickly scribbled out a formula:
It’s simple, anyone can create so-called forests on nano-tubes in a substrate growth rate in a really simple formula, H(t)=βTo(1-e-t/To), where β is the initial growth rate and T sub zero is the catalyst’s lifetime.” He could see that he was losing Doug a bit in the techno stuff. “It’s simple. Very simple.”
“Anyway to detect one of these nano-weapons?”
“Honestly? Depends on the technical expertise of the designer. They could disappear, breakdown on command, dissolve, or burn up.”
Molly looked away from the door. “Burn up?”
“Sure,” said Purvich. “You could actually generate a substantial amount of heat.”
“Enough to say, burn through human tissue?” Molly pressed.
“Absolutely,” he replied.
“And how would you deliver these?” asked Doug, with a knowing look to Molly.
“God, the possibilities boggle the mind.”
“In a glass of water?” asked Molly.
“I suppose,” the Professor replied.
There was a sound at the door. Molly wheeled around, bringing the pistol up as Waverly and the other man stormed inside, unleashing a hail of bullets. Molly returned fire, dropping Waverly’s partner. Doug fell on Purvich, shoving him back into the office just as two bullets slammed into Molly. She grunted and tumbled to the floor, her pistol skidding away across the floor.
“Molly!” Doug cried, scrambling over to her. Dark red blood spread beneath her body. Molly’s head was turned to the side, and covered by her long dark hair. Just as he reached for her Doug felt the press of a cold hard gun barrel at the back of his head.
Showing posts with label Ana Turck. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ana Turck. Show all posts
Monday, September 13, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Angry Jasper: Fifty-four
“Hey, kids, we’re home,” Jazz announced, more to himself than to anyone else. It felt sort of homey seeing everyone that way. The others stirred reluctantly. Kate pulled herself from the tangle of arms and legs. Skull boy groaned and turned over in the hammock. Buzz was content with a moment’s peace and quiet. Kate pulled underwear from the crack of her ass and came up behind Jazz. She looked out at the growing moon before them. It filled the ship with a heavenly golden light. She ran her hands across Jasper’s shoulders and kissed the top of his head.
“Sleep well?” he asked.
“Died,” she said with a groan and stretched out her sore back. In fact her whole body had taken one hell of a beating, and she was feeling it now.
“Miss anything?”
“Naw,” he replied. “Pretty smooth. You guys were sacked out.”
“First real sleep in some time.”
“Wanna wake ‘em?”
“Naw. Let ‘em go.”
Jazz nodded and smiled to himself. “Gotta say, it’s kind of nice, havin’ a full house, so to speak.”
Kate looked back and mused, almost lamented. “About the closest we ever had to a real family.”
There was more traffic now. Freighters and supply ships came and went from the huge methane harvesters floating among Jupiter’s tumultuous cloud layers. They were closer to Europa than to the great gas giant, but still it dominated the view with it’s terrific size. They were already passing around to the dark side of the planet. Stunning aurora patterns were replaced my monumental flashes of bright blue-white lightening. Jupiter never failed to amaze Jazz.
“What about the kid?” asked Kate..” Got no home, no parents anymore.”
“Shame,” he joked. “Well, reckon I’ll have to kill him then.”
Kate smacked the back of his head for such an awful remark. She didn’t let him see the smile on her face. After all, it was a jerk thing to say, but it was funny.
On one of the console screens was a small schematic of the solar system that showed their trajectory from Earth. The planets were completely out of scale of course, but where the Earth once was there was merely a number dots. A single disk, an orphaned moon, drifted among the debris of the world. Katy touched the screen as though she could feel them. The word left her lips like a sudden horrible realization.
“All those millions of souls,” she lamented, “snuffed out in an instant.”
Jazz hadn’t cared much for the place, and thought the end of that crap-heap of a planet was long overdue. He didn’t though sat it, knowing full well that Katy had left a part of herself there. He was a space kid, and never felt anything in particular for Earth, but for Kate it would always be home. For once he didn’t cram his foot in his mouth and suck hard on it.
“Sure sucks,” he said.
Katy frowned, though Jazz couldn’t see. It was a dumb remark, but she wouldn’t bust his chops over it. At least he was trying. In fact, except for remarks about her physical attributes and certain sexual talents over the years, it was one of the nicest things he’d ever said to her. She rubbed the back of his head.
“Yeah, Jazz, it sure does.”
Racing around the planet at close to 20,000 miles per hour jazz had to speed up a little to catch the icy little moon. Europa was a stark and inhospitable world, at least on the surface. Deep ridges cut across a broken landscape of frozen ice flows, scarred by craters being slowly reclaimed by Europa’s ever-changing surface. With the same face blasted continuously by Jupiter’s lethal radiation, all the portals through the Icy crust lay on the dark side of the moon. They were large steel and concrete tubes and channels cutting through miles of dust and pulverized space debris. Each opened into a subterranean ocean fifty miles deep. Clustered around each portal, like grapes on a dark and watery vine, were dozens of little colonies. It was the perfect place to hide.
“Sleep well?” he asked.
“Died,” she said with a groan and stretched out her sore back. In fact her whole body had taken one hell of a beating, and she was feeling it now.
“Miss anything?”
“Naw,” he replied. “Pretty smooth. You guys were sacked out.”
“First real sleep in some time.”
“Wanna wake ‘em?”
“Naw. Let ‘em go.”
Jazz nodded and smiled to himself. “Gotta say, it’s kind of nice, havin’ a full house, so to speak.”
Kate looked back and mused, almost lamented. “About the closest we ever had to a real family.”
There was more traffic now. Freighters and supply ships came and went from the huge methane harvesters floating among Jupiter’s tumultuous cloud layers. They were closer to Europa than to the great gas giant, but still it dominated the view with it’s terrific size. They were already passing around to the dark side of the planet. Stunning aurora patterns were replaced my monumental flashes of bright blue-white lightening. Jupiter never failed to amaze Jazz.
“What about the kid?” asked Kate..” Got no home, no parents anymore.”
“Shame,” he joked. “Well, reckon I’ll have to kill him then.”
Kate smacked the back of his head for such an awful remark. She didn’t let him see the smile on her face. After all, it was a jerk thing to say, but it was funny.
On one of the console screens was a small schematic of the solar system that showed their trajectory from Earth. The planets were completely out of scale of course, but where the Earth once was there was merely a number dots. A single disk, an orphaned moon, drifted among the debris of the world. Katy touched the screen as though she could feel them. The word left her lips like a sudden horrible realization.
“All those millions of souls,” she lamented, “snuffed out in an instant.”
Jazz hadn’t cared much for the place, and thought the end of that crap-heap of a planet was long overdue. He didn’t though sat it, knowing full well that Katy had left a part of herself there. He was a space kid, and never felt anything in particular for Earth, but for Kate it would always be home. For once he didn’t cram his foot in his mouth and suck hard on it.
“Sure sucks,” he said.
Katy frowned, though Jazz couldn’t see. It was a dumb remark, but she wouldn’t bust his chops over it. At least he was trying. In fact, except for remarks about her physical attributes and certain sexual talents over the years, it was one of the nicest things he’d ever said to her. She rubbed the back of his head.
“Yeah, Jazz, it sure does.”
Racing around the planet at close to 20,000 miles per hour jazz had to speed up a little to catch the icy little moon. Europa was a stark and inhospitable world, at least on the surface. Deep ridges cut across a broken landscape of frozen ice flows, scarred by craters being slowly reclaimed by Europa’s ever-changing surface. With the same face blasted continuously by Jupiter’s lethal radiation, all the portals through the Icy crust lay on the dark side of the moon. They were large steel and concrete tubes and channels cutting through miles of dust and pulverized space debris. Each opened into a subterranean ocean fifty miles deep. Clustered around each portal, like grapes on a dark and watery vine, were dozens of little colonies. It was the perfect place to hide.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Angry Jasper: Fifty-three
From the outer gas planets the end of the earth was a plaintive flash that momentarily rivaled the sun’s glare before fading from view. At mars the Earth’s demise threw a brief shadow across the rust red noon day landscape. The planet had disappeared in the relative blink of an eye. It had given rise to a species that had overrun, for better or worse, the solar system, and, god willing, would venture to the stars and galaxies and screw them up too. In the end its passing would matter little to only the most romantic souls, but its passing would not be noticed beyond the orbit of Jupiter. All of human history, the first humans to crawl from an African Gorge, Plato, Rome, The Great Wall,, Napoleon and Yakov Smirnoff erased for all time, but for the memories of ancestors reaching out across the universe.
Everyone aboard that little ship would remember, as they barreled through space. Even at a tenth the speed of light it took the better part of two days to reach the subterranean colony on Europa in the Jupiter system. The broad red and white bands of clouds sweeping across the giant gas planet were magnificent to behold after so much empty space. Jazz doubted the Corporation would be looking for them. It didn’t seem likely that anyone could have survived Earth’s end. Jazz couldn’t quite believe it either, and was quite certain they had been the only ones to escape.
He looked over at Kate. She was in a tangled heap of limbs with Buzz and the boy. They were sacked out cold against the lockers. Skullboy was sort of weaving, his head tilted back and mouth agape. Jazz felt sorry for the kid. He had lost his dad to the rebels. The wheel had taken a direct hit as Earth broke apart. It smashed through the wheel like a stone through a spider’s web.
They swung around the planet, racing above the swirling cloud tops. Jazz was uncomfortable exposing the ship to the planet’s incredible magnetic field for too long. The radiation meter on the console was nearly off the dial. The ship was pretty well protected for interplanetary space and could withstand short spikes in radiation, but itstruggled around behemoths like Jupiter and Saturn. The ship shuddered and groaned at its closest approach to the planet, and Jazz feared the engines might stall. He sighed with relief when icy yellow Europa came into view.
Everyone aboard that little ship would remember, as they barreled through space. Even at a tenth the speed of light it took the better part of two days to reach the subterranean colony on Europa in the Jupiter system. The broad red and white bands of clouds sweeping across the giant gas planet were magnificent to behold after so much empty space. Jazz doubted the Corporation would be looking for them. It didn’t seem likely that anyone could have survived Earth’s end. Jazz couldn’t quite believe it either, and was quite certain they had been the only ones to escape.
He looked over at Kate. She was in a tangled heap of limbs with Buzz and the boy. They were sacked out cold against the lockers. Skullboy was sort of weaving, his head tilted back and mouth agape. Jazz felt sorry for the kid. He had lost his dad to the rebels. The wheel had taken a direct hit as Earth broke apart. It smashed through the wheel like a stone through a spider’s web.
They swung around the planet, racing above the swirling cloud tops. Jazz was uncomfortable exposing the ship to the planet’s incredible magnetic field for too long. The radiation meter on the console was nearly off the dial. The ship was pretty well protected for interplanetary space and could withstand short spikes in radiation, but itstruggled around behemoths like Jupiter and Saturn. The ship shuddered and groaned at its closest approach to the planet, and Jazz feared the engines might stall. He sighed with relief when icy yellow Europa came into view.
Angry Jasper: Fifty-two
The pressure was unbearable now. Skull boy collapsed screaming, his cries lost to the grinding pressure and the violent shuddering of the planetoid and the strain of the engines. Kate was crawling, fighting with every ounce of strength to pull herself into the locker. Behind her, Jazz managed to shove the boy into locker. It sealed instantly as he slammed the door shut. fighting for air, and feeling as though his body might turn itself inside out, Jazz saw the door close and seal behind Kate as well.
The wounded ship bucked and kicked hard away from the dissolving chuck of rock and Ocean. Jazz screamed in pain. Clamping his hands tight over his ears in a vain attempt to keep his eardrums from bursting. He closed his eyes shot, but felt sure his eyes would explode from their sockets.
Jazz fumbled with the handle of the nearest locker. The pain was excruciating. His fingers felt as if they were swelling outward. Warm blood ran from his nails. Jazz fought one last time, knowing that this was likely his last chance. With all his might he hauled himself into the locker and pulled it closed. He fought for breath even as the door pressurized with a squealing hiss. With that fresh oxygen flooded into his lungs. He gave a long low groan, and would have cussed if he had the strength. Somewhere in the back of his mind he hoped Buzz could wrestle the ship away from the planetoid. His body could have cared less at that moment as he passed out cold.
Maury watched helplessly from his chamber at the center of the wheel as part of the smashed weapon, a piece roughly the size of an old Naval destroyer hurtled straight for him. There was no hope of escape, and Maury knew his fate was sealed. He hung his fat ugly head and moaned.
“Mother f…”
He and his chambers were vaporized by the impact. The wheel structure sort of collapsed around it, sort of like ball thrown into a net. This net didn’t hold, though. It buckled and snapped and ripped itself to pieces, spilling thousands of souls into space, like the Assessor and his wife, Marge. They instantly freeze-dried in the near absolute cold of space, then evaporated into dust. Madame had just dropped her slacks in the toilet when the calamity flung her out into space, bare-assed for all the Universe to see.
One small chunk of Earth fell steadily towards the sun. Somehow a part of Crawford remained intact. Just west of the train tracks and crossroads was a small ranch. Long abandoned, world leaders had once been summoned there to confer with a President whose name no one could recall any longer. If only folks could have seen that his own brand of politics set the stage not only for the rebellion, but for the rise of the Corporation as well. Indeed, it set in motion the long chain of events that doomed the planet and eventually led to its final destruction.
Crawford fell steadily towards the sun, the little ranch and the graffiti covered gravestone beneath the old cedar bough protected on the dark side of the chunk of earth. The stone was a study in kitsch, with big marble pillars. In the center of the gravestone was a larger than life picture of the long passed president. He was smirking, as though filled with contempt for damn near everyone. Like the Sphinx, his nose had been shot away by vandals.
There was a small shack by a creek not far from the gravesite. It was empty now. The bleached bones of the last of the president’s ancestors were scattered on the floor where he had died alone and in shame. A bible was open on the table next to a pair of spectacles and a dusty tin cup.
It evaporated as cinders and then as constituent atomic particles stripped of character and distinction. Curiously the shack was the last to be consumed. The words on the page of the book seemed fitting, and somehow prophetic:
“And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given onto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death; and with beasts of the earth…”
The wounded ship bucked and kicked hard away from the dissolving chuck of rock and Ocean. Jazz screamed in pain. Clamping his hands tight over his ears in a vain attempt to keep his eardrums from bursting. He closed his eyes shot, but felt sure his eyes would explode from their sockets.
