Journal of Speculative Fiction
Issue 1 – October 2011
Copyright
Cygnus Journal of Speculative Fiction
Published by Sky Rabbit Books at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Cygnus
Cover: “Light Beam from Above” by Markus Gann / Bigstock.com
Editor-in-Chief: Casey J. Winters
Assistant Editor: Valerie Winters
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the authors and editors.
The Water-Horse Whisperer by R. S. Pyne
Space #22 (art) by Denny E. Marshall
The Hunter by Chris Castle
Double Ring World (art) by Denny E. Marshall
Dream Job by Richard Flores IV
Space #24 (art) by Denny E. Marshall
Mysteries That Remain by Milan Smith
Robot Man (art) by Denny E. Marshall
Silent Pact at Pope Lick Trestle by Alex Duvall
by R. S. Pyne
Aylmer Albion watched his third son Drake stand in shallows while water-horse foals played around him. The foals were shining things that would soon be as deadly as their mother. The silver-white mare grazed nearby, unconcerned, for she trusted the boy.
Drake had been born with the Goddess-blessed ability to calm the water-horse instinct to drown unwary travelers. He was fifteen years old now but with a man’s responsibility. The interlaced horse tattoos on his shoulders and back were still healing. Tall but not yet grown to full height, he moved with a fluid grace that came as easily as breathing. As a child, he had always been strange and distant; he made no friends and did not seem to want them. The threads of his destiny were drawn out long ago, identified by an ancient Fate Speaker passing through the village on her way somewhere else. The crossing was safer now as long as he stayed to honor the covenant.
Aylmer made sure the mare saw him approach, careful to make no sudden movements and to keep his thoughts calm. She would not react well to fear, even though he was terrified.
“Father.” Drake’s voice held no words of welcome, for he preferred to be left alone.
The foals chased each other into deep water, too engrossed in their game to notice the stranger. They dived beneath the ripples like so many swift-moving, silvery fish. Harmless now, they had been born with a predatory nature more akin to wolf than horse.
“You did not need to come.”
Aylmer gave a shrug and smiled. “If we left it to you, you would not return at all.”
The covenant still allowed three victims each year, compared to the hundreds that died before it took effect. One drowning at Beltane, another at Lughnasada and the last at Samhain was a small price, and the people of Hard Riding paid it gladly. The fact that they took care not to go near the river and forgot to warn travelers was never mentioned. Each time, Drake left his post reluctantly—fetched back to a world that had never been his. He walked to shore as the mare came to meet him; wild, free spirits joined for a heartbeat before breaking apart again.
“Your mother will make a fuss, as she always does.” Aylmer knew that his wife would have something to say to her youngest son—the typical, time-honored mother’s litany of how thin he was, had he been eating properly, had he slept at all? He watched as the boy covered the tattoos with a tunic of black homespun, stylized horse heads still twisting on his arms. “Let her look after you, just for one day.”
Drake shrugged, brushing an unruly shock of wind-styled dark hair out of his eyes. The silver-white mare blew clouds of sweet breath by way of a blessing. With Drake looking at her now, she was impossible to identify as a fierce meat eater, one of the most dangerous creatures in a land with more than its fair share of perils. By the morning, that herb scented exhalation would be tainted with the coppery smell of blood, liquid brown eyes still showing death lights. The boy ran a hand down her curving neck and then parted the mane to brush out a tangle of barbed burr weed. Water-horses allowed nobody else to take such liberties unless they were prey.
Unsuspecting travelers would come to the river and see a beautiful animal waiting for them, strangely tame even though it bore the marks of neither saddle nor bridle. They were happy to let you mount, got halfway across before they plunged in. Holy people and pilgrims got away with their lives, but got their robes wet; anyone else was dinner.
Drake did not want to be fussed over, blood ties already stretched as far as they would go. The other people in the village would stare, as they always did, whisper to each other and ignore the fact that they all owed him their safety. Aylmer watched the son he could never hope to understand and still felt a fierce pride over however the life thread had twisted. They walked together, neither feeling the need to fill the space with extra, unnecessary words. The Old Forest pressed around on all sides, gnarled, ancient oak trees silent witnesses that had seen it all before and would see it long after they were both dead and burnt to ashes.
The sudden beat of hooves on a well-laid path broke the reflective silence as a first-ranked noble’s daughter thundered toward them. Her retinue struggled to keep up—maids and bodyguard with long-suffering looks on their faces. Their horses were lathered as if they had galloped for many miles without the chance to cool down; this was never wise so close to Epona’s most sacred of rivers. The Goddess did not look kindly on riders who lacked consideration for their mounts, and on such a day, this lack would prove the girl’s undoing.
“Get out of my way, peasants.” She used her whip to clear a path. She was a sharp-voiced, spoiled beauty that had never been checked, disciplined or denied what she wanted. Having grown up in the luxury of a great lord’s feasting hall, she had never known a moment of cold or hunger in her life and despised those who had no choice but to starve.
Aylmer stepped aside, seeing the dark look deepen on Drake’s face, the far away promise that lingered in those blade-gray eyes. His son watched the girl ride away and then shrugged, not wasting another thought on someone who would not trouble the country for much longer. Water-horses saw exactly what their Whisperer showed them, the links stretched by distance but never quite severed. They would know that the Samhain tribute would soon arrive in fulfillment of the Covenant they had agreed to follow. On reflection, it could not happen to a nicer person.
by Chris Castle
I lay the traps just so and wait. If it follows the pattern of the last few days and goes left, I will capture it in the netting. I have re-enforced the trap with steel mesh so its claws will not be able to tear itself free. The same goes for, God help me, its teeth. If it goes right, I will take it with my rifle. By the time I settle into my spot it is dark; soon whatever stars are left in the sky will bloom. I bury myself amongst the rotted leaves, remembering to breathe downwind, so my frozen breath will not act as a signal and betray my position. I wait.