Jazz fumbled with the handle of the nearest locker. The pain was excruciating. His fingers felt as if they were swelling outward. Warm blood ran from his nails. Jazz fought one last time, knowing that this was likely his last chance. With all his might he hauled himself into the locker and pulled it closed. He fought for breath even as the door pressurized with a squealing hiss. With that fresh oxygen flooded into his lungs. He gave a long low groan, and would have cussed if he had the strength. Somewhere in the back of his mind he hoped Buzz could wrestle the ship away from the planetoid. His body could have cared less at that moment as he passed out cold.
Maury watched helplessly from his chamber at the center of the wheel as part of the smashed weapon, a piece roughly the size of an old Naval destroyer hurtled straight for him. There was no hope of escape, and Maury knew his fate was sealed. He hung his fat ugly head and moaned.
“Mother f…”
He and his chambers were vaporized by the impact. The wheel structure sort of collapsed around it, sort of like ball thrown into a net. This net didn’t hold, though. It buckled and snapped and ripped itself to pieces, spilling thousands of souls into space, like the Assessor and his wife, Marge. They instantly freeze-dried in the near absolute cold of space, then evaporated into dust. Madame had just dropped her slacks in the toilet when the calamity flung her out into space, bare-assed for all the Universe to see.
One small chunk of Earth fell steadily towards the sun. Somehow a part of Crawford remained intact. Just west of the train tracks and crossroads was a small ranch. Long abandoned, world leaders had once been summoned there to confer with a President whose name no one could recall any longer. If only folks could have seen that his own brand of politics set the stage not only for the rebellion, but for the rise of the Corporation as well. Indeed, it set in motion the long chain of events that doomed the planet and eventually led to its final destruction.
Crawford fell steadily towards the sun, the little ranch and the graffiti covered gravestone beneath the old cedar bough protected on the dark side of the chunk of earth. The stone was a study in kitsch, with big marble pillars. In the center of the gravestone was a larger than life picture of the long passed president. He was smirking, as though filled with contempt for damn near everyone. Like the Sphinx, his nose had been shot away by vandals.
There was a small shack by a creek not far from the gravesite. It was empty now. The bleached bones of the last of the president’s ancestors were scattered on the floor where he had died alone and in shame. A bible was open on the table next to a pair of spectacles and a dusty tin cup.
It evaporated as cinders and then as constituent atomic particles stripped of character and distinction. Curiously the shack was the last to be consumed. The words on the page of the book seemed fitting, and somehow prophetic:
“And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given onto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death; and with beasts of the earth…”
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Angry Jasper: Forty-eight
Maury’s spy charged into the open before the others could react. Jazz groaned and climbed to his feet, and started after him but Skull boy, with all his might, knocked him hard to the ground again. Jazz turned and had half a mind to slug the kid, just for good measure. The hell with it, he thought and reeled back to clobber the kid. By now Maury’s spy was half way down the street by now. Jazz doubted he could catch the guy, even if he ten years younger, a time he was in the best shape of his life.
“You let him get away, you little brat.”
“No, look!” Skull boy pointed as a huge plasma bolt cleaved through the street. The spy saw it too, an instant before he disappeared forever, incinerated in the blink of an eye. Hell, there wasn’t even a puff of smoke. Just like that even the myriad atomic particles comprising his body ceased to exist.
“Kid, I don’t know if I should thank you or smack you!”
“Thank you works fine,” said the boy.
Buzz, meantime, had been observing the spectacle and found a certain haphazard pattern to the plasma bolts. They came in pulses, waxing and waning with gaps in between. He made a quick calculation. It was precise or perfect by any stretch, but the littlest robot figured it was the only chance remaining.
“I think we’ve got a few minutes here, if we can reach the ship by then.”
“We’ll see,” Jazz dusted himself off. “No time to lose.”
Jazz went first, moving carefully from the relative safety of the underground into the wide boulevard. Once the street had been dubbed the Magnificent Mile, but there wasn’t anything magnificent about the place now. Stumbling into the open he looked askance at the blinding beam. It left Jazz dazed and rubbing the image burned momentarily into his retina. More that that, the radiant heat from the thing was almost unbearable. It singed at his hair and flesh, and was growing quickly in intensity. Here and there dry brush had begun to smoke.
The sound was just as terrible. A continuous thundering roar was followed by a horrible ripping sound that grew louder and nearer. Together they shook the street so that it was almost impossible for Jazz to keep his feet. Walls collapsed all along the ruined boulevard. He didn’t have much hope that this would turn out good, but he kept his mouth shut and waved for the others to follow.
.
He caught Katy just as she emerged. He tried to throw a hand across her face and keep her from looking at the beam. They struggled a moment before she grabbed his hair with both hands and gave him a violent shake.
“What the hell are you doing?” she shouted above the din.
“The beam, don’t look at it!” he cried.
She batted his hand away, and had half a mind to smack him.
“I’m not stupid,” she shouted above the din. “What kind of idiot would look at the beam?”
Jazz chafed at the remark. “Didn’t want you to look at it?”
“God, no!”
“Not even a little?”
Kate frowned and shook her head. “You looked at it, didn’t you?”
“So what if I did?”
“That’s cause you’re stupid.”
“Maybe we could discuss this later,” said Buzz.
An ear-shattering roar eclipsed the thundering beam as a deep crack tore apart the earth’s crust just to the west. The ground whipped like a snake throwing Jazz, Katy and the others hard to the ground. Steam, dust and spouts of red hot magma unleashed spit a thousand feet into the air. Boulders and stones, from deep inside the planet rained down, some as big as houses.
“What the hell is that?” said Jazz.
“The planet, it’s breaking up,” Buzz announced. “By my calculations we have ten minutes to get off the planet. No more.”
“It’ll take that long to get to my ship.”
“We’d better haul ass then,” said Kate. To the east a new crack opened. Magma flowed into the dry Lake Michigan basin.
“What’s the verdict, Skull boy? Are we going to make it?”
“Depends how fast you can move, old man.”
Jazz raised a hand, but held back at the last minute. “God, I hate this kid.”
“You let him get away, you little brat.”
“No, look!” Skull boy pointed as a huge plasma bolt cleaved through the street. The spy saw it too, an instant before he disappeared forever, incinerated in the blink of an eye. Hell, there wasn’t even a puff of smoke. Just like that even the myriad atomic particles comprising his body ceased to exist.
“Kid, I don’t know if I should thank you or smack you!”
“Thank you works fine,” said the boy.
Buzz, meantime, had been observing the spectacle and found a certain haphazard pattern to the plasma bolts. They came in pulses, waxing and waning with gaps in between. He made a quick calculation. It was precise or perfect by any stretch, but the littlest robot figured it was the only chance remaining.
“I think we’ve got a few minutes here, if we can reach the ship by then.”
“We’ll see,” Jazz dusted himself off. “No time to lose.”
Jazz went first, moving carefully from the relative safety of the underground into the wide boulevard. Once the street had been dubbed the Magnificent Mile, but there wasn’t anything magnificent about the place now. Stumbling into the open he looked askance at the blinding beam. It left Jazz dazed and rubbing the image burned momentarily into his retina. More that that, the radiant heat from the thing was almost unbearable. It singed at his hair and flesh, and was growing quickly in intensity. Here and there dry brush had begun to smoke.
The sound was just as terrible. A continuous thundering roar was followed by a horrible ripping sound that grew louder and nearer. Together they shook the street so that it was almost impossible for Jazz to keep his feet. Walls collapsed all along the ruined boulevard. He didn’t have much hope that this would turn out good, but he kept his mouth shut and waved for the others to follow.
.
He caught Katy just as she emerged. He tried to throw a hand across her face and keep her from looking at the beam. They struggled a moment before she grabbed his hair with both hands and gave him a violent shake.
“What the hell are you doing?” she shouted above the din.
“The beam, don’t look at it!” he cried.
She batted his hand away, and had half a mind to smack him.
“I’m not stupid,” she shouted above the din. “What kind of idiot would look at the beam?”
Jazz chafed at the remark. “Didn’t want you to look at it?”
“God, no!”
“Not even a little?”
Kate frowned and shook her head. “You looked at it, didn’t you?”
“So what if I did?”
“That’s cause you’re stupid.”
“Maybe we could discuss this later,” said Buzz.
An ear-shattering roar eclipsed the thundering beam as a deep crack tore apart the earth’s crust just to the west. The ground whipped like a snake throwing Jazz, Katy and the others hard to the ground. Steam, dust and spouts of red hot magma unleashed spit a thousand feet into the air. Boulders and stones, from deep inside the planet rained down, some as big as houses.
“What the hell is that?” said Jazz.
“The planet, it’s breaking up,” Buzz announced. “By my calculations we have ten minutes to get off the planet. No more.”
“It’ll take that long to get to my ship.”
“We’d better haul ass then,” said Kate. To the east a new crack opened. Magma flowed into the dry Lake Michigan basin.
“What’s the verdict, Skull boy? Are we going to make it?”
“Depends how fast you can move, old man.”
Jazz raised a hand, but held back at the last minute. “God, I hate this kid.”
Friday, May 21, 2010
Angry Jasper: Forty
Kate should have known her world was about to take a decided turn for the horrible when Thomas’ guards sealed off either end of the dark tunnel. Not that mny dared this way, but it was obvious that what he wished to show her wasn’t something he wished many others to know. She could feel the oppressive heat and humidity coming off the heavy iron door. It looked like some sort of prop from a schlocky Twentieth Century Medieval movie. It was set deep in ragged bedrock. The entrance was low and arched. Moss grew long and heavy from the stones, but with a sickly quality, as if it was afflicted by whatever Thomas held or had hidden inside.
A shiver ran through her. Thomas went to the door and ran his long spindly fingers across it in an oddly and creepily sexual way. His expression was fluid. He looked t her and seemed about to burst. The only question was, thought Kate, was what might jump out of that zombie-like body.
“So why bring me here?” she asked.
“Something you must see.”
“I can only guess,” she said.
His voice was low and seedy. “Never in a million years, my dear..”
The lock look primitive enough, but obviously there was much more to it. Thomas pressed his hand to a smooth place hidden deep in shadow beside the door. The rock lit up and scanned the full length and breadth of Thomas’ hand. It was obviously some sort of bio-metric mechanism, but of a sort and sophistication Kate had never seen before. The latch on the door opened with an audible clang and the door swung heavily back. Not much enough to see, especially for the dull yellow-green light within, but enough that she was instantly hit by the stale must of putrefied bodies.
“Dear god!” Kate raised a hand to cover her nose and mouth.
“God?” Thomas laughed mockingly. “There is no god, Kate. God resides,” he began, drawing her to the door, “in the eternal competition for each species’ survival.”
Thomas pushed open the door and shoved he into the chamber. Kate stumbled forward, skidding and slipping on the slick and slimy floor. The light was low and hazy. It took her eyes a moment to adjust. It took her brain a few seconds longer.
She swooned and felt dizzy as her mind swam and spun fighting to accept, or not to accept, what her eyes beheld. She blinked once and turned abruptly to Thomas and the door, gauging her chances of escape. The look in his deadly black eyes-an insects soulless eyes- had the futility of any attempt abundantly clear. Kate turned back to the horror before her, doing her damnedest to stifle a scream.
It wasn’t a chamber, at least not in the sense someone had carved it from the bedrock. Rather it was a natural formation, though what it had become now was anything but natural. Kate was standing between the open legs of a desiccated corpse that she could only assume was a woman. Hundreds of bodies were strewn or piled across the floor where, for the most part they had been stripped to bone and sinew. The mass of them formed a huge pile at the center of the room, where it appeared they had been tossed like old chicken bones after being devoured.
There were other, fresher corpses, all women, cocooned in grayish orange webbing to the rocky walls. Their distended bellies had been ripped open. Horrifying like hybrids, part human child and part spider were hungrily devouring their hosts. One woman, Kate noticed was still alive. She thrust her arms out from those rgged trappings and screamed as one of those disgusting spider-children ripped itself from the poor woman’s belly.
“Tell me again why I never had a kid?”
“You’ll bear my children.” Said Thomas.
Kate’s sly and ready smile, there in the worst of circumstances failed her completely now. “Interested in a loveless marriage?”
He laughed loudly. It thundered in the chamber, startling the insect-child hybrids, who squealed and scurried away into the shadows, or slithered back inside their long dead hosts. It was a belly laugh that went on a little too long. Kate choked back bile noting the darkly yellow urine stain spread across the front of Thomas’ gown.
“Now I’m turned on,” she said with ample disgust under her breath.
“Dear, this isn’t your fate,” he said. “This will form the vanguard of our army, but you and I, we will create a new royal class, a species all our own. It will be the next phase in the evolution of both our species, which will rise beyond this little system to create and empire across this corner of the galaxy. You and I, my dear will be Adam and Eve to a new civilization.”
Kate couldn’t look at him. She was trapped in the horror of the chamber, and of the terrible vision Thomas’ voice evoked and predicted.
“And if I say no?” she said.
Thomas moved behind her. His cold, calloused slithering fingers held her throat. His slimy tongue circled and explored her ear. He bit down upon the lobe, enough to draw blood. His breath carried the fresh scent of decomposition. Kate felt faint, but sadly unconsciousness never rescued her.
“Dearest,” he said, lapping at the trickle of blood at her neck, “that was not a question nor a choice.”
A shiver ran through her. Thomas went to the door and ran his long spindly fingers across it in an oddly and creepily sexual way. His expression was fluid. He looked t her and seemed about to burst. The only question was, thought Kate, was what might jump out of that zombie-like body.
“So why bring me here?” she asked.
“Something you must see.”
“I can only guess,” she said.
His voice was low and seedy. “Never in a million years, my dear..”
The lock look primitive enough, but obviously there was much more to it. Thomas pressed his hand to a smooth place hidden deep in shadow beside the door. The rock lit up and scanned the full length and breadth of Thomas’ hand. It was obviously some sort of bio-metric mechanism, but of a sort and sophistication Kate had never seen before. The latch on the door opened with an audible clang and the door swung heavily back. Not much enough to see, especially for the dull yellow-green light within, but enough that she was instantly hit by the stale must of putrefied bodies.
“Dear god!” Kate raised a hand to cover her nose and mouth.
“God?” Thomas laughed mockingly. “There is no god, Kate. God resides,” he began, drawing her to the door, “in the eternal competition for each species’ survival.”
Thomas pushed open the door and shoved he into the chamber. Kate stumbled forward, skidding and slipping on the slick and slimy floor. The light was low and hazy. It took her eyes a moment to adjust. It took her brain a few seconds longer.
She swooned and felt dizzy as her mind swam and spun fighting to accept, or not to accept, what her eyes beheld. She blinked once and turned abruptly to Thomas and the door, gauging her chances of escape. The look in his deadly black eyes-an insects soulless eyes- had the futility of any attempt abundantly clear. Kate turned back to the horror before her, doing her damnedest to stifle a scream.
It wasn’t a chamber, at least not in the sense someone had carved it from the bedrock. Rather it was a natural formation, though what it had become now was anything but natural. Kate was standing between the open legs of a desiccated corpse that she could only assume was a woman. Hundreds of bodies were strewn or piled across the floor where, for the most part they had been stripped to bone and sinew. The mass of them formed a huge pile at the center of the room, where it appeared they had been tossed like old chicken bones after being devoured.
There were other, fresher corpses, all women, cocooned in grayish orange webbing to the rocky walls. Their distended bellies had been ripped open. Horrifying like hybrids, part human child and part spider were hungrily devouring their hosts. One woman, Kate noticed was still alive. She thrust her arms out from those rgged trappings and screamed as one of those disgusting spider-children ripped itself from the poor woman’s belly.
“Tell me again why I never had a kid?”
“You’ll bear my children.” Said Thomas.
Kate’s sly and ready smile, there in the worst of circumstances failed her completely now. “Interested in a loveless marriage?”
He laughed loudly. It thundered in the chamber, startling the insect-child hybrids, who squealed and scurried away into the shadows, or slithered back inside their long dead hosts. It was a belly laugh that went on a little too long. Kate choked back bile noting the darkly yellow urine stain spread across the front of Thomas’ gown.
“Now I’m turned on,” she said with ample disgust under her breath.
“Dear, this isn’t your fate,” he said. “This will form the vanguard of our army, but you and I, we will create a new royal class, a species all our own. It will be the next phase in the evolution of both our species, which will rise beyond this little system to create and empire across this corner of the galaxy. You and I, my dear will be Adam and Eve to a new civilization.”
Kate couldn’t look at him. She was trapped in the horror of the chamber, and of the terrible vision Thomas’ voice evoked and predicted.
“And if I say no?” she said.
Thomas moved behind her. His cold, calloused slithering fingers held her throat. His slimy tongue circled and explored her ear. He bit down upon the lobe, enough to draw blood. His breath carried the fresh scent of decomposition. Kate felt faint, but sadly unconsciousness never rescued her.
“Dearest,” he said, lapping at the trickle of blood at her neck, “that was not a question nor a choice.”
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Angry Jasper: Thirty-Nine
He would have been better off in that cell, Jazz thought. His arms were handcuffed around an old steel beam. Skull Boy was on the floor nearby enjoying the last few bites of a chocolate bar. Jazz eyed the bar hungrily and would have given a nut for just one bite. He had not eaten since leaving Madame ’s the day before and could feel the ache of hunger in his bones. Skull Boy gobbled down the last of the chocolate, filling his cheeks and knowing full well how much he was torturing Jasper..
Worse than hunger, Jazz needed to take a mean piss. He beat his forehead against the beam, hoping the pain would stem the pressure. Jazz sworn under his breath. Banging his head did little to alleviate his burgeoning bladder, and gave him one hell of a headache to boot!
“Had enough to eat?” jazz asked, loathsome.
“Couldn’t eat another bite!” the boy rubbed his full belly, that gruesomely deformed face smeared with chocolate.
They were alone. The others had gone off, leaving them in some kind of storage chamber. By the looks of the boxes and crates this is where the conspirators stockpiled weapons for the coming coup. The rebel conspirators had hidden jazz and the boy just as Thomas’ freaks arrived. They wound up here, which Jazz still wondered if it was preferable to having his throat cut or submitting to whatever cruel fate Thomas’ men had in store for him. He sighed and pressed his cheek against the beam.
“This worked out pretty good for you, kid.”
Skull Boy didn’t answer. Jazz still couldn’t get use to looking for too long at the kid. Hell, he could even find a sort of odd beauty in the simpleness and efficiency of a cockroach, even some odd attraction to a fat horny old toad. But the kid…a lion would need a blindfold to keep from gagging on this one.
“Thought you could see the future?” he asked. “How come you didn’t see this?”
The kid looked off across the chamber, his eyes wide, as though transfixed on something. “I can see it. Don’t mean I have to talk about it.”
“News flash, kid,” Jazz snapped. “I’m the one who’s supposed to save you.”
“So?”
“Maybe you could help me little!”
“Why? I don’t like you.”
“How am I supposed to get us out of here shackled to this post, huh?”
“Relax,” said the boy. “Everything is going as it should.”
“Maybe you could clue me in a little?”
“Better this way,” he said.
“How do you figure?”
“Well for one, you can’t screw anything up this way.”
“That don’t make no dam sense!”
The kid turned. Those creepy dark eyes blinked once and then twice as they fixed upon Jazz. “Gets boring seeing the future all the time. So what? I see stuff happen and then it happens. Where’s the fun in that? Like watching a movie and every couple of minutes someone comes in and says, okay this is what will happen now. More fun to play with the future a little bit. Maybe I screw up and it goes another way. Now that’s fun!”
“You’re an odd critter.”
The door opened and Jazz looked up. A stepped inside and tossed an old tin plate at his feet. A fair amount of the gray-green slop at the bottom splashed onto the floor. It stunk to high heaven. Jazz wasn’t at all certain someone hadn’t already barfed his meal back up.
“What the hell is that?” he grumbled as the guard led Skull boy from the cell.
“Lunch,” replied the guard with a detestable grin.
“Flush the toilet for seconds?” Jazz words were lost as the door slammed shut. he looked at the plate and thought he saw something moved there. Just the thought of eating it made his stomach squirm, but beggars can’t be choosers, he thought. Besides, if he was going to get out of there and off the planet he would need every once of strength he could muster.
He studied the top of the beam where it met the stony ceiling. There was a little gap around beam, enough that he could wiggle it back and forth a bit. Not a lot, but enough that Jazz figured with a couple good tugs it might come loose enough for him to get his arms over the top. Looking back at the door once more, Jazz pushed away the plate with his left foot and got into a good strong stance. Holding tight to the shackles he rocked up and back several times for a little momentum. Jazz could hear the ancient concrete cracking and crumbling above him. He counted to three, checked one last time to be sure no one was near the door and yanked as hard as he could.
“Holy crap!” he groaned in pain, and falling back against the pole. Damn right something would give with a few more tugs. If Jazz didn’t bring the whole damn ceiling down on his head he was bound to dislocate both shoulders!
That was a waste, he told himself. Jazz slid to the floor onto his butt and eyed the gruel on the plate. This time he was sure something moved in the slop. He shook his head, and with a frown kind of tipped sideways. Jazz strained and stretched to get closer. The stink rose up to meet him fully, assailing his nostrils, bringing tears to his eyes and choking him.
It smelled like something a dead body would crap out. The stuff was vile, and worse the closer he came. Jazz fought the urge to gag and pushed his face into the lumpy lukewarm liquid. Something slithered into his nose, then retreated just as uickly. It helped to groan for some reason, as if that made the substance slithering down his throat easier to bear. He had eaten some nasty things over the years, but this just beat all.
A few good swallows was about all he could handle. Jazz sat up trying to spit the worst tasting chunks from his mouth. The stuff covered his face, dripped in to his eyes and leaked from his hair down the inside of his shirt. It felt alive there, slithering like creepy-crawlies down his body. Something caught in the back of his throat. Jazz hacked it up and spit it across the room, where it recovered and scurried away into the darkness.
Worse than hunger, Jazz needed to take a mean piss. He beat his forehead against the beam, hoping the pain would stem the pressure. Jazz sworn under his breath. Banging his head did little to alleviate his burgeoning bladder, and gave him one hell of a headache to boot!
“Had enough to eat?” jazz asked, loathsome.
“Couldn’t eat another bite!” the boy rubbed his full belly, that gruesomely deformed face smeared with chocolate.
They were alone. The others had gone off, leaving them in some kind of storage chamber. By the looks of the boxes and crates this is where the conspirators stockpiled weapons for the coming coup. The rebel conspirators had hidden jazz and the boy just as Thomas’ freaks arrived. They wound up here, which Jazz still wondered if it was preferable to having his throat cut or submitting to whatever cruel fate Thomas’ men had in store for him. He sighed and pressed his cheek against the beam.
“This worked out pretty good for you, kid.”
Skull Boy didn’t answer. Jazz still couldn’t get use to looking for too long at the kid. Hell, he could even find a sort of odd beauty in the simpleness and efficiency of a cockroach, even some odd attraction to a fat horny old toad. But the kid…a lion would need a blindfold to keep from gagging on this one.
“Thought you could see the future?” he asked. “How come you didn’t see this?”
The kid looked off across the chamber, his eyes wide, as though transfixed on something. “I can see it. Don’t mean I have to talk about it.”
“News flash, kid,” Jazz snapped. “I’m the one who’s supposed to save you.”
“So?”
“Maybe you could help me little!”
“Why? I don’t like you.”
“How am I supposed to get us out of here shackled to this post, huh?”
“Relax,” said the boy. “Everything is going as it should.”
“Maybe you could clue me in a little?”
“Better this way,” he said.
“How do you figure?”
“Well for one, you can’t screw anything up this way.”
“That don’t make no dam sense!”
The kid turned. Those creepy dark eyes blinked once and then twice as they fixed upon Jazz. “Gets boring seeing the future all the time. So what? I see stuff happen and then it happens. Where’s the fun in that? Like watching a movie and every couple of minutes someone comes in and says, okay this is what will happen now. More fun to play with the future a little bit. Maybe I screw up and it goes another way. Now that’s fun!”
“You’re an odd critter.”
The door opened and Jazz looked up. A stepped inside and tossed an old tin plate at his feet. A fair amount of the gray-green slop at the bottom splashed onto the floor. It stunk to high heaven. Jazz wasn’t at all certain someone hadn’t already barfed his meal back up.
“What the hell is that?” he grumbled as the guard led Skull boy from the cell.
“Lunch,” replied the guard with a detestable grin.
“Flush the toilet for seconds?” Jazz words were lost as the door slammed shut. he looked at the plate and thought he saw something moved there. Just the thought of eating it made his stomach squirm, but beggars can’t be choosers, he thought. Besides, if he was going to get out of there and off the planet he would need every once of strength he could muster.
He studied the top of the beam where it met the stony ceiling. There was a little gap around beam, enough that he could wiggle it back and forth a bit. Not a lot, but enough that Jazz figured with a couple good tugs it might come loose enough for him to get his arms over the top. Looking back at the door once more, Jazz pushed away the plate with his left foot and got into a good strong stance. Holding tight to the shackles he rocked up and back several times for a little momentum. Jazz could hear the ancient concrete cracking and crumbling above him. He counted to three, checked one last time to be sure no one was near the door and yanked as hard as he could.
“Holy crap!” he groaned in pain, and falling back against the pole. Damn right something would give with a few more tugs. If Jazz didn’t bring the whole damn ceiling down on his head he was bound to dislocate both shoulders!
That was a waste, he told himself. Jazz slid to the floor onto his butt and eyed the gruel on the plate. This time he was sure something moved in the slop. He shook his head, and with a frown kind of tipped sideways. Jazz strained and stretched to get closer. The stink rose up to meet him fully, assailing his nostrils, bringing tears to his eyes and choking him.
It smelled like something a dead body would crap out. The stuff was vile, and worse the closer he came. Jazz fought the urge to gag and pushed his face into the lumpy lukewarm liquid. Something slithered into his nose, then retreated just as uickly. It helped to groan for some reason, as if that made the substance slithering down his throat easier to bear. He had eaten some nasty things over the years, but this just beat all.
A few good swallows was about all he could handle. Jazz sat up trying to spit the worst tasting chunks from his mouth. The stuff covered his face, dripped in to his eyes and leaked from his hair down the inside of his shirt. It felt alive there, slithering like creepy-crawlies down his body. Something caught in the back of his throat. Jazz hacked it up and spit it across the room, where it recovered and scurried away into the darkness.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Angry Jasper: Thirty-four
Maury’s sleek and polished weapon moved slowly into position high above the planet. The sun, just rising above the long curbed limb of the planet shimmered across the weapon's long cylindrical form. Reports from the weapon were that they were well ahead of schedule. It would be a matter of hours not days as had originally been planned. Even now technicians were running the final series of tests. Maury was pleased with himself. His thoughts ran through all sorts of scenarios, all of which would secure for him a position of supreme power within the Corporation.
“Thing of beauty,” Maury beamed.
Two finely dressed men stood behind Maury. They were pencil thin engineering clones, known as Identicals, because they were absolutely indistinguishable from one another. Their mahogany features were chiseled, their jet black hair combed away from those oversized foreheads in harsh straight lines. The two men shared an odd look. Maury caught it instantly.
“Let me guess, this is where you tell me there’s a problem right?” he grumbled
“There is a problem.”
“I can’t wait,” said Maury. “Okay. Out with it.”
“Well, we sort of…about the weapon, it hasn’t been tested yet.”
“I am to bore a hole right through the crust of that ashtray of a planet and roast all those little rats alive.”
“Well, therein lies the issue,” said one of the Identicals.
“So we went through all of this and the damn think might not…”
“No, it will work.”
“What he’s saying is, it might work too good.”
“The two of you are seriously pissing me off. What do you mean too good?”
“There’s a chance it could, well, blow the planet apart.”
Maury turned back towards the gold and blue ball of Planet Earth drifting in space. At this distance the planet was a magnificent sight. He imagined the earth dissolving into a million pieces. Maury snickered. It turned into a chuckle and then an uproarious laugh. He laughed so damn hard that tears were quickly tumbling down his engorged cheeks, and a little bit of pee stained his trousers. He nodded and wiped the tears from his eyes.
“Well, shit, I thought it was going to be something bad!” he turned, squinting at the Identicals. “I want the rebels eradicated. I could care less about the damned planet. Besides, it will be easier to mine in pieces.” He turned back to the planet. His expression was stark and resolute. “Proceed with the operation.”