Years from now, if the world manages to repair itself, what will be the official reasons and statements offered? I know there are the facts and there is the truth; the gaps in-between the words are what new-born folk will have to seek out. The future: it seems like such a far away ideal now, almost a rumor. I know if I think too much about what happened and my role in it, I will go mad. The fact that I touch upon it from time to time has left my mind fractured enough. All I can offer in my defense is that we were trying to make things better, we honestly were. The fact that our actions led to the end of everything . . . well, to that I have no answer.
* * *
The day it happened, I remember looking out to the sky and thinking what a beautiful place the world was right then, in that moment. The sky was blue and there were no clouds; the only interruption was an airplane, its smoke trailing like string across the surface. It should have spoiled or disrupted the picture to some tiny degree, but it was quite the opposite in my eyes; indeed, it only made the image more perfect to have it touched with the slightest of imperfections.
As I walked down from the roof to the lab, I still felt as if it was going to be a good day; that perhaps we were on the verge of some sort of breakthrough. I slipped on my whites and snapped the equipment against my skin and I drew breath. Even as I stepped into the cubicle and felt the door close behind me, my mind was still outside, following the trail and matching it against the sky.
When it happened, I was measuring liquid in a beaker. I distinctly remember this, because the liquid itself was clear and when the alarm lit, a moment before the siren rang, it shone, turning the glass red. I winced at the sound of the alarm and my head immediately assumed it was a drill. The cold spike of fear I felt as I realized it was Monday and could not possibly be a test was like nothing I have known before or since. I have understood fear after that day and horror, too, but not stark, cool panic as I did in those first few minutes.
* * *
I adjust my position and fix the scope of my rifle. Even though I cannot feel the cold, I am aware of the area cooling. I look around and check the trees, as well as the ground. Many times since that first day, I have seen them scale into the trees like apes and move with awful, desperate grace. Nothing appears but the stars and the frost. Inside my gloves and my boots I crunch my fingers and toes, flinching for a moment when I feel one of my own, overgrown nails, snag against my socks. Like a claw, I think bleakly and am surprised to find myself almost laughing.
* * *
There are few words I know that could describe what happened in that first hour in our building; the closest I can think of is bedlam, pure and simple. Friends I had made since our work began died inside minutes. The pain they endured in that time was unimaginable. For days afterward I heard them in my head; not their screams or their cries but literally their bodies; how they tore apart, how they fell and popped and ripped. A week afterward, I looked at my face in a mirror and saw my ears, where I had gripped them, trying to block out the fresh memories of the sounds. Each of them was almost perforated by my nails, as if waiting for a new piercing.
I don’t know how I made it out of the building and that is the truth of it. I fought, I ran, and I was lucky—and that’s all there was to it. And then . . . and then I became the crazy guy you see in every big city. You know the men: sandwich boards around their necks, pronouncing the end of the world. I remember stepping out into the street and gasping, drawing in big, fat lumps of air and thinking, this is the last time I will be able to do this. This is the last time the world will not be infected. I heard a scream and I put my hand up to my mouth, assuming it must have been me but not feeling the sound leave my throat. A woman was pointing at me and I glanced down to where she was looking; of course my clothes were covered in blood. People backed away from me and I was briefly impressed at their understanding of the situation until I realized they just thought I was your common variety murderer.
A policeman seized me and put me in the back of his car. It was the first time I’d been in the back of one since I was seventeen years old. I noticed how much more modern they looked now, with expensive seating and the equipment in front. I knew it was strange to be thinking like that as the world ended, but I was helpless by then, a victim of shock. The man in front looked back and asked me questions as the other drove. He was talking too quickly, and by the time I had processed one question, he had already moved onto the next. By the time we had reached the end of Main Street, it seemed to dawn on him he was giving me too many questions to handle and for the first time, it dawned on me that he might have been scared too; maybe it was his first time with a nut-job.
“Who did you kill?” he asked finally, as if deciding that was the easiest way to go. He was young looking, too young to be a cop, I decided, and I realized he was genuinely scared. Good, I thought. You should be. “Who did you kill?”
“Everybody,” I said quietly and looked away from him, back down the long street. Smoke was rising from my building and I saw the first few disturbances bubbling in the street beside it. The scientist in me started calculating how long it would be before the whole block started tearing into each other. I calculated eighteen minutes.
* * *
The flicker in the tree tops makes me turn at an angle and point the rifle straight-up. Nothing moves and I realize it was just a strong gust of wind. Although it has only been six weeks, the weather is already changing. If I am still alive at the end of the year, I think I will see snow, rain, sleet and sunshine all on the same day. It will be as impressive as it is heartbreaking, a wonder witnessed alone. I return to my position and check my sights, my scope still precise and measured.
* * *
It took almost twenty-three minutes in the end. I watched it from the back seat as it rose up like a tsunami; the ripple of rage grew and swelled like a tidal wave. Cars overturned, people flung into windows, hurled underfoot. The cops rushed from their seats and ran back into the chaos, their weapons drawn. I didn’t hear gunshots amongst the carnage but I made a note of where they fell, praying the key to my cuffs would fall from his belt as he was swallowed up by the galaxy of hungry hands. In fact, it was the strangest thing; the noise at first was incredible, to the point I thought my ears would bleed. But as more people fell and turned, the noise level fell. By the time the virus had overtaken them all, they were moving in near silence, with only the occasional shattering of glass or car bursting into flames for a soundtrack.