“Governor,” said the short man, “it would be advisable to move the wheel to a safer distance should the unthinkable…”
Maury swiveled sharply, staring accusingly at the two men. “And how long would that take?”
“We could be at a respectably safe distance in a week to ten days.”
“Ha!” Maury scoffed. “Ten days? The longer that thing sits about the planet the greater chance the rebellion will discover and neutralize it. Out of the question!”
“But Governor…” one of them protested.
“Is this a mutiny, gentlemen?” asked Maury, quite indignant.
“No, no, your honor,” they stammered nervously.
“In that case you have your orders.”
The men started to leave. They paused. “Governor, one more small detail. Our spy on the planet...”
Maury could have cared less about the fellow. This was a war, after all, and war meant casualties. At long last he was close to annihilating the rebellion, and the payoff on that was far greater than the loss of one man.
“His sacrifice will be long remembered,” said Maury, with not the slightest remorse.
When the Identicals had gone Maury fondled himself while pondering the fate of the planet. He almost lamented his lack of sympathy that the Earth might soon be reduced to dust, erasing for all time humanity's first assertions towards the endless universe. Then again, why should he care? He hadn’t been born there. His parents, nor even his grandparents had been born there. He was a child of the stars. So what did he care if the Earth was gone. Would men in the Twenty-first century have lamented if the Olduvai Gorge was bulldozed, strip-mined or covered over simply because some fossil had crawled from that sun-baked ditch? Mankind had always been progressing, pulling away from a planet that was of little consequence any longer, but for its mineral wealth and a throw-back rebellion whose time was at hand. Good riddance, he thought and didn’t give it another thought.
“Thing of beauty,” Maury beamed.
Two finely dressed men stood behind Maury. They were pencil thin engineering clones, known as Identicals, because they were absolutely indistinguishable from one another. Their mahogany features were chiseled, their jet black hair combed away from those oversized foreheads in harsh straight lines. The two men shared an odd look. Maury caught it instantly.
“Let me guess, this is where you tell me there’s a problem right?” he grumbled
“There is a problem.”
“I can’t wait,” said Maury. “Okay. Out with it.”
“Well, we sort of…about the weapon, it hasn’t been tested yet.”
“I am to bore a hole right through the crust of that ashtray of a planet and roast all those little rats alive.”
“Well, therein lies the issue,” said one of the Identicals.
“So we went through all of this and the damn think might not…”
“No, it will work.”
“What he’s saying is, it might work too good.”
“The two of you are seriously pissing me off. What do you mean too good?”
“There’s a chance it could, well, blow the planet apart.”
Maury turned back towards the gold and blue ball of Planet Earth drifting in space. At this distance the planet was a magnificent sight. He imagined the earth dissolving into a million pieces. Maury snickered. It turned into a chuckle and then an uproarious laugh. He laughed so damn hard that tears were quickly tumbling down his engorged cheeks, and a little bit of pee stained his trousers. He nodded and wiped the tears from his eyes.
“Well, shit, I thought it was going to be something bad!” he turned, squinting at the Identicals. “I want the rebels eradicated. I could care less about the damned planet. Besides, it will be easier to mine in pieces.” He turned back to the planet. His expression was stark and resolute. “Proceed with the operation.”
“Governor,” said the short man, “it would be advisable to move the wheel to a safer distance should the unthinkable…”
Maury swiveled sharply, staring accusingly at the two men. “And how long would that take?”
“We could be at a respectably safe distance in a week to ten days.”
“Ha!” Maury scoffed. “Ten days? The longer that thing sits about the planet the greater chance the rebellion will discover and neutralize it. Out of the question!”
“But Governor…” one of them protested.
“Is this a mutiny, gentlemen?” asked Maury, quite indignant.
“No, no, your honor,” they stammered nervously.
“In that case you have your orders.”
The men started to leave. They paused. “Governor, one more small detail. Our spy on the planet...”
Maury could have cared less about the fellow. This was a war, after all, and war meant casualties. At long last he was close to annihilating the rebellion, and the payoff on that was far greater than the loss of one man.
“His sacrifice will be long remembered,” said Maury, with not the slightest remorse.
When the Identicals had gone Maury fondled himself while pondering the fate of the planet. He almost lamented his lack of sympathy that the Earth might soon be reduced to dust, erasing for all time humanity's first assertions towards the endless universe. Then again, why should he care? He hadn’t been born there. His parents, nor even his grandparents had been born there. He was a child of the stars. So what did he care if the Earth was gone. Would men in the Twenty-first century have lamented if the Olduvai Gorge was bulldozed, strip-mined or covered over simply because some fossil had crawled from that sun-baked ditch? Mankind had always been progressing, pulling away from a planet that was of little consequence any longer, but for its mineral wealth and a throw-back rebellion whose time was at hand. Good riddance, he thought and didn’t give it another thought.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Emmetsburg: Eighty
They were gathered tightly above him. Some of the faces were familiar. Others were strangers to him. One of the soldiers was waving people back, urging the others to give John some air, as if air could undo the mortal damage done to his body, as if air could stop the crimson blood flowing freely from John’s body into the warm Iowa soil.
The rain had moved off. A thunderhead grew in the distance. John watched it grow along an axis, spreading across the eastern sky, Like floating white-capped mountains. It was like another world that he could well imagine among the folds, the contours and plunging canyons. He imagined towns and roads and farms where love and life were idyllic. Not like this one, burdened with sin and guilt and pain.
Someone wiped sweat and dirt from his face. He could no longer feel it, much as he could no longer hear the voices, the birds fluttering in the yard or the Myron Himmel weeping nearby. Life was falling away, darkening at the edges. It was losing focus, everything but that distant thunderhead, which felt like a destination. It felt like home, and like home broke his heart and gave him hope just the same.
Anna pushed through the circle of faces around him. Kneeling cradled his head, her expression somewhere between a forgiving smile and unfathomable grief. For John seeing her was the ultimate destination. Whatever awaited him beyond the threshold of this life, it was her face that would see him through. There was nothing more. There was no sadness, no guilt, no sense that he was leaving the world too early. Worries and recriminations are the fantasies of romantics and novelists. In the end it all comes to nothing, sweet beautiful nothing. Death comes. Death comes.
The rain had moved off. A thunderhead grew in the distance. John watched it grow along an axis, spreading across the eastern sky, Like floating white-capped mountains. It was like another world that he could well imagine among the folds, the contours and plunging canyons. He imagined towns and roads and farms where love and life were idyllic. Not like this one, burdened with sin and guilt and pain.
Someone wiped sweat and dirt from his face. He could no longer feel it, much as he could no longer hear the voices, the birds fluttering in the yard or the Myron Himmel weeping nearby. Life was falling away, darkening at the edges. It was losing focus, everything but that distant thunderhead, which felt like a destination. It felt like home, and like home broke his heart and gave him hope just the same.
Anna pushed through the circle of faces around him. Kneeling cradled his head, her expression somewhere between a forgiving smile and unfathomable grief. For John seeing her was the ultimate destination. Whatever awaited him beyond the threshold of this life, it was her face that would see him through. There was nothing more. There was no sadness, no guilt, no sense that he was leaving the world too early. Worries and recriminations are the fantasies of romantics and novelists. In the end it all comes to nothing, sweet beautiful nothing. Death comes. Death comes.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Emmetsburg: Fifty
George Bremer's office was just up the stairs. With each step John was tearing this moment apart. He wondered what George would say, or if he would think John a fool. By the time he reached the top of the stairs John wasn't certain himself. When he reached the Sheriff's door John was convinced that he was indeed. Despite himself John's hand went out and knocked without confidence on the door. Without awaiting a reply John turned the brass knob and pushed his head through the gap.
The room was a fog of bitter cream-white cigar smoke, carrying herbal chill. It hung as strands and nebulous banks, scattering sunlight [pouring through half open blinds in a rhythm of shadow and light. George sat in the far corner of the room upon a small wooden chair, away from his desk and almost lost to dingy shadow.
The cigar was a mere stub between George's teeth, where it was more chewed than smoked any longer. With the thumb and forefinger George pulled the stub from his teeth. He gave a casual nod and gestured John into the room. John obliged, sweeping a hand before his face and disturbing filaments of smoke there.
“Best close the door, John.” he said with a whimsical quality. “Mildred hates the smell. Like having two wives. Don't imagine how them Arab fellas do it. Got enough on my plate with just one, and Mildred.”
John managed a smile. “Something again air, George?”
“Not as long as I can see it!”
“Don't know, George,” said John, waving at the smoke again. Not that it really bothered him all that much.
George leaned forward in the chair and stretched to tap a butt from the open window. “Wife won't let me smoke at home.”
“Can't imagine why.”
“Never had a taste for the smoke, eh?”
“Never cared for it personally.”
“Cigarettes,” George began, thoughtfully, “are for young boys, the nervous and the condemned, but a cigar, John, a cigar is for the thinking man.”
“That so,” said John.
George popped the cigar back into his mouth, moving it from one side to the other between his teeth. “But you didn't come here to talk about cigars, now did you. What can I do ya for?”
“Need to see Stanton.” John felt as if he had forced the words out, like spitting out something vile and distasteful.
George was immediately against the idea, shaking his head strongly from side to side. “John, I'm...”
“I'm asking this one favor,” John said quickly, almost pleading, at least as much as his ego and soul would allow.
George leaned back, tipping back in the chair and chewing the end of his cigar, as though it helped him to think.
“What's your business with this fella?”
“Can't say.”
“Something that might concern the law, John?”
“Nothing like that.” John looked him square in the eye. “Business between him and me.”
“Nothing to do with that girl?” George asked.
“Nope.”
George studied the cigar in his fingers and pursed his lips. He rubbed his bent brow roughly with a thumb and forefinger.
“Put me in an awful spot, John, anyone should hear of this.”
“Five minutes is all I'm asking.”
Man could get in a lot of trouble in five minutes.” George took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His gaze hovered near the floor a moment. Tapping out a butt, he threw the cigar back between his teeth and looked up at John. “I'll give you two.”
John nodded his appreciation. “Two'll do just fine.”
The room was a fog of bitter cream-white cigar smoke, carrying herbal chill. It hung as strands and nebulous banks, scattering sunlight [pouring through half open blinds in a rhythm of shadow and light. George sat in the far corner of the room upon a small wooden chair, away from his desk and almost lost to dingy shadow.
The cigar was a mere stub between George's teeth, where it was more chewed than smoked any longer. With the thumb and forefinger George pulled the stub from his teeth. He gave a casual nod and gestured John into the room. John obliged, sweeping a hand before his face and disturbing filaments of smoke there.
“Best close the door, John.” he said with a whimsical quality. “Mildred hates the smell. Like having two wives. Don't imagine how them Arab fellas do it. Got enough on my plate with just one, and Mildred.”
John managed a smile. “Something again air, George?”
“Not as long as I can see it!”
“Don't know, George,” said John, waving at the smoke again. Not that it really bothered him all that much.
George leaned forward in the chair and stretched to tap a butt from the open window. “Wife won't let me smoke at home.”
“Can't imagine why.”
“Never had a taste for the smoke, eh?”
“Never cared for it personally.”
“Cigarettes,” George began, thoughtfully, “are for young boys, the nervous and the condemned, but a cigar, John, a cigar is for the thinking man.”
“That so,” said John.
George popped the cigar back into his mouth, moving it from one side to the other between his teeth. “But you didn't come here to talk about cigars, now did you. What can I do ya for?”
“Need to see Stanton.” John felt as if he had forced the words out, like spitting out something vile and distasteful.
George was immediately against the idea, shaking his head strongly from side to side. “John, I'm...”
“I'm asking this one favor,” John said quickly, almost pleading, at least as much as his ego and soul would allow.
George leaned back, tipping back in the chair and chewing the end of his cigar, as though it helped him to think.
“What's your business with this fella?”
“Can't say.”
“Something that might concern the law, John?”
“Nothing like that.” John looked him square in the eye. “Business between him and me.”
“Nothing to do with that girl?” George asked.
“Nope.”
George studied the cigar in his fingers and pursed his lips. He rubbed his bent brow roughly with a thumb and forefinger.
“Put me in an awful spot, John, anyone should hear of this.”
“Five minutes is all I'm asking.”
Man could get in a lot of trouble in five minutes.” George took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His gaze hovered near the floor a moment. Tapping out a butt, he threw the cigar back between his teeth and looked up at John. “I'll give you two.”
John nodded his appreciation. “Two'll do just fine.”
Monday, March 1, 2010
Emmetsburg: Forty-seven
“Between a rock and a hard place, ain’t that what they call it, C.W.?” Stan Pickett stood alone in the dusty dirt road with the Sheriff near the gate to his farm. They were like two pauper chieftains negotiating terms between two opposing armies. Except these two armies could find no terms, and instead seemed poised, even eager for battle.
Just down the road a line of thirty-some State troopers in blue stood ready near where an old Maple beside Stan’s big red barn bent her shade over the road and a cluster of vehicles. They were thirty of the biggest, meanest, hardest looking men the governor knew, picking ech man personally. They faced a bigger number of farmers gathered tensely to the entrance to Stan’s farm, a small drive across a weedy drainage ditch. Behind them Stan’s wife stood on the wrap-around porch of their white-washed two story home with their three children. A number of the other wives joined her there, some eager or more eager than their husbands to join the fight.
C.W. and Stan stood at the fulcrum of this moment, hands in their pockets, talking calm and low, as if they might discuss the rising heat of the day or Wes Ferrell’s no hitter against the St. Louis browns, Chaplin’s new movie or Hoover’s ineptitude. Neither was fooled by the gravity of all this. They knew only too well that what gentlemanly agreement they might come to in the middle of that road would dissolve in the face of inevitable history and raging emotion.
Forty men stood at the entrance of Stan Pickett’s farm. They stood in the road, running in a ragged line down across the ditch and halfway across Stan’s yard. Forty men had filled their hands with clubs and shovels, some of them. Others rolled up their sleeves, and spit into their hands, prepared to send those troopers back to Des Moines and the governor as a lesson. Backed into a corner there was nothing else they could do as men but stand and fight.
“That what they call it, Stan?” C.W. rubbed the moist back of his neck. “Rock and a hard place?”
“It’s something.” Stan tugged a rag from his pocket and dabbed the sweat from his face. He looked at the men in his yard and back at C.W. Both man regarded the troopers or a long worrisome moment.
“It’s something all right.”