My car was overturned and again, dumb luck saved me; I did not scream, therefore they did not take me. In the early stages their senses are poor; they can only find the loudest, brightest things. I lay upside down, watching them march on, unified and sullen, with no mind or idea. A day from then, I knew, they would turn on each other if nothing new became available. Once, we had watched the virus in a dish warring on itself until it was gone. ‘Everything eating itself,’ my friend said quietly, marveling at the viciousness of it all. My stomach rolled as he started laughing and hurriedly placed the dish in the incinerator, as if that would make it all neatly disappear.
Within the day, all communication was severed; whatever governments were aware of our work could not reach me and then they were turned and gone. I moved as carefully as I could, seeing no-one and monitoring the turned as they lumbered along, their eyes slowing prickling into life, their ears twitching with awareness. I raced to pre-designated places and wondered if the people I worked with had done the same as me; if they had, late at night, planned out their escape, ear-marked bolt holes and potential escape routes. I assume they did, though I never asked them outright. I guess it was a kind of joke amongst us; we all knew we were playing with the world, but none of us wanted to come right out and admit we had drawn up a treasure map in case we blew it. As I made my way, I wondered if any of them had chosen my route to safety, or if they had a whole separate game plan. I slipped the pistol into my waistband and had the idea that the gun would have been the ultimate exit for at least some of my colleagues.
* * *
It is coming. The marked shift in the branches tells me that the creature is making headway towards me. I know the thing can’t detect me under all this filth but I wonder if it can somehow sense me, all the same. The leaves flicker and I draw a breath; soon I will see glowing eyes and upturned, bared teeth. I am surprised to find that my hands are not shaking. My heart is beating steadily but not racing, and I wonder why that is. I look out and feel how exhilarated I am, but I can’t explain why I am not scared.
* * *
Within the week I was in the cabin, miles from anyone and any place. The internet was ravaged, all information shredded and nothing was left but the earth. I glanced around the place and thought about the time I had spent there as boy. It was the happiest time of my life. I was suddenly so thankful that my parents were no longer alive, and the idea, so horrific and so true, dropped me onto my knees. I screamed, for how long I couldn’t say, and then pitched forward onto the floor, exhausted. When I came around, darkness had settled, and I risked sleeping rather than watching guard. I woke the next morning which meant I had once more gotten lucky.
I went about my work the next day. I built a perimeter and I laid my traps. The cold season was coming and I knew that would stop a high percentage of them. My father had taught me to be a hunter and I had learned reluctantly, even as my brother relished every moment. What I remembered I used and what else was needed I took from books. When it was done, I slept; each day, I waited.
The stillness calmed me at first and then later, broke me apart. No people came and so, no creatures followed. It was a terrible cycle; the longer I went without contact, the better my chances of survival became. The snow made the world a cool, blank canvas. For days I looked out into the nothingness, looking for signs and praying for a voice. When neither came, madness touched my mind, drawing in both sets of characters; creatures flashed in and out of the snow, teeth bared and ripe. Men and women smiled and then disappeared inside the second flurry. I searched for both and found neither.
Then it came.
I went through the process for one whole day, to check my mind wasn’t playing tricks. Sure enough, it re-appeared, scavenging, searching, nearly aware of me but not quite. I tracked the abomination for a second day and was aware of how devolved it had become. As I squinted through my binoculars, I saw how the features had almost softened, as if it had aged a lifetime inside six months. The body was still taut but no longer impervious; two wounds were clearly visible above and below the breastplate. Twice its face twitched, almost sensing me, before scampering away into the woods. I watched it go, stunned to realize the monster was as scared of me as I was of it.
That night I lay awake most of the night, my calculations racing throughout my head. I had anticipated its weaknesses and countless flaws but not its fear or . . . timidity. To see it on its own made me think just how few there must be left, in the country, in the world. For a long, cool second, I imagined we were the last two beings left on the earth. It was not inconceivable. I lay perfectly still, until my mind hummed, hurting with the equations and outcomes of each scenario. It was dawn and I still had not slept. I wondered for a moment why that was; after all, my solutions were exhausted, all my theories had played out in my mind. I realized it was because one thought would not leave me, no matter how many times I tried to brush it away. The simple truth that I had seen with my own eyes: how human it had looked.
* * *
I pinch the sights and place my thumb over the trigger. It is moving steadily amongst the leaves and is almost . . . graceful. As it comes closer I see the head move and the fingers rustle the leaves. I try to tell myself the beast is not mirroring my own actions from a few hours before; pressing down on the leaves, weighing up each branch. Left or right, my mind whispers, almost scratching against the core of my brain. It feigns one way and then drifts the other; away from the net and into my sights. I flex my hand and return it to the trigger. A touch will guarantee my safety for this day, this month, forever. The temperature around me drops, as if it is waiting for us to play out our game. It does not look straight at me, nothing as clichéd as that. Simply put, the creature does not know I am here. I feel my finger itch and swallow hard.
One pull and it is over.
One shot and there is nothing left.