“Like Sittin’ Bull and Custer out here,” Stan smiled weakly.
“Both know how that turned out.”
“Question is, which of us is Custer and…” his words trailed away Stan pushed the rag back into his pocket.
“Good question.”
Stan looked C.W. squarely in the eye. His expression suddenly stark and grave. “Know I can’t let them inspector near my cattle.”
C.W. groaned. He’d played checkers with Stan Pickett and half the others a thousand times out front of Bert Himmel’s place over the years. He recalled the night his wife had complications delivering their third child, the small boy hovering t his mom’s apron on the porch. He raced Stan and his wife to Emmetsburg in the back of his truck. When the boy was born healthy later the next day he and old Stan celebrated by getting good and lit at a local watering hole.
“And you know I've got to uphold the law, Stan.”
Stan scratched the top of his head and shrugged, resigned to the events rolling across his farm like an avalanche. “Different ways of looking at the law.”
“Don't have that luxury.”
C.W. stared coldly at Stan, whose gaze was away across the fields and his herb dotting the yellow green hillside opposite. He tried to imagine himself in Stan's place, and wondered if he wouldn't react the same. The moment evaporated. Stan nodded sharply and pursed his lips.
“Expect I should be getting back.”
C.W. Nodded fatally and frowned. “God help us, Stan.”
Just down the road a line of thirty-some State troopers in blue stood ready near where an old Maple beside Stan’s big red barn bent her shade over the road and a cluster of vehicles. They were thirty of the biggest, meanest, hardest looking men the governor knew, picking ech man personally. They faced a bigger number of farmers gathered tensely to the entrance to Stan’s farm, a small drive across a weedy drainage ditch. Behind them Stan’s wife stood on the wrap-around porch of their white-washed two story home with their three children. A number of the other wives joined her there, some eager or more eager than their husbands to join the fight.
C.W. and Stan stood at the fulcrum of this moment, hands in their pockets, talking calm and low, as if they might discuss the rising heat of the day or Wes Ferrell’s no hitter against the St. Louis browns, Chaplin’s new movie or Hoover’s ineptitude. Neither was fooled by the gravity of all this. They knew only too well that what gentlemanly agreement they might come to in the middle of that road would dissolve in the face of inevitable history and raging emotion.
Forty men stood at the entrance of Stan Pickett’s farm. They stood in the road, running in a ragged line down across the ditch and halfway across Stan’s yard. Forty men had filled their hands with clubs and shovels, some of them. Others rolled up their sleeves, and spit into their hands, prepared to send those troopers back to Des Moines and the governor as a lesson. Backed into a corner there was nothing else they could do as men but stand and fight.
“That what they call it, Stan?” C.W. rubbed the moist back of his neck. “Rock and a hard place?”
“It’s something.” Stan tugged a rag from his pocket and dabbed the sweat from his face. He looked at the men in his yard and back at C.W. Both man regarded the troopers or a long worrisome moment.
“It’s something all right.”
“Like Sittin’ Bull and Custer out here,” Stan smiled weakly.
“Both know how that turned out.”
“Question is, which of us is Custer and…” his words trailed away Stan pushed the rag back into his pocket.
“Good question.”
Stan looked C.W. squarely in the eye. His expression suddenly stark and grave. “Know I can’t let them inspector near my cattle.”
C.W. groaned. He’d played checkers with Stan Pickett and half the others a thousand times out front of Bert Himmel’s place over the years. He recalled the night his wife had complications delivering their third child, the small boy hovering t his mom’s apron on the porch. He raced Stan and his wife to Emmetsburg in the back of his truck. When the boy was born healthy later the next day he and old Stan celebrated by getting good and lit at a local watering hole.
“And you know I've got to uphold the law, Stan.”
Stan scratched the top of his head and shrugged, resigned to the events rolling across his farm like an avalanche. “Different ways of looking at the law.”
“Don't have that luxury.”
C.W. stared coldly at Stan, whose gaze was away across the fields and his herb dotting the yellow green hillside opposite. He tried to imagine himself in Stan's place, and wondered if he wouldn't react the same. The moment evaporated. Stan nodded sharply and pursed his lips.
“Expect I should be getting back.”
C.W. Nodded fatally and frowned. “God help us, Stan.”
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Emmetsburg: Forty-one
John lay in bed, still clothed, staring at the ceiling. Anna was sitting beside him, her legs curled under her buttocks. The long hair fell down across one shoulder and over the breast. Leaning on one hand, she gently stroked his stomach. John frowned out of frustration of not knowing where to begin, and feeling the fool for ever considering any aspect of all this. He finally looked over, feeling even more foolish for her sympathetic smile.
“You must think I’m losing my mind,” he said.
“I think maybe we should call someone.”
“Whom?”
“Someone who can better care for Louis,” she replied. “It’s all too much for us, with your hand, and God forbid he hurts himself or someone else.”
John’s brow furled in thought. He took a deep breath and looked to the ceiling again. He was quiet, struggling with a thought, and then struggling with the words.
“If,” he paused again, “if something happened to me, what would you…”
She cut him off quickly, quite upset at even the suggestion.. “John, I won’t hear another word.”
John’s eyes moved wildly, searching the air, fighting thoughts and emotions not easily framed by mere words. He tried to think of Anna without him, and he tried not to think of such things. Both threatened to tear the heart from his chest. His mouth fell open in a silent lament. He took a deep breath and forced tears back, then looked to Anna again.
“I would want you to be happy if…”
“John, where is all this coming from?” She stroked his chest reassuringly. It tortured her to see him this way. “John, I intend to grow very old with you, whether you like it or not. We can’t predict what will happen today or tomorrow or five years from now, but I love you and while we are together on this earth that isn’t going to change.”
He nodded, though hardly satisfied with the answer. John chose not to press it any further. It only made him feel more foolish at believing any of this. As Anna laid her head upon his chest a single tear escaped. It ran from the corner of one eye, cool and slick, and into his hair. John closed his eyes tight, glad she couldn’t see any of this. He stroked her back and shoulders and gave a long deep sigh that drained away his heartache. Anna was already asleep against him. John held her close and kissed her hair, breathing her in as if his very life depended upon it.
“You must think I’m losing my mind,” he said.
“I think maybe we should call someone.”
“Whom?”
“Someone who can better care for Louis,” she replied. “It’s all too much for us, with your hand, and God forbid he hurts himself or someone else.”
John’s brow furled in thought. He took a deep breath and looked to the ceiling again. He was quiet, struggling with a thought, and then struggling with the words.
“If,” he paused again, “if something happened to me, what would you…”
She cut him off quickly, quite upset at even the suggestion.. “John, I won’t hear another word.”
John’s eyes moved wildly, searching the air, fighting thoughts and emotions not easily framed by mere words. He tried to think of Anna without him, and he tried not to think of such things. Both threatened to tear the heart from his chest. His mouth fell open in a silent lament. He took a deep breath and forced tears back, then looked to Anna again.
“I would want you to be happy if…”
“John, where is all this coming from?” She stroked his chest reassuringly. It tortured her to see him this way. “John, I intend to grow very old with you, whether you like it or not. We can’t predict what will happen today or tomorrow or five years from now, but I love you and while we are together on this earth that isn’t going to change.”
He nodded, though hardly satisfied with the answer. John chose not to press it any further. It only made him feel more foolish at believing any of this. As Anna laid her head upon his chest a single tear escaped. It ran from the corner of one eye, cool and slick, and into his hair. John closed his eyes tight, glad she couldn’t see any of this. He stroked her back and shoulders and gave a long deep sigh that drained away his heartache. Anna was already asleep against him. John held her close and kissed her hair, breathing her in as if his very life depended upon it.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Emmetsburg: Forty
“Jesus!” John exclaimed. Anna recoiled, finding, for just a moment, the strangest expression she'd ever seen in John. It was the way he looked at her, as though he hardly recognized her. Believing she had imagined the whole thing Anna reach to him again, but John threw up a hand, as if protecting himself.
“John?” she said. He seemed to snap out of the moment. Instead of coming to her he sat in the grass, washing a hand through his hair.
“I'm sorry,” she shook his head. His thoughts spun wildly. He recalled Louis' words, that Anna would get along without him, that she would find another love and marry again. John knew it was all foolish, but couldn't help himself.
“John, are you...?”
“I'm...its just...” he looked up at her, almost in judgment. Suddenly he felt so foolish and ashamed for it. “You'll help me get Louis back to bed?”
“John, what's going on. I'm getting scared?” she fell to his side, stroking his hair.
He searched her eyes, finding the world and eternity in them. More than that he found truth and love. He reached for her cheek feeling like a child before her decency and beauty. He supreme commodity of that moment, that simple touch rushed through him like warm electricity. The precious nature of that moment, one that would not again be repeated in all eternity filled him with a sudden sense of light and loss all at once.
“I'll explain everything inside,” he said. He could not keep any of this to himself any longer, yet he had no clue to what he might say to Anna.
Anna lifted Louis to a sitting position. He was limp and peaceful, as though he was in a very deep sleep. John knelt beside him and stretched one of Louis’ arms across his shoulders. With a slight groan John hauled the man across his back and stood. They went into the house and up the stairs. The crickets returned in their wake, filling the noght with their eternal song of summer.
“John?” she said. He seemed to snap out of the moment. Instead of coming to her he sat in the grass, washing a hand through his hair.
“I'm sorry,” she shook his head. His thoughts spun wildly. He recalled Louis' words, that Anna would get along without him, that she would find another love and marry again. John knew it was all foolish, but couldn't help himself.
“John, are you...?”
“I'm...its just...” he looked up at her, almost in judgment. Suddenly he felt so foolish and ashamed for it. “You'll help me get Louis back to bed?”
“John, what's going on. I'm getting scared?” she fell to his side, stroking his hair.
He searched her eyes, finding the world and eternity in them. More than that he found truth and love. He reached for her cheek feeling like a child before her decency and beauty. He supreme commodity of that moment, that simple touch rushed through him like warm electricity. The precious nature of that moment, one that would not again be repeated in all eternity filled him with a sudden sense of light and loss all at once.
“I'll explain everything inside,” he said. He could not keep any of this to himself any longer, yet he had no clue to what he might say to Anna.
Anna lifted Louis to a sitting position. He was limp and peaceful, as though he was in a very deep sleep. John knelt beside him and stretched one of Louis’ arms across his shoulders. With a slight groan John hauled the man across his back and stood. They went into the house and up the stairs. The crickets returned in their wake, filling the noght with their eternal song of summer.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Emmetsburg: Thirty-eight
Green. Sins. These sins that echo constantly in the soul, like a whisper in the night. How many lifetimes would it take to outlast those echoes? Are they a fair burden, the price exacted for pain and treachery inflicted upon others? They accumulate like locusts on the wind, eventually devouring everything good and redeemable. These sins, small and large, the negotiations with ravenous egos piloting the soul to ruin.
And is religion and the permutations of fleeting morality, bled through the prism of ramshackle ethics, the means of escaping these sins? Not as an absolution by God, but as merely a cloak spread upon that blighted ground. The ground beneath remains ravaged and blighted, but must it remain that way forever? Is there any redemption, any return to the beauty and purity (if it was ever pure) of that original heart? Was God the redeemer, was choice, or is it death(or insanity)?
John weighed that question as he stood at the top of the trench, hidden from snipers by the glare of the setting sun. He looked back across the no man's land. He wasn't sick or exhausted or in pain any more. He was numb and empty. His brow was a ragged line, his eyes fixed upon movement in the distance, a figure moving near the German lines. The German stumbled towards his trench cradling that injured arm. At the edge he turned and looked back for John before disappeared forever.
Were sins something that could be weighed in the balance? For instance, what was a life worth? He hadn't killed the German, though it would have been an easy thing to do. No man would have judged him. War erases all pretentions of humanity and crumbles any construction of civilization. But a man's life was not his to take. It wasn't anyone's to take, which perhaps defined murder as a sin. In that regard, no sin could be undone. The only thing remaining was atonement. As John climbed back into the trench there was much he needed to atone for.
And is religion and the permutations of fleeting morality, bled through the prism of ramshackle ethics, the means of escaping these sins? Not as an absolution by God, but as merely a cloak spread upon that blighted ground. The ground beneath remains ravaged and blighted, but must it remain that way forever? Is there any redemption, any return to the beauty and purity (if it was ever pure) of that original heart? Was God the redeemer, was choice, or is it death(or insanity)?
John weighed that question as he stood at the top of the trench, hidden from snipers by the glare of the setting sun. He looked back across the no man's land. He wasn't sick or exhausted or in pain any more. He was numb and empty. His brow was a ragged line, his eyes fixed upon movement in the distance, a figure moving near the German lines. The German stumbled towards his trench cradling that injured arm. At the edge he turned and looked back for John before disappeared forever.
Were sins something that could be weighed in the balance? For instance, what was a life worth? He hadn't killed the German, though it would have been an easy thing to do. No man would have judged him. War erases all pretentions of humanity and crumbles any construction of civilization. But a man's life was not his to take. It wasn't anyone's to take, which perhaps defined murder as a sin. In that regard, no sin could be undone. The only thing remaining was atonement. As John climbed back into the trench there was much he needed to atone for.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Emmetsburg: Thirty-six
Pearl-white. The fog fled the no man’s land quickly now. With the lifting fog came the obsessive German guns, chasing the rest of the squad back across the no man's land. Bullets chopped at the rim of the crater and at the body of the German boy. They tumbled the body backwards, where it slid limp and lifeless and shattered. The bullets were like stones into a murky puddle. John laid across Roddy and contented himself that the shooting wouldn't last forever. He knew, though, that what would come would be far worse.
It was unlikely the Germans knew he and Roddy were there. The fire swept a broad stretch of ground. Even as it chopped the air overhead John wasted little time. He set to work, covering Roddy and them himself with dark French mud from head to toe. That done he quickly piled and packed mud into a small barrier to one side of the crater should a German grenade come flying. It wasn't much, hardly more than a yard long and a foot or so high. John hoped that it would offer a modest bit of protection, which was about as much as he could hope for.
When the barrier was done John hauled Roddy behind it, careful not to poke his head above the edge of the crater. From a laying position John turned the man on his stomach. So that he might appear dead John moved Roddy’s arm and leg away from the body. The effort, from this position and in his weakened state left John utterly and almost catastrophically exhausted.
He paused a moment and looked to heaven, each breath burning in his chest. Black smoke drifted lazily overhead. The German fire had all but ended now. John said a small prayer and began to cross himself, pausing when he noticed a small silver crucifix around the dead German boy's neck.
John crawled a few feet away and lay on one side, facing the German lines. The Enfield lay nearby, with the long bayonet attached and ready. Under his body John clutched a revolver and trench knife. There was nothing more to do now but feign death(which was more than death itself) and wait. With luck they would survive till dark, when John would have a better chance to get them back to friendly lines.
The heat of the day rose quickly. It was a steaming, stifling heat that choked the sweat and life from John. With it rose the stagnate rot of the crater, like a sewer or morgue. John's throat burned with thirst, the sun baking him beneath the heavy steel helmet. Flies buzzed and swarmed, over the German boy and flitted upon the pool of water reflecting the clear blue sky.
John stared into the pool trying in vain to see Anna's face. What else was there to do but go mad? It was as if she had never been real and his whole life had been a mirage. That he could not see her, or adequately recall anything of his life beyond that corrupted crater seemed to betray that it had all been an illusion.
How he longed to run his fingers through Anna's buttery-soft sunset-red hair. He would have given all eternity just to hear her peacefully warm voice once more. He prayed to god for nothing more than to see her once more, even if it was a fleeting glimpse as his soul fled this world. And if he should survive? John resolved that each day beside her would be a blessing, and he would give thanks for as long as breath filled his lungs.
Another voice contradicted that hopeful and contrite voice. It told John he would not survive, and that he would die in that ignominious hole. It only served to remind him that predicting tomorrow was a fool's exercise. It was arrogant to expect anything of tomorrow. He squeezed back tears threatening his eyes. John's heart was so heavy that it almost compelled him to cry out.
It was unlikely the Germans knew he and Roddy were there. The fire swept a broad stretch of ground. Even as it chopped the air overhead John wasted little time. He set to work, covering Roddy and them himself with dark French mud from head to toe. That done he quickly piled and packed mud into a small barrier to one side of the crater should a German grenade come flying. It wasn't much, hardly more than a yard long and a foot or so high. John hoped that it would offer a modest bit of protection, which was about as much as he could hope for.
When the barrier was done John hauled Roddy behind it, careful not to poke his head above the edge of the crater. From a laying position John turned the man on his stomach. So that he might appear dead John moved Roddy’s arm and leg away from the body. The effort, from this position and in his weakened state left John utterly and almost catastrophically exhausted.
He paused a moment and looked to heaven, each breath burning in his chest. Black smoke drifted lazily overhead. The German fire had all but ended now. John said a small prayer and began to cross himself, pausing when he noticed a small silver crucifix around the dead German boy's neck.
John crawled a few feet away and lay on one side, facing the German lines. The Enfield lay nearby, with the long bayonet attached and ready. Under his body John clutched a revolver and trench knife. There was nothing more to do now but feign death(which was more than death itself) and wait. With luck they would survive till dark, when John would have a better chance to get them back to friendly lines.
The heat of the day rose quickly. It was a steaming, stifling heat that choked the sweat and life from John. With it rose the stagnate rot of the crater, like a sewer or morgue. John's throat burned with thirst, the sun baking him beneath the heavy steel helmet. Flies buzzed and swarmed, over the German boy and flitted upon the pool of water reflecting the clear blue sky.
John stared into the pool trying in vain to see Anna's face. What else was there to do but go mad? It was as if she had never been real and his whole life had been a mirage. That he could not see her, or adequately recall anything of his life beyond that corrupted crater seemed to betray that it had all been an illusion.
How he longed to run his fingers through Anna's buttery-soft sunset-red hair. He would have given all eternity just to hear her peacefully warm voice once more. He prayed to god for nothing more than to see her once more, even if it was a fleeting glimpse as his soul fled this world. And if he should survive? John resolved that each day beside her would be a blessing, and he would give thanks for as long as breath filled his lungs.
Another voice contradicted that hopeful and contrite voice. It told John he would not survive, and that he would die in that ignominious hole. It only served to remind him that predicting tomorrow was a fool's exercise. It was arrogant to expect anything of tomorrow. He squeezed back tears threatening his eyes. John's heart was so heavy that it almost compelled him to cry out.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Emmetsburg:Thirty-three
Louis was well enough to sit up. Not great, but better. He rose to meet John just crossing from the stairs with a glass of milk and some bread with sweet ruby-red rhubarb jam. The bread was still warm from the oven. Louis' eyes widened a bit at the thick pieces stacked upon the small flowered china plate. John set the plate and milk on a bookshelf and hurried over to help him sit. He held the milk in his good hand, with the plate balanced on the forearm. With the darkly bruised and swollen fingers of his injured hand John steadied the plate.
“Go slow,” said John. John set the plate and milk on a bookshelf and hurried over to help him sit.
Louis waved a hand in the air. He felt dizzy and weak, but when his feet touched the hard wood floor for the first time Louis felt alive again. Not a lot alive. The pulsing thunder behind his eyes made life and consciousness and balance all negotiable points. He looked up into John's rescuing eyes.
“Maybe I ain't quite ready yet,” he managed a weary smile. “Gravity seems a little trickier than I remembered.”
“You really took a shot,” said John. “Gonna take a little while before you're back among the living.” John knelt and studied Louis' dark brown eyes, and saw his own face reflected there. “Stand to eat something?”
John stood and took the bread and milk from the shelf. He paused a moment, his gaze moving over some old dusty volumes; GOODRICH'S PICTORAL HISTORIES OF THE UNITED STATES, Mary Macgregor's THE STORY OF ROME, BESIDE THE BONNIE BRIER BUSH by Ian Maclaren, and THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. He saw them, but his thoughts were at war whether or not to ask Louis about Bert Himmel.
“Bert Himmel passed away,” he finally said. John turned slowly and scooted the stool beside the bed watching Louis for the smallest clue to something hidden. John sat looking scant-ways at Louis.
“He a friend of yours?” Louis asked, gobbling down a bit of bread and jam madly.
“Was,” his tone was leading. John placed the glass of milk in Louis' hands.
Louis' silence was potent, as he stared into the white liquid. When he spoke it was quiet and low, leaving John with far more questions than he might have wished.
“Sorry for your loss.”
“Lived up there in Mallard,” said John, leaning a bit in hopes of gauging Louis' expression. “Ever been up there?”
“Can’t say I have?” He hesitated, still refusing to look directly at John. Louis lifted the glass and emptied it in just a few gulps.
“Pulled you out of that creek just this side of Mallard,” said John, with deepening suspicion. “Seems that was the direction you were coming from.”
Louis pursed his lips, turning the empty glass in his hands. He held it out abruptly and John took it, holding the glass and Louis’ hand fast for a moment. Alarmed, Louis lifted his eyes to John.
“Told you,” he said quietly, “don’t recall nothing before the accident.”
John sighed and stood, as Louis lay back and turned towards the window. He was asleep almost instantly. John shook his head and thought this all very odd, and wondered if he wasn’t losing his mind.
Anna was waiting for him already in bed. He undressed quickly and slipped beneath the sheets beside her. She was up, straddling him in an instant, her long full red hair tumbling over his face and shoulders as she kissed him deeply, catching him fully by surprise. It all took him aback for a moment, before his body responded to hers. Anna rose and lifted away her gown, letting it fall to the floor. She helped him from his shorts and guided him to her. Anna sighed deeply and threw her head back, their bodies now a rhythm joined and rushing headlong to climax. Outside the crickets and night seemed to fall away, as if nothing beyond that lover’s bed existed
John quickly felt himself at the edge, straining to meet her as Anna focused on her own pleasure. Nearly there, John strained, moving a hand across her soft full breasts. Suddenly there was a sound from the kitchen. It was the sound of the back screen creaking open on its ancient hinges before banging closed again. Anna froze, her eyes wide with sudden alarm. John pushed her off and went for the pistol, fumbling in the dark and interrupted sex for the bullets in the bottom of the box. He managed barely one round in the cylinder, the rest falling and clanging upon the floor at his bare feet.
“John,” she gasped, covering herself with the quilt at the end of the bed. “Someone is in the house!”
“Be still.” He snapped the cylinder in place and pulled the hammer back. Naked, John lifted the weapon before him and went to the door. It was then he spotted Louis out back, staggering through the night towards the line of trees at the back of the property.
“It’s Louis,” said John, laying the Pistol on the bed and pulling on his trousers.
“What’s he doing?”
“Damned if I know,” he said, lifting the revolver again, “but I’m bound to find out.”
“Go slow,” said John. John set the plate and milk on a bookshelf and hurried over to help him sit.
Louis waved a hand in the air. He felt dizzy and weak, but when his feet touched the hard wood floor for the first time Louis felt alive again. Not a lot alive. The pulsing thunder behind his eyes made life and consciousness and balance all negotiable points. He looked up into John's rescuing eyes.
“Maybe I ain't quite ready yet,” he managed a weary smile. “Gravity seems a little trickier than I remembered.”
“You really took a shot,” said John. “Gonna take a little while before you're back among the living.” John knelt and studied Louis' dark brown eyes, and saw his own face reflected there. “Stand to eat something?”
John stood and took the bread and milk from the shelf. He paused a moment, his gaze moving over some old dusty volumes; GOODRICH'S PICTORAL HISTORIES OF THE UNITED STATES, Mary Macgregor's THE STORY OF ROME, BESIDE THE BONNIE BRIER BUSH by Ian Maclaren, and THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. He saw them, but his thoughts were at war whether or not to ask Louis about Bert Himmel.
“Bert Himmel passed away,” he finally said. John turned slowly and scooted the stool beside the bed watching Louis for the smallest clue to something hidden. John sat looking scant-ways at Louis.
“He a friend of yours?” Louis asked, gobbling down a bit of bread and jam madly.
“Was,” his tone was leading. John placed the glass of milk in Louis' hands.
Louis' silence was potent, as he stared into the white liquid. When he spoke it was quiet and low, leaving John with far more questions than he might have wished.
“Sorry for your loss.”
“Lived up there in Mallard,” said John, leaning a bit in hopes of gauging Louis' expression. “Ever been up there?”
“Can’t say I have?” He hesitated, still refusing to look directly at John. Louis lifted the glass and emptied it in just a few gulps.
“Pulled you out of that creek just this side of Mallard,” said John, with deepening suspicion. “Seems that was the direction you were coming from.”
Louis pursed his lips, turning the empty glass in his hands. He held it out abruptly and John took it, holding the glass and Louis’ hand fast for a moment. Alarmed, Louis lifted his eyes to John.
“Told you,” he said quietly, “don’t recall nothing before the accident.”
John sighed and stood, as Louis lay back and turned towards the window. He was asleep almost instantly. John shook his head and thought this all very odd, and wondered if he wasn’t losing his mind.
Anna was waiting for him already in bed. He undressed quickly and slipped beneath the sheets beside her. She was up, straddling him in an instant, her long full red hair tumbling over his face and shoulders as she kissed him deeply, catching him fully by surprise. It all took him aback for a moment, before his body responded to hers. Anna rose and lifted away her gown, letting it fall to the floor. She helped him from his shorts and guided him to her. Anna sighed deeply and threw her head back, their bodies now a rhythm joined and rushing headlong to climax. Outside the crickets and night seemed to fall away, as if nothing beyond that lover’s bed existed
John quickly felt himself at the edge, straining to meet her as Anna focused on her own pleasure. Nearly there, John strained, moving a hand across her soft full breasts. Suddenly there was a sound from the kitchen. It was the sound of the back screen creaking open on its ancient hinges before banging closed again. Anna froze, her eyes wide with sudden alarm. John pushed her off and went for the pistol, fumbling in the dark and interrupted sex for the bullets in the bottom of the box. He managed barely one round in the cylinder, the rest falling and clanging upon the floor at his bare feet.
“John,” she gasped, covering herself with the quilt at the end of the bed. “Someone is in the house!”
“Be still.” He snapped the cylinder in place and pulled the hammer back. Naked, John lifted the weapon before him and went to the door. It was then he spotted Louis out back, staggering through the night towards the line of trees at the back of the property.
“It’s Louis,” said John, laying the Pistol on the bed and pulling on his trousers.
“What’s he doing?”
“Damned if I know,” he said, lifting the revolver again, “but I’m bound to find out.”
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Emmetsburg: Thirty-two
The standoff at the Himmel farm swept through the countryside like an autumn frost, seeming to materialize out of the air and paint everything. Like a frost there was a beauty to the news, like a victory had been won by the common folk; a certain refreshing, to reference the good Thomas Jefferson, of the freedoms paid for in the blood of generations of common folk. Power, privilage and exploitation had been knocked back on its heels.
It was a time to rejoice and reflect, but there was a much danger as well, as it threatened to unleash the forces of chaos and anarchy. It threatened the age of might and the bully, and of schemers behind the bully. For nothing in that world was bound by the law and of mutual compromise and community, but by of ego and gluttony and division.
Up town, an angry crowd of farmers, church folk and a certain class of folk more akin to scavenging dogs gathered in front of the courthouse. They carried signs and marched up and down. They roared and yelled, as though they were going to war, over inflammatory words by a baptist Minister from Cedar Rapids. They were outraged and in full agreement with Avery Lysander, and brought almost to tears by a hand full of furtive, stammering words from Myron Himmel.
Sherriff Bremer, in a big tan ten gallon hat, and a couple deeply conflicted deputies watched all this from the jailhouse. They let the crowd do just about as they pleased, hoping they would get the worst of all this, the wild and unchecked emotion burn away. Bremer nodded respectfully, folding his arms and rocking on the heels of his dusty black ranch boots when they paraded past the jail. And when they shouted and demanded to know where he stood on the issue Bremer had no wish to be pigeon-holed by either side. With an ironic smirk and a shake of his head he only waved and disappeared with his men into the jail.
How folks came to all this drew the battle lines rather than discourse, and only succeeded in dragging Emmetsburg and surrounding counties into ranks. Up to now it had hardly proved more than a distraction for most, except the agitators and those directly involved. It was a curious and uncomfortable topic of conversation. It grew as the night on the horizon, refusing to be ignored. No one, most especially John perkins, could escape the night.
It was a time to rejoice and reflect, but there was a much danger as well, as it threatened to unleash the forces of chaos and anarchy. It threatened the age of might and the bully, and of schemers behind the bully. For nothing in that world was bound by the law and of mutual compromise and community, but by of ego and gluttony and division.