My finger slips out of the guard before my mind even confirms the action. I quietly draw the weapon down and watch as it moves away, back down the same path it always chooses. Even as I follow the creature until it is a dot on the landscape, I know tomorrow I will re-set the traps and I will sight and then settle the head in my scope. I will do all this and my willingness to squeeze the trigger will grow weaker still. As I am left in the stillness of the night, I roll onto my back and watch the stars; soon the moon will appear like a comma in the night sky. I try to see the blue sky from that other time, the plane and the jet-smoke trail but that image is lost to me now. Instead, I follow the stars and listen out in case it returns somehow, though I’m certain it will not. The rifle rests against me and I’m aware of just how close the barrel is to my throat. Again, I notice that I do not feel any fear; my heart beats steady and true. When I speak I do not recognize my voice. It is alien to me now and a stranger.
“I do not want to be alone.”
by Richard Flores IV
The apartment door erupted in an explosion, devouring the six security locks. A small metal canister flew from the freshly made opening in the door. Samantha jumped from her couch as it bounced off the floor once, twice—BANG! A blinding flash of orange light followed the sound. Samantha clutched her face, falling to her knees in disorientation.
If anyone said anything, she could not hear it over the ringing in her ears. Two sets of hands took a strong hold of her arms and pulled her up. Her blurry eyesight could make out the heavily equipped men in uniform that were dragging her. Police! She had not done anything wrong, had she?
The men tossed her on her bed, the gel mattress immediately seizing her as it molded to her body. Samantha lay still, overwhelmed by the quick strike. The two officers stood at the foot of her bed, watching her without staring. Samantha thumbed the release switch that should have caused the bed to release its hold on her, but there was no response.
“You have the wrong house.” Samantha stated, trying not to show her panic.
“I assure you we are in the right place, Samantha Baxter.” The two uniformed men stepped back as a plain looking man came forward.
“I have not done anything wrong.” Samantha paused.
“You are right about that, but we need to talk.” The man pulled up a chair and sat beside Samantha. “It won’t take long, and you won’t even miss the time.”
The man produced a small needle. Samantha attempted to wiggle away.
“You can’t—” she began, but it was too late; the needle pushed into her arm, stinging her skin.
“That will only help you,” The man said calmly. “Mr. Jonathan Marcs. You know him right?”
“Wait, who are you?” Samantha became hesitant. What did her secret boyfriend have to do with this?
“This will go a lot faster if you stick to my questions.” The man paused. “I am Agent Daffron.”
“Agent?”
“Agent, from the Government Protection Agency.” Daffron stated as if it was obvious, and with a bit of annoyance. “Now can we get back to Mr. Marcs?”
“Jon is a client of Mr. Wineburn, my boss. I only talk to him when he checks in with me. I’m the receptionist.” Samantha stated with as much contempt as she could muster. “Jon is just a small business owner, what would the GPA want with him?”
“Samantha, the GPA is interested in anyone who plans to take down the State.” Daffron let out a sigh. “You seem far too able to ask questions.”
“Jon is hardly a terrorist.” Samantha let the shock leak out in her tone.
“You know this how? After all, he only checks in with you.” Daffron was speaking sarcastically. “Is it because he does not fit the mold, the stereotypical terrorist as seen on TV?”
“Well—”
“Or is it because you wouldn’t sleep with a terrorist?”
Samantha was shocked; how did they know? Of course! The GPA was capable of watching anyone in almost any place. She would have never suspected she was being watched. “Okay, you’re right. I see Jon a little more than at the reception desk.”
“I’ll say. I might also mention that the GPA takes interest in those associating with terrorists.” Daffron paused. “So, again. What do you know about Mr. Marcs?”
“I met him shortly after I started working at the firm. It’s a good job; you won’t tell my boss that I am sleeping with a client. I could lose my job.”
“I am growing tired of your distractions.”
“I am sorry. It’s the fog in my head.” Samantha felt lucid. But really it was her own defiance that kept her rattling out the questions. If they wanted answers, she was going to first find out what they wanted. What she could not figure out was why she was even talking to this Agent, likely a result of the injection.
“The haze in your head is normal with the medication I gave you.” He rested his hand on her shoulders.
Samantha let out a scream. “Get your hands off me! You can’t do this to me. I will sue you and everyone in this room. I have certain rights.”
“The next thing you’re going to say is that you pay my salary.” Daffron did not let go and stared into her eyes. “I am not some street cop and this is not about some speeding ticket. I assure you that you have no rights while I am in this room.”
Samantha withered under Daffron’s intimidating gaze. Her fear paralyzed her from reacting in the hostile way she had. She finally felt her breath return to her. She could only muster a whisper. “Okay.”
“Can we get back to Mr. Marcs?” Daffron took his hand off Samantha and sat back. All the calming nature had returned to his voice.
“He needed legal services and we are one of the best. Jon said it was also the fact that he wanted to support another local business. He comes in for advice, legal issues with his money, creating legal service contracts and documents. I think he pretty much uses every service our firm offers, which is a lot.” Samantha stopped. She realized by Daffron’s blank stare this was not enough to satisfy the Agent. “After about his fifth visit—”
“Sixth visit, actually.” Daffron stated dryly.
“After his sixth visit, I guess, he asked me out on a date. It is not allowed, and I told him that, but he was so charming and, well . . . I could not resist.”
“I bet.” Daffron pulled out a file and looked at it closely. “That was about six months, twenty dates, or three sexual encounters ago. Depending on how you measure time, Samantha.”
“I suppose. How long has the GPA been watching me?”
“Six months, twenty dates, or three sexual encounters, depending . . . ”
“On how I measure time.” Samantha turned away from him.
“Exactly.” Daffron stated with a sound of satisfaction. “So tell me, have you been to his shop?”
“You already know I have.”
“I suppose I do.” Daffron paused for a moment. “Does he have a lot of customers there?”
“You know that too.”
“Nevertheless, I would like to hear it from you.” Daffron stated. Samantha realized by the sound in his voice that perhaps he did not know much about what went on inside Jon’s shop.
“I have never paid much attention, honestly.” Samantha turned back to face the Agent, really taking him in. For someone who knew everything about her last six months of life, she had never seen him before. He wore a plain blue suit with a hat pulled down to obscure just enough of his face. “Don’t you think the fedora is a bit cliché for a Government Agent to be wearing?”
“Perhaps, but you are distracting from the real issues.” Daffron looked at the folder as he spoke. “Based on what we have seen of his store traffic, he should barely be breaking even each year. Tell me, does he live like he is struggling?”
“I think you are trying to convince me Jon may very well be a terrorist.” Samantha paused. “You already know the facts you have. What is it you need from me?”
“Fine.” Daffron shut the folder and looked Samantha in the eyes. “We don’t know what Jon is doing in his shop, and we are hoping you do.”
“So you need my help? Well what if I don’t want to help?”
“If you didn’t think it was possible to live in a worse place then this,” Daffron gestured to the small studio apartment while looking around. “I can show you one. If you like your home, you will help us.”
“I am not a criminal.”
“We know, but failing to cooperate with me can make you one. Can we get back to my questions?” Daffron waited for Samantha to nod. “Have you seen Jon meet with anyone?”
“Just my boss.”
“So your boss handles Mr. Marcs’ account himself?”
“Yes.”
“Does your boss do that a lot with low profile clients?”
“No, not really. Only friends and big shots get his attention.”
Daffron said what she was thinking. “So either he has a lot more money than you realized, or Mr. Marcs is friends with your boss. If they’re friends, I wouldn’t worry about me telling Mr. Wineburn about your involvement with Jon. But, think about it hard. On your dates it is always high class dining. Well, except for those lunches at the diner. His gifts are always extravagant aren’t they? Sure, he drives a typical sedan and lives in a typical suburban home. Of course, Mr. Marcs has always been good at hiding his money, except when it comes to the ladies.”
“He has done this with others?” Samantha was hurt by the thought that others had been rained on with Jon’s generosity and affection.
“Of course, but don’t be upset. He is clearly far more in love with you than the others.” Daffron let out a sarcastic laugh. “I have already been here longer than I wanted, or should be. You keep digressing from the situation at hand. Was there anyone else you can remember Mr. Marcs meeting with? In private?”
Samantha tried to recall. Her mind was not very sharp. Then suddenly the thought came to her, as if someone had allowed her access to it. “There was a man, a rather unimportant looking person. It was the first time I had been to his shop. A man came in. They went to a back room for nearly an hour. I was about to leave, figuring our date was canceled, when they both came out.”
“Does he cancel dates often?” Daffron asked.
“More than I would like.” Samantha let a little bit of aggravation come out in her words. “He is always late or something. Some 'damn last-minute customer,' he always says.”
“Do you know the name of the customer he met with?”
“No. Jon said it was a business deal.”
“Samantha, I think you have worn out your use for the GPA.” Daffron made a gesture to the damaged front door. “We hoped you might know more about what goes on inside his shop.”
Samantha saw a man in a brown suit, much the same style as Daffron’s, enter the room. She struggled to think of something that might help the Agent. If she was put in jail she would surely lose her job. “I really didn’t know to look for anything. I don’t know much about the operations of an auto shop.”
Daffron pulled out a large syringe. “I am going to give you something to help you forget this ever happened.”
“You’re going to erase my memories?” Samantha frantically pressed the release button again and again. The bed refused to let her go.
“Calm down, Samantha. It will only effect the last few hours, most of which you spent watching that same old movie you seem to love. You won’t even know it happened. Besides, it is relatively safe.” Daffron stuck the needle into her arm.
“Relatively?” Samantha panicked and struggled against the gel’s grip on her.
“Well, you will go into cardiac arrest.” Daffron pushed down the plunger with a slow steady force.
“I don’t want to die!” Samantha screamed.
An icy cold began to rush over her body, slowly flooding around her arm and across her body. She began to gasp for air in panic as she realized the cold-flowing blood was reaching her heart.
“Relax, you will only be dead for a few minutes. Our doctors always get a revival.” Daffron said calmly. Samantha closed her eyes feeling sleepy. “Well. Almost always.”
* * *
Samantha woke up with a start. She could still feel the coldness of her blood in her arm and chest. She pressed the release; as soon as the gel adjusted she jumped out of bed. She struggled for breath to calm herself and looked around the room.
She took a breath again, her body beginning to warm up. She slowly walked to the front door. The door was fully intact, all six locks bolted shut. Even the familiar old dent from the party she threw was still there. She began to breathe a bit more regular as she realized she was awake from the nightmare.
Looking at her clock, she realized there was no point in going back to sleep. She may as well get ready for work. Somehow she had to pay for this overpriced dump.
As she slipped out of her nightgown she rationalized all the ridiculous things she had dreamt about. She was mad at Jon for canceling their lunch date yesterday. That’s why he was demonized in her dream. Agents drugging people for questioning didn’t happen in free societies. Yet, by the time she was dressed for work, she was still unconvinced.
She got to work a little early that morning; she chose to drive to work but still left at the same time as if she had walked; she did't want to be out in the open. Walking into the high rise building and past the security desk, she smiled at the two security guards who always watched her intently as they sat at the desk. Were they involved? Impossible, they just enjoyed watching a woman in form-fitting business dress walk by.