Up town, an angry crowd of farmers, church folk and a certain class of folk more akin to scavenging dogs gathered in front of the courthouse. They carried signs and marched up and down. They roared and yelled, as though they were going to war, over inflammatory words by a baptist Minister from Cedar Rapids. They were outraged and in full agreement with Avery Lysander, and brought almost to tears by a hand full of furtive, stammering words from Myron Himmel.
Sherriff Bremer, in a big tan ten gallon hat, and a couple deeply conflicted deputies watched all this from the jailhouse. They let the crowd do just about as they pleased, hoping they would get the worst of all this, the wild and unchecked emotion burn away. Bremer nodded respectfully, folding his arms and rocking on the heels of his dusty black ranch boots when they paraded past the jail. And when they shouted and demanded to know where he stood on the issue Bremer had no wish to be pigeon-holed by either side. With an ironic smirk and a shake of his head he only waved and disappeared with his men into the jail.
How folks came to all this drew the battle lines rather than discourse, and only succeeded in dragging Emmetsburg and surrounding counties into ranks. Up to now it had hardly proved more than a distraction for most, except the agitators and those directly involved. It was a curious and uncomfortable topic of conversation. It grew as the night on the horizon, refusing to be ignored. No one, most especially John perkins, could escape the night.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Emmetsburg: Thirty-one
Churning clouds of dust grew in the distance, rising into the pale blue to erase all distinction between earth and sky. In the still and stagnate air the men heard the vehicles some time before they came into view. There were three long dark sedans. The first everyone recognized immediately as C.W.'s hunk of junk. It was followed closely by two big beige '25 Broughams. They were moving quickly, covering the mile and a half from the county road in no time. Fifty or so yards from the blockade they drew to a stop beside the road.
C.W. Climbed out and stretched a pain in his back. He twisted, still stretching, and motioned for the government men to remain behind. In tan trousers and a clean white button shirt he appeared to have materialized from the landscape, like some monotone watercolor in which lines blended and merged. He slapped a bit of dust off his brown cap and placed it carefully on his head.
C.W. was in no hurry to span the gap between the inspectors and the others. He was anxious, squinting through sweat that poured into his eyes. His steps were heavy with a consciously managed confidence, one that he had to manufacture anew. He half wished he hadn't left his revolver in the automobile. C.W. scooped the cap from his head, wiped the sweat from his forehead and pulled the cap back on.
He took his time making his way over, figuring if the moment was weighing this heavily on him then it should weigh as heavily on this rabble as well. They were set in a ragged but closely held line across the road. The sheriff paused a moment to inspect a bent bender on Ernie Vogel's Essex coupe. C.W. ran his fingers over the dent and shook his head with slightly exaggerated concern. He found Ernie's eyes for a moment before the man looked shamefully away.
The Sheriff waded into the men with all the confidence he could muster. He'd known most of them his whole life and had, at least until now, nothing to fear from them. He also knew that Avery was behind most of this, that he had whipped up these men in to a frenzy and set them apart from the law and good order.
C.W. moved along the line, looking purposely into each man's eyes. Some glared angrily. Others refused to meet his gaze, or seemed deeply betrayed by all this. C.W. took heart that at least a few men nodded respectfully, which gave him hope into appealing to their better reason. He took heart that Avery Lysander’s rule over these men was anything but absolute.
Myron Himmel stood at Avery’s side, somewhere between boyhood and grief. There was a look in his eyes, which seemed wholly unnatural, but fully explosive. C.W.s heart went out to the boy, and he felt deeply for the loss of his father. C.W. also knew full well what this inspection might mean for the family, but as a lawman it was the weight of all this that had to be considered. C.W. glanced back at the government inspectors and then again at the line of men, as if seeing those opposing weights, as if deciding where he truly belonged. It was then he realized how utterly alone he was.
Avery's eyes fixed most purposely upon him. They had been from the moment C.W. Stepped from his car, studying him with the keenness and detail of a scientist, or the way a surgeon might carefully discern healthy tissue from diseased with an eye to excising it from the body. Avery's mood was altogether different from the others. His was a direct challenge, and assertion that he and he alone was the master of this moment and these men. C.W. was still working on just the right words when Avery got there first.
“Deeply disappointed you couldn't see your way to our side, C.W.”
He might have responded directly to Avery, but his power and danger lay fully with the men. C.W. signed and looked along the line.
“That what you all think?” he asked. There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Don't split ranks here, C.W.” said Avery. “Divide and conquer, eh? Stand fast, boys!
“That how you feel, Ernie?” C.W. ignored Avery altogether. “Big Jim? Laughton?”
Avery asserted his position, moving between the Sheriff and the other men, all the while keeping Myron close by his side. “If you want to cross this line, Sheriff, you're gonna need a whole lot more men.”
It was more than C.W, could stand. Those massively powerful hands snapped out and twisted Avery's arm behind his back, wrenching it high enough that Avery cried out in pain. His free hand grabbed the back of Avery's neck and forced him to the road onto his knees. Myron bolted through the line of men as C.W. wrestled for control of Avery.
“Started enough damn trouble, Aver…” he began.
There was a blur of motion to one side, followed by the telltale metallic click as the hammer of a weapon clicked back and locked into place. C.W. found himself staring down the twin barrels of a twelve gauge shotgun. His heart skipped a beat as Myron reaffirmed a grip on the worn gray wooden stock.
“Leave him be,” cried the boy, “and get off my property!”
Tears threatened in the boy's eyes. C.W. Knew this wasn't him. He knew that the boy wasn't thinking right, but Myron felt himself cornered and there was no limit to what a cornered man is capable of. Still, C.W. was the sheriff, and that was a non-negotiable issue.
“You're at a crossroads here, son,” he said as coolly and certainly as he could under the circumstances. Avery was silent, as were the others, not a few of whom were shocked the turn of events. “I've been to dinner at your house, Myron. What do you think your papa would say to all this?”
“He'd want me to do right by the family. To...to...protect them.” His voice was low and trembling, but he held the shotgun steady enough, his finger covering the trigger.
“Son, I'm not going to talk you like a child. You're a man now. You proved that well enough. But a man also knows there's consequences for his actions. Maybe you pull that trigger, but that won't put an end to things. Shoot me and a hundred law men will come back here and you'll go to the electric chair for sure. Want to bring that shame to your family and forever stain the memory of your father; my friend?”
There was along terribly uncertain moment. It was a moment so light and delicate that it might have turned unexpectedly with an unguarded breath, or with the turn of the wind. Myron steadied the shotgun in his hands, his gaze solidly fixed upon C.W. They all felt frozen in time, as though everything had stopped all at once, breaths, hearts, the turning of the world.
“Let Mister Lysander go.” Myron's voice was unequivical, but calmer.
C.W. nodded slightly to the boy without breaking their gaze. “Then I'm going back up that road and get those government fellas. They'll do their test and then we'll be on our way.”
But C.W. knew that he had lost. He ran through a dozen outcomes in his mind, all of them ending the same. Once he released Avery those men would never allow the inspectors to pass. He'd have to come with the State Police the next time and make an example. It made the walk back to the car a long and arduous one.
C.W. Climbed out and stretched a pain in his back. He twisted, still stretching, and motioned for the government men to remain behind. In tan trousers and a clean white button shirt he appeared to have materialized from the landscape, like some monotone watercolor in which lines blended and merged. He slapped a bit of dust off his brown cap and placed it carefully on his head.
C.W. was in no hurry to span the gap between the inspectors and the others. He was anxious, squinting through sweat that poured into his eyes. His steps were heavy with a consciously managed confidence, one that he had to manufacture anew. He half wished he hadn't left his revolver in the automobile. C.W. scooped the cap from his head, wiped the sweat from his forehead and pulled the cap back on.
He took his time making his way over, figuring if the moment was weighing this heavily on him then it should weigh as heavily on this rabble as well. They were set in a ragged but closely held line across the road. The sheriff paused a moment to inspect a bent bender on Ernie Vogel's Essex coupe. C.W. ran his fingers over the dent and shook his head with slightly exaggerated concern. He found Ernie's eyes for a moment before the man looked shamefully away.
The Sheriff waded into the men with all the confidence he could muster. He'd known most of them his whole life and had, at least until now, nothing to fear from them. He also knew that Avery was behind most of this, that he had whipped up these men in to a frenzy and set them apart from the law and good order.
C.W. moved along the line, looking purposely into each man's eyes. Some glared angrily. Others refused to meet his gaze, or seemed deeply betrayed by all this. C.W. took heart that at least a few men nodded respectfully, which gave him hope into appealing to their better reason. He took heart that Avery Lysander’s rule over these men was anything but absolute.
Myron Himmel stood at Avery’s side, somewhere between boyhood and grief. There was a look in his eyes, which seemed wholly unnatural, but fully explosive. C.W.s heart went out to the boy, and he felt deeply for the loss of his father. C.W. also knew full well what this inspection might mean for the family, but as a lawman it was the weight of all this that had to be considered. C.W. glanced back at the government inspectors and then again at the line of men, as if seeing those opposing weights, as if deciding where he truly belonged. It was then he realized how utterly alone he was.
Avery's eyes fixed most purposely upon him. They had been from the moment C.W. Stepped from his car, studying him with the keenness and detail of a scientist, or the way a surgeon might carefully discern healthy tissue from diseased with an eye to excising it from the body. Avery's mood was altogether different from the others. His was a direct challenge, and assertion that he and he alone was the master of this moment and these men. C.W. was still working on just the right words when Avery got there first.
“Deeply disappointed you couldn't see your way to our side, C.W.”
He might have responded directly to Avery, but his power and danger lay fully with the men. C.W. signed and looked along the line.
“That what you all think?” he asked. There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Don't split ranks here, C.W.” said Avery. “Divide and conquer, eh? Stand fast, boys!
“That how you feel, Ernie?” C.W. ignored Avery altogether. “Big Jim? Laughton?”
Avery asserted his position, moving between the Sheriff and the other men, all the while keeping Myron close by his side. “If you want to cross this line, Sheriff, you're gonna need a whole lot more men.”
It was more than C.W, could stand. Those massively powerful hands snapped out and twisted Avery's arm behind his back, wrenching it high enough that Avery cried out in pain. His free hand grabbed the back of Avery's neck and forced him to the road onto his knees. Myron bolted through the line of men as C.W. wrestled for control of Avery.
“Started enough damn trouble, Aver…” he began.
There was a blur of motion to one side, followed by the telltale metallic click as the hammer of a weapon clicked back and locked into place. C.W. found himself staring down the twin barrels of a twelve gauge shotgun. His heart skipped a beat as Myron reaffirmed a grip on the worn gray wooden stock.
“Leave him be,” cried the boy, “and get off my property!”
Tears threatened in the boy's eyes. C.W. Knew this wasn't him. He knew that the boy wasn't thinking right, but Myron felt himself cornered and there was no limit to what a cornered man is capable of. Still, C.W. was the sheriff, and that was a non-negotiable issue.
“You're at a crossroads here, son,” he said as coolly and certainly as he could under the circumstances. Avery was silent, as were the others, not a few of whom were shocked the turn of events. “I've been to dinner at your house, Myron. What do you think your papa would say to all this?”
“He'd want me to do right by the family. To...to...protect them.” His voice was low and trembling, but he held the shotgun steady enough, his finger covering the trigger.
“Son, I'm not going to talk you like a child. You're a man now. You proved that well enough. But a man also knows there's consequences for his actions. Maybe you pull that trigger, but that won't put an end to things. Shoot me and a hundred law men will come back here and you'll go to the electric chair for sure. Want to bring that shame to your family and forever stain the memory of your father; my friend?”
There was along terribly uncertain moment. It was a moment so light and delicate that it might have turned unexpectedly with an unguarded breath, or with the turn of the wind. Myron steadied the shotgun in his hands, his gaze solidly fixed upon C.W. They all felt frozen in time, as though everything had stopped all at once, breaths, hearts, the turning of the world.
“Let Mister Lysander go.” Myron's voice was unequivical, but calmer.
C.W. nodded slightly to the boy without breaking their gaze. “Then I'm going back up that road and get those government fellas. They'll do their test and then we'll be on our way.”
But C.W. knew that he had lost. He ran through a dozen outcomes in his mind, all of them ending the same. Once he released Avery those men would never allow the inspectors to pass. He'd have to come with the State Police the next time and make an example. It made the walk back to the car a long and arduous one.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Emmetsburg: Thirty
Gold. Burt Himmel's house stood at the end of a long straight dirt track that ran downhill for the better part of its course. The track was little more than two well worn ruts, separated by a ribbon of deepening green grass. The house, small green barn and smaller chicken coop were centered in a small bowl. It made the farm look so much farther than it truly was. On the post at the top of the drive an official notice of inspection was nailed.
The house, like the yard and chicken coop was well tended. The rectangular coop had recently been painted and stood out sharply in the morning sun. The low roor slanted sharply on one side towards the barn. The barn was sorely in need of repair, with patches of yellowing moss on the roof. Pieces of the roof had rotted or fallen away, making it appear as though the moss was some sort of infection slowly consuming the structure. Beside the barn, upon the slope of a hill a half dozen black and brown cows grazed lazily.
The two story wood-frame house was tall with wood shingles and clean white shutters. A fat oak stood as an exclamation in front of the house. A tire swing hung from the sturdiest branch above a bare spot of ground, nearly lost to an island of midnight shade. Beside the tree, in the cool of the shade, Burt's old Black Labrador, Lincoln, watched laconically the commotion at the top of the road.
A dozen or so vehicles and horse-drawn wagons were arrayed haphazardly to either side of the road so that anyone wishing to pass would have to inch by slowly, snaking slowly through the ramshackle blockade. Ten or fifteen men were gathered in a tight group in front of the blockade. Central among them was Avery Lysander, his arm around the shoulder of young Myron Himmel.
This should have been a time of mourning for the boy. It should have been a time for memories and family and reflection. Instead Myron steeled himself for an epic fight whipped up by Avery and some of the other more boisterous nd energized farmers. The moment felt immense to the boy. As he saw things his family's life and future depended fully upon the outcome. His proper place of course was with them, instead of the men on that road, to whom he offered himself fully and without question. He gave himself fully to men like Avery Lysander who used the boy's tragedy and gullible nature as a means to an end.
The air was still and stale. Even at this early hour the heat seemed to rise from the earth, moistening necks and foreheads and backs. Myron swept the sweat from his face and rubbed it across the leg of his trousers where it left a stain. He looked around at the stern and determined faces around him. He felt at once stifled and saved by those faces.
Avery was saying something. Myron's thoughts were a jumble and so the man's fevered words didn't register. He wasn't so much paying attention as using the murderous energy of the men as a crutch that kept him from crumbling and weeping with grief. Avery shook him and said something. Myron looked dumbly into the man's face, half hidden beneath the shadow of the brim of his hat.
“What say you, son,” Avery shook him again, pausing from his emotional but carefully calculated tirade.
“Me, sir?”
“We're all here for you and your family. We're here for the memory of your father, who all of us cared deeply for. And we're here for each other, for the time those government inspectors come calling to our door.” Avery pursed his lips and shook his head. “Sons-'a-bitches! Fall prey on a man's family when he ain't even fresh in the grave.”
Myron didn't know quite what to say. His chin quivered as he straddled the line between childhood and being a man, for whatever that meant. He was hanging out in space, overwhelmed and baffled at the passing of his father, spun and outraged by the government inspectors, seduced and blinded by Avery Lysander.
“Worried for my mom.”
“Course you are,” said Avery. “Course you are.” He hugged the boy closer to his side. “Damned if I'll let those inspectors set one foot on this boy's land!”
There were nods and agreeable rumblings from the other men. Encouraged and riled by Avery, they had drawn a line at Bert Himmel's farm.
“Go to my grave,” Avery continued, “before I let that happen.”
Myron looked up at Avery. Like his papa, Myron never much cared for the man. He always seemed a little on the sneaky and disingenuous side, like he was figuring all the angles. Now, with the loss of his father, Myron was lost in a blizzard, stumbling blind into an unknown abyss, and desperate for any shelter. That desperation required abandoning conventions he might have otherwise fought hard to maintain.
The house, like the yard and chicken coop was well tended. The rectangular coop had recently been painted and stood out sharply in the morning sun. The low roor slanted sharply on one side towards the barn. The barn was sorely in need of repair, with patches of yellowing moss on the roof. Pieces of the roof had rotted or fallen away, making it appear as though the moss was some sort of infection slowly consuming the structure. Beside the barn, upon the slope of a hill a half dozen black and brown cows grazed lazily.
The two story wood-frame house was tall with wood shingles and clean white shutters. A fat oak stood as an exclamation in front of the house. A tire swing hung from the sturdiest branch above a bare spot of ground, nearly lost to an island of midnight shade. Beside the tree, in the cool of the shade, Burt's old Black Labrador, Lincoln, watched laconically the commotion at the top of the road.
A dozen or so vehicles and horse-drawn wagons were arrayed haphazardly to either side of the road so that anyone wishing to pass would have to inch by slowly, snaking slowly through the ramshackle blockade. Ten or fifteen men were gathered in a tight group in front of the blockade. Central among them was Avery Lysander, his arm around the shoulder of young Myron Himmel.
This should have been a time of mourning for the boy. It should have been a time for memories and family and reflection. Instead Myron steeled himself for an epic fight whipped up by Avery and some of the other more boisterous nd energized farmers. The moment felt immense to the boy. As he saw things his family's life and future depended fully upon the outcome. His proper place of course was with them, instead of the men on that road, to whom he offered himself fully and without question. He gave himself fully to men like Avery Lysander who used the boy's tragedy and gullible nature as a means to an end.
The air was still and stale. Even at this early hour the heat seemed to rise from the earth, moistening necks and foreheads and backs. Myron swept the sweat from his face and rubbed it across the leg of his trousers where it left a stain. He looked around at the stern and determined faces around him. He felt at once stifled and saved by those faces.
Avery was saying something. Myron's thoughts were a jumble and so the man's fevered words didn't register. He wasn't so much paying attention as using the murderous energy of the men as a crutch that kept him from crumbling and weeping with grief. Avery shook him and said something. Myron looked dumbly into the man's face, half hidden beneath the shadow of the brim of his hat.
“What say you, son,” Avery shook him again, pausing from his emotional but carefully calculated tirade.
“Me, sir?”
“We're all here for you and your family. We're here for the memory of your father, who all of us cared deeply for. And we're here for each other, for the time those government inspectors come calling to our door.” Avery pursed his lips and shook his head. “Sons-'a-bitches! Fall prey on a man's family when he ain't even fresh in the grave.”
Myron didn't know quite what to say. His chin quivered as he straddled the line between childhood and being a man, for whatever that meant. He was hanging out in space, overwhelmed and baffled at the passing of his father, spun and outraged by the government inspectors, seduced and blinded by Avery Lysander.
“Worried for my mom.”
“Course you are,” said Avery. “Course you are.” He hugged the boy closer to his side. “Damned if I'll let those inspectors set one foot on this boy's land!”
There were nods and agreeable rumblings from the other men. Encouraged and riled by Avery, they had drawn a line at Bert Himmel's farm.
“Go to my grave,” Avery continued, “before I let that happen.”
Myron looked up at Avery. Like his papa, Myron never much cared for the man. He always seemed a little on the sneaky and disingenuous side, like he was figuring all the angles. Now, with the loss of his father, Myron was lost in a blizzard, stumbling blind into an unknown abyss, and desperate for any shelter. That desperation required abandoning conventions he might have otherwise fought hard to maintain.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Emmetsburg: Twenty-nine
Louis Stanton came around a little that evening when Anna went up to look in on him. It wasn’t much, but enough to take a bit of her chicken soup. He sort of looked at her through half closed eyes, as though she was an angel. She was quiet, cradling his head gently as she lifted the soup to his lips. He took a few spoonfuls and laid his head back on the pillow. His brow faltered with obvious pain.
The light from a small kerosene lamp on the shelf was soft, filling the room with the color of warm molasses. The small orange flame danced ever so slightly, throwing competing shadows against the sloping wall. Anna and Louis seemed suspended and eternal in the glow of the lamp, like subjects from a painting by Vermeer.
John was behind her at the top of the stairs. She’d heard him come up. She’d heard the old wood stairs creaking and groaning under his weight. Anna stood, still holding the bowl in both hands. She was radiant.
Anna turned away from Louis and met John at the top of the stairs. Her eyes met John’s, finding an emerging weariness for life; the collective shame, heartache and uncertainty that accumulates with a life. She also found not a small amount of trepidation about their love making the other night. It was, she recognized, a reticence to cause her any further pain. In the end a man is bound by his fears, and each man’s toleration is entirely his own.
John gently cupped her soft warm cheek. Their eyes held for a moment. She kissed his hand then carried the bowl down to the kitchen. John waited until she was gone before going to Louis.
Louis was already asleep again. John sat in the chair beside the bed and leaned back, draping an arm across the back of the chair. He sat there long after Anna had gone to bed. The room was dark, lit only by the pale blue-white light of a crescent moon. The most magnificent breeze came through the open window. The world felt at peace, and John basked fully in that sublime moment.
He breathed deeply and studied Louis’ face carefully. Stanton had drifted off to deep, deep sleep. His face was to the window. His breaths were slow and rhythmic. John folded his arms and felt his tired eyes brow heavy. He fought it as best he could, and kept telling himself he should get down to bed. Sleep won the argument a moment later.
John awakened with a jolt believing for an instant that he was tipping from the chair. He grabbed for the seat with both hands, the bisected halves of his injured palm tearing against the stitches. He groaned in pain. The groan was abruptly cut short when he noticed Louis. Startled, he retreated from the bed, tipping over the chair and stumbling backwards before catching himself against the book shelf.
“Jesus!” he laughed, chagrined. “Frightened me, Louis.”
But Louis’ gaze was far away. His eyes were wild staring past John. He was holding tightly to the edges of the bed, his body and head rising off the bed, hinting at an unnatural strength John felt utterly impossible to believe.
“Louis?” said John, inching forward when there was no reply. He’d seen men at the end of their lives refusing to concede to that dark and mysterious destination. He’d seen them do impossible things, seen them display amazing feats of strength in those final defiant moments, but nothing like this. John reached to him, stopping short of the bed.
“World is bigger than us, John,” said Louis with the same strange voice from the night before. John started for the bed, his face twisted as he struggled to understand Louis’ meaning.
Louis continued. “Day is fast approaching, John Perkins, you'll meet your maker.”
The words washed over John like an icy cold shower. He'd heard them, there could be no doubt. Louis suddenly threw his arms towards the ceiling, his fingers outstretched and rigid. He raised himself higher into a semi-sitting position, seeming to degy gravity. Tremors shook him, as if energy flowed through his whole body.
“Ain't the end of the world,” said Louis. “Anna will get by. All for the good, John, all for the good.”
It took a moment before John could collect himself. It all seemed like something from a nightmare, yet John felt sure he was very much awake.
“What about Anna?' John demanded. “Tell me waht's going to happen to Anna!”
Louis' eyes remained wide and unblinking, staring far off into another dimension where time and another world overlapped with this one.
“Sun rises and it’s a new day,” said Louis, “and all those who went before are dead and forgotten.”
John'd had enough and grabbed Louis by the collar, pulling him closer. Anger crumbled before rage until john was almost blind and capable of anything. He shook Louis hard, if though it might rattle him from this trance. He looked to the window and thought he might finish things for good. It would easy enough to explain. John could tell how Louis went mad from his injury and threw himself out the window.
“Enough of your damned riddles!”
“Be all right, John Perkins. Its all for the good.”
“What good?” John shook him once more. He growled through gritted teeth. “What the hell are you saying!”
“You got to die, John. Its the only way.”
“Only way?”
“You die to save Bert Himmel's boy,” said Louis. “Anna be all right. Find herself a good man and give him a son. Life goes on, John. Sun rises, it’s a new day.”
John let go of Louis and backed away from the bed. He rubbed the tension and confusion from the forehead, pacing the room a moment. He stopped and turned to Louis again, taking a moment to find words.
“How do you...I don't understand.”
“Ain’t for you to understand, John. For you to go to your fate…”
“My death,” John interrupted.
“Your fate knowing it’ll all work out just fine.”
The light from a small kerosene lamp on the shelf was soft, filling the room with the color of warm molasses. The small orange flame danced ever so slightly, throwing competing shadows against the sloping wall. Anna and Louis seemed suspended and eternal in the glow of the lamp, like subjects from a painting by Vermeer.
John was behind her at the top of the stairs. She’d heard him come up. She’d heard the old wood stairs creaking and groaning under his weight. Anna stood, still holding the bowl in both hands. She was radiant.
Anna turned away from Louis and met John at the top of the stairs. Her eyes met John’s, finding an emerging weariness for life; the collective shame, heartache and uncertainty that accumulates with a life. She also found not a small amount of trepidation about their love making the other night. It was, she recognized, a reticence to cause her any further pain. In the end a man is bound by his fears, and each man’s toleration is entirely his own.
John gently cupped her soft warm cheek. Their eyes held for a moment. She kissed his hand then carried the bowl down to the kitchen. John waited until she was gone before going to Louis.
Louis was already asleep again. John sat in the chair beside the bed and leaned back, draping an arm across the back of the chair. He sat there long after Anna had gone to bed. The room was dark, lit only by the pale blue-white light of a crescent moon. The most magnificent breeze came through the open window. The world felt at peace, and John basked fully in that sublime moment.
He breathed deeply and studied Louis’ face carefully. Stanton had drifted off to deep, deep sleep. His face was to the window. His breaths were slow and rhythmic. John folded his arms and felt his tired eyes brow heavy. He fought it as best he could, and kept telling himself he should get down to bed. Sleep won the argument a moment later.
John awakened with a jolt believing for an instant that he was tipping from the chair. He grabbed for the seat with both hands, the bisected halves of his injured palm tearing against the stitches. He groaned in pain. The groan was abruptly cut short when he noticed Louis. Startled, he retreated from the bed, tipping over the chair and stumbling backwards before catching himself against the book shelf.
“Jesus!” he laughed, chagrined. “Frightened me, Louis.”
But Louis’ gaze was far away. His eyes were wild staring past John. He was holding tightly to the edges of the bed, his body and head rising off the bed, hinting at an unnatural strength John felt utterly impossible to believe.
“Louis?” said John, inching forward when there was no reply. He’d seen men at the end of their lives refusing to concede to that dark and mysterious destination. He’d seen them do impossible things, seen them display amazing feats of strength in those final defiant moments, but nothing like this. John reached to him, stopping short of the bed.
“World is bigger than us, John,” said Louis with the same strange voice from the night before. John started for the bed, his face twisted as he struggled to understand Louis’ meaning.
Louis continued. “Day is fast approaching, John Perkins, you'll meet your maker.”
The words washed over John like an icy cold shower. He'd heard them, there could be no doubt. Louis suddenly threw his arms towards the ceiling, his fingers outstretched and rigid. He raised himself higher into a semi-sitting position, seeming to degy gravity. Tremors shook him, as if energy flowed through his whole body.
“Ain't the end of the world,” said Louis. “Anna will get by. All for the good, John, all for the good.”
It took a moment before John could collect himself. It all seemed like something from a nightmare, yet John felt sure he was very much awake.
“What about Anna?' John demanded. “Tell me waht's going to happen to Anna!”
Louis' eyes remained wide and unblinking, staring far off into another dimension where time and another world overlapped with this one.
“Sun rises and it’s a new day,” said Louis, “and all those who went before are dead and forgotten.”
John'd had enough and grabbed Louis by the collar, pulling him closer. Anger crumbled before rage until john was almost blind and capable of anything. He shook Louis hard, if though it might rattle him from this trance. He looked to the window and thought he might finish things for good. It would easy enough to explain. John could tell how Louis went mad from his injury and threw himself out the window.
“Enough of your damned riddles!”
“Be all right, John Perkins. Its all for the good.”
“What good?” John shook him once more. He growled through gritted teeth. “What the hell are you saying!”
“You got to die, John. Its the only way.”
“Only way?”
“You die to save Bert Himmel's boy,” said Louis. “Anna be all right. Find herself a good man and give him a son. Life goes on, John. Sun rises, it’s a new day.”
John let go of Louis and backed away from the bed. He rubbed the tension and confusion from the forehead, pacing the room a moment. He stopped and turned to Louis again, taking a moment to find words.
“How do you...I don't understand.”
“Ain’t for you to understand, John. For you to go to your fate…”
“My death,” John interrupted.
“Your fate knowing it’ll all work out just fine.”
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