At the elevator, she pressed her thumb against the reader until the light went from red to green. The doors opened and she got in. She took the lift to the twelfth floor.
By the time she stepped out of the elevator, her thoughts were on her day of work. She reminded herself of the things she would need to get done, rather than focusing on an impossible dream. She saw Jon waiting by the office door. As she approached him she looked around.
“Awfully risky being here so early to meet me.” Samantha smiled. “I need this job. If Mr. Wineburn sees you…”
“I am here for an emergency appointment.” Jon smiled at her. “I would kiss you but you would say no. Can we meet for lunch, down the street at the usual spot? I won’t be late again.”
“Sounds great.” Samantha smiled and unlocked the door. “Come in and sit down. Mr. Wineburn should be in soon.”
Samantha watched Jon sit at one of the large overstuffed waiting room chairs. She went to her computer behind the cherry wood reception desk, clocked in, and then began looking at the day’s appointments. “He is booked solid today.”
“I called him already. He will see me.” Jon said.
“I didn’t know you had his cell number. So are you good friends?” Samantha smiled to take the edge off her statement.
Jon just laughed. Shortly later, Mr. Wineburn came in. Samantha greeted him as usual. He nodded to her and then took Jon back to a conference room. Just before leaving he turned around and smiled. “Are you okay, Samantha? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I am fine, sir.” Samantha smiled warmly. “Rough night’s sleep.”
“Too many sweets before bed will do that.” Mr. Wineburn went into the conference room.
She began to look over the schedule for the day. It was mostly the regular big shots who ‘kept this town running,’ as she had heard Mr. Wineburn brag. There was one new name, a new client.
Henry Daffron.
Samantha took a deep breath to conceal her fear. She knew that name. Why was he coming to her office? It was a new client meeting, last of the day. Surely this must be a coincidence.
Of course, seeing this appointment yesterday was how her subconscious got the name. Samantha smiled to herself at her own irrational fear. I’ll worry if he is wearing a fedora, she thought.
* * *
After an uneventful morning, Samantha left to meet Jon at the usual lunch-time meeting place. It was just far enough that she was not likely to run into any coworkers on their lunch breaks, but not so far as to make her late getting back.
She walked in and looked around. Jon was not there yet. She was a little annoyed, though he was not late yet. She looked over at the bar; a rather plain looking man looked at her. He was not someone who would stand out to anyone. As she made eye contact, he looked away. The coldness in his eyes was startling, familiar to her. She was certain she knew who he was.
She waited another ten minutes before she called Jon’s phone. He did not answer, and she left a rather rude message about failing to keep his promise to her. She ended the call and stood. The man from the bar walked past her. She stepped out of his way, despite that fact that she was nowhere near his path.
She got her meal to-go and left, looking carefully as she crossed the street.
* * *
Samantha was bored, a common problem after three. She had finished all her busy work, including the backlog of calls from her lunch break. The phones didn't ring much in the late afternoon.
Jon had still not returned her call. Anger with him brought other negative thoughts to her mind. She looked around to make sure no one was watching her work and then pulled up Jon’s file on the computer.
She looked over the rather secretly written files. Despite her knowledge of client files, these entries made little sense to her. After all, she was only a receptionist, but even she could see something was hidden. Jon made a lot of money for the owner of a small shop, a shop she had not seen many visitors enter. Perhaps he was big with parts sales over the net; many people ordered things online. Samantha saw many different cryptic cases. She was no lawyer, but she could see Jon was moving money and trying to keep it legal. Closing the file, she felt ashamed at her paranoia.
She had never thought about how much Jon made over the last six months, or three sexual encounters. Samantha shivered. This dream was clearly causing the paranoia. It was time to dismiss it for what it was, a horrible dream. She checked her phone again. Why hadn’t Jon called back?
The door to the office opened, and Samantha jumped as she recognized the man from the bar, now dressed in a sport coat and slacks. The man approached the desk. “I am here for an appointment.”
“Henry Daffron?” Samantha didn’t know how she knew it was him. It could have easily been one of the appointments for the five other lawyers.
“Yes.” The man was clearly taken back by her knowledge of his name.
“I will let him know you are here.” Samantha paused. “Your name sounds very familiar. Have we met before?”
“I am sure I would remember if we had.” Daffron smiled. “A woman as charming as yourself.”
She smiled back. “I’m sorry but your flattery is wasted, we can’t date clients.”
“A rule I am sure some might break.” Daffron leaned closer. “You wouldn’t do such a thing I am sure.”
Samantha tried to hide her concern. His name, his eyes, and his demeanor were all too familiar. Is it possible to dream of someone whom you never met?
“Mr. Wineburn rarely meets with new clients,” she said. “You must be a powerful man.”
“Of course not.” Daffron smiled. “I requested to speak with him. I have some information to share with him, and I am sure he has some information for me.”
Mr. Wineburn came out and brought Daffron to the conference room himself. The meeting lasted for some time, and Samantha went home without seeing her boss leave.
* * *
The next morning she found her boss waiting for her as she came in to work. He waved her to his office. She walked in and took a seat only after he gestured to one.
“Samantha,” Wineburn spoke with a bit of compassion in his voice. “I have been made aware that you are dating and are rather romantically involved with Jon Marcs, a client of mine.”
“Who told you such a thing?” Samantha faked a bit of contempt in her voice.
“Samantha, I know it is true. Besides, you also accessed his files, and that was just yesterday.” He slid a check over the desk. “I hate do this, but I have to let you go.”
Samantha took the check before the words slipped out of her mouth without thought. “It was that Henry Daffron, he told you didn’t he?”
“Who?”
“The man you met with last night?” Samantha saw the look of puzzlement remain on her boss' face. She stood up. “Never mind, I’ll gather what few things I have here and leave.”
It did not take long for her to gather the few pictures she had and the few supplies she had brought from home into a small box. As embarrassing as being fired was, she did not want to leave any personal belongings behind. She didn’t want to come back to this place.
She took her box and left the building. She wished she had chosen to drive today as she carried her box down the street. A flurry of emotions welled up inside of her. She was mad, and sad, but not about losing this particular job.
She had her worries: How she would pay her rent? How long would it be until she found work again? There were jobs out there, but being fired from a prestigious law firm would no doubt taint her ability to get work. She had too much pride to ask Jon for money, though his lack of contact with her likely meant he was not in her life anymore.
“Can I help you carry that box?”
Samantha turned and saw Daffron looking at her. He wore a blue suit and a fedora. Words came to Samantha’s mind so she spoke them. “Don’t you think the fedora is a bit cliché?”
“Perhaps, but you’re distracting yourself from the real issue.” Daffron spoke cautiously. “You remember don’t you?”
Samantha looked him over, and the cold feeling began to rush over her arm again. Dropping the box to the ground, she ran. She ran hard and fast. After fumbling for her phone to alert the police, she realized it was in the box.
She ran out of her heels and continued to run until her legs could no longer take the punishment. She stopped at the open field of a park and looked around. Seeing no one, she sat down, not out of fatigue but out of sudden sickness. She was dizzy and began to dry heave. Several moments passed before she regained herself and stood back up.
“You’ll be perfect for the job. You are in top physical form, and very inquisitive.” Daffron stood there holding her shoes and the box. “You are looking for work, aren’t you?”
Samantha stared at him blankly. Her reflexes told her to run again, but something in her mind made her stay. “What job?”
“Agent. It’s a good job, easily quadruple what you used to make. Good benefits too.” Daffron smiled a large, almost evil grin. “You could say it is the job you’ve dreamed of.”
“What do you need from me?” Samantha inched away from him, ignoring his humor.
“Don’t run again.” Daffron held out her shoes. “This meeting in purely optional, but the GPA could use your help. It will be beneficial for us both.”
“I have not seen Jon. He is not calling me anymore. I doubt I will be much help to you.” Samantha took her shoes and slipped them back on her feet.
“Jon has been with us, though I doubt he will remember it. You are the only person who ever has.” Daffron took a breath. “We know nothing about what Jon does inside the shop. Nothing we have can hear what goes on inside. We know enough about Jon to know who he really works for.”
“You need me to spy on him.” Samantha paused, noticing how Daffron’s eyes appeared warmer to her, almost inviting. Her fear of him was almost gone. “What makes you think I will betray Jon to you?”
“I am not asking you to betray Jon. I am only asking you to help protect your country.” Daffron said. “I can give you the means to prove Jon is innocent, if you still believe that after you see the files. Besides, you need the money.”
“And then once I prove Jon innocent or guilty, and GPA has no use for me, then what?”
“I am offering you the job of Agent. Trust me, once Jon is in custody, there are plenty more to track down.” Daffron handed Samantha her box. “It is up to you. I guarantee you a good life in this line of work. But once I walk away the offer is rescinded.”
Daffron turned around and started to walk away. Samantha began to think quickly. Could she really let him walk away? It had to be a good job. Besides, what loyalties did she really have to Jon?
Samantha realized she was only trying to rationalize her deep desire to take the job. The money would be good, and the job did interest her.
Daffron was at the street corner when Samantha called out. “I will take it on the condition that the fedora is optional.”
* * *
It had been three more months, fifteen more dates, or four more sexual encounters later before Samantha discovered everything she needed. She sat on a Doctor’s stool, Daffron standing over her shoulder.
She looked at Jon in the hospital bed. His arm was bandaged from an injury during his arrest. She knew things about Jon now, and there was little sympathy in her eyes.
“There is no need to question him.” Daffron rested his hand on her shoulder.
“Without me, we would have no case. I want to hear it from him,” she said coldly.
Jon opened his eyes, only to promptly slam them back shut.
“It’s bright in this room.” Samantha said in a calm reassuring voice. “The fog will clear in your head soon.”
“Samantha?” Jon said as he eased his eyes back open. “Is that you?”
“I’m Agent Baxter, Mr. Marcs. The GPA has some questions for you.” Samantha put on her cynical smile. “And, you won’t even miss the time.”
by Milan Smith
There was a house in the woods that Phillip and his friends passed by whenever they rode out to Thompson’s Bayou. People said it was haunted, and with its peeling paint, broken windows and overgrown yard, it looked the part. It had once been in the country, but the suburbs had grown and grown and now the newest homes stood only a hundred yards away.
At first the boys were fascinated by the house, and many times they’d dared each other to walk up and look in the windows, but no one ever did, and after numberless rides past it, they lost interest. But sometimes, while riding by at dusk, Phillip saw a little blond girl walking across the yard. This only happened when he was alone, or if his friends had gotten far ahead, which wasn’t often.
The girl was about his age, ten-years-old, and because he figured she lived in one of the nearby homes, he never paid much attention to her. He didn’t have much use for girls anyway, most of them didn’t like snakes or frogs or even playing in the bayou. But one day, when the others had ridden ahead, he saw her again.
For no particular reason he yelled, “Hey, stop! Wait for me!”
The girl stopped, turned and waited.
Phillip pedaled faster until he reached the oak tree by the side of the road, then jumped off his bike and looked up, but she was gone. He knew she couldn’t have gotten to the house that quick, so he rushed across the yard, thinking she was hiding in the tall grass. But he found nothing. He ran to the back of the house, and saw only the trees and brush that had grown up close to the back wall during the years of neglect.
Confused, he walked back to the front door and waited, thinking the girl might have gone inside. But that seemed unlikely, since the house had been empty for years. Still, where else could she be? He thought about knocking, but azalea bushes grew thick at the doorway and left a narrow path, and in the dying light the shadows lay deep. Phillip’s mind imagined many things crouching in those shadows, or watching him from the broken windows that stared out like blind eyes. It was getting dark, his friends were long gone, and he didn’t want to stay out there alone. All his life people had told him stories about the house, and now the rumors began to run through his mind: human sacrifice, someone being gutted, unanswered screams for mercy.
Phillip decided to knock, but he didn’t move right away. He was afraid to rush in among those shadows near the door, with the sun now falling behind the trees. He felt his heart thump hard, but he couldn’t move. Should he stay and knock, or leave? He had little time left. So, knock or leave? What to do?
Then, with a furious energy that surprised him, he rushed through the azaleas and to the door, knocked three times, then ran back a dozen yards to wait. Nothing. He waited more. Still nothing. He was worried; if there was anything bad in that house, it now knew about him, and he was all alone. Enough, he turned and ran across the yard, got on his bike, and pedaled away. His chain guard rattled and clanged as he rode. He looked back once and thought he saw the girl standing by the oak tree, a silhouette in the gloom, but he wasn’t sure, and he was unwilling to go back and see.
* * *
After that day, he thought a lot about the little girl. She’d looked so sweet in her red dress, with her little white socks and shiny black shoes. And the blond curls too. Maybe, he thought at first, she was all alone and needed a friend. But then, she always walked away when he came close. Well, maybe she didn’t like him? But no, she didn’t even know him, so that couldn’t be it.
So who was she, anyway? None of his friends knew anything. They hadn’t even seen her. Everyone had heard about the house, of course. Stories said a cult had once held kidnapped kids there, or that a woman was killed during a full moon, or that bodies were still buried in the backyard. When he would asked his parents about it, they always laughed it off or changed the subject. But when he started asking about the little girl, they just ignored him and walked away. No one had any answers, and with no one else to turn to, he decided to ask Mr. Withers.
Mr. Withers, tall, stooped, and white-haired, lived a few houses down the street. Though he was over 80 he walked the block twice a day with a metal-tipped cane. Often, on his late-afternoon walk, he’d stop and talk with Phillip’s father, and the two men would discuss the news. Although Mr. Withers was always nice to him, Phillip didn’t like to be around the old man. He had the smell of barbershops on him, the smell of aftershave, which Phillip had never liked. But he needed advice, and Mr. Withers was the only one he knew that might help. So Phillip waited one Saturday until Mr. Withers took his mid-morning stroll, and Phillip walked his bike alongside him.
“How you doing today, Mr. Withers?” Phillip asked.
Mr. Withers stared at the pavement under his feet as he walked. He now stopped, leaned on his cane and looked up at the boy. “Why fine, Phillip, and how are you today? Been riding about the neighborhood?”
“Yes, sir,” Phillip said. “We’re going out to the bayou and try and find some gators.”
“Oh, do you usually have much luck?” Mr. Withers asked.
“No, sir. They went and killed most of ‘em, saying it was dangerous and all, though I never seen ‘em bother anyone long as people left ‘em alone.”
“What a shame,” Mr. Withers said. “There was a time there were a number of gators in this area, but the tourists saw to it that that didn’t last.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you like to walk with me a little ways?” Mr. Withers asked.
“Yes, sir,” Phillip said, and the two began to stroll along, Mr. Withers with long, slow steps, Phillip with short bouncy ones. The homes they passed were well-kept, with yards closely-cut and bushes well-trimmed, and many with large magnolias whose yellow blossoms now threw off a fruity perfume. The street was quiet but for Mr. Withers’ cane rapping the sidewalk. Phillip looked up and squinted as they walked, the sun above the old man’s shoulder. “Mr. Withers, can I ask you something?” Phillip asked.
“Surely, Phillip.”
“It’s about that old haunted house by the bayou.”
Mr. Withers smiled. “I see.”
“I know nobody likes to talk about it much, because of all the human sacrifices and all.”
Mr. Withers nodded. “Now where did you hear that?”
“Around.”
“Of course,” Mr. Withers said. “And were you simply trying to trick me into talking about it, despite your parents’ wishes, or was there something specific you wanted to ask?”
“Well, it’s about the girl.”
“A girlfriend of yours?”
“No, sir. It’s the little blond girl I always see in the yard.”
A long silence fell between them, and only the tapping cane was heard. In the distance, a dog barked. Phillip thought the old man had forgotten the question, or had decided to ignore it, and he wondered whether he should have asked at all, when Mr. Withers suddenly spoke.
“There are many things you don’t know about yet,” Mr. Withers said, “perhaps you’re too young to know about.” And Mr. Withers fell silent again for a moment. “In any case, your parents feel that way, and I must respect their wishes and concerns. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Sometimes it’s just for the best. And besides, aren’t gators more interesting anyway?”
“No, sir.”
“No? You think an old house is that exciting?”
“Sometimes.”
“Ah.”
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