Nineteen-year-old Logan Colp is a Tennessee native living in California with his two brothers, mother and father as well as two pet cats. He is enrolled in the Creative Writing for Entertainment BFA at Full Sail University and says his strongest skill in writing is the characters he creates. He enjoys playing video games in his spare time and enjoys lore-driven games like Magic the Gathering and Dragon Age. He hopes to one day work for a game company that develops story-driven games so his skills can shine. The Hotel It was around 6pm when I gave my first yawn of the night. Whether out of boredom or just being old and tired, I sat around waiting for something like her to come up. Rain filled my stereotypical evenings before I got up and closed the office for the night. My shiny Kel-Tec P-3AT sat in its pretty little box in my desk, never used, just like the last time I inspected it ten minutes ago. She came in and the door shut quietly behind her. She looked wrought with worry, but was nonetheless beautiful, even in her comfortable looking blue jeans and t-shirt with a coat. “Justin Hoffman, PI. What can I-“ “We need to talk, but not here,” The dame said. Her face was wrought with different levels of fear, anger and worry. “I hope you saw the sign, miss,” I said. The sign in question was placed outside my office, above my ‘work’ hours, which were usually ignored anyway. “Yes, I know about your wages,” She said. She stared me down for a moment before finally giving in to the blank expression I gave back. “Fine, I have… I need a little for gas, but the rest is yours,” She said, throwing a small wad of bills on the desk. I counted the money, moving the dollars around. She only looked to have about twenty or so on her, but I wasn’t too stingy about it. “What’s the situation, then?” I said, trying not to seem desperate as I put the money in my pocket. She reminded me that we couldn’t talk in my office, for some reason, so she wrote down an address and a word underlined multiple times for emphasis and left. “Meet me there in room one-nineteen at three pm.” I nodded and she left. The next day, I did as she asked. It turns out that the hotel she sent me to was in on whatever she was doing, because I was asked for a password. I looked at the post-it and read the underlined word. “Alleyway,” I said. Everyone in the lobby looked at me, judging me for even breathing. Three short knocks and an ammo check of my still shiny pistol and I was inside. “Mr. Hoffman. Thank you for coming,” she said. The same woman from yesterday, but her new choice of clothing would have convinced you she was not who she seemed. “No problem, but I don’t understand why you’d go to all this trouble. You could have just bought me a beer and called it even,” I said. I smirked at myself for that one. “Well, you understand our world these days. With our leader’s lies and drones, I just can’t be too careful,” she said. Unfortunately, I knew all too well what she meant. “Yes, I understand. It was only a joke. Please, forgive me,” I said. “You see, my father has recently… disappeared. I want to get him back. If he can be, that is.” She said. There was a solemn tone to her voice, inducing a frown from both of us. I led her to the balcony and had her sit down nearest the window. I removed my jacket and let the wind cool me down. “Any information you have would be very helpful.” “Well, that’s the reason I brought you here, actually. If he’s anywhere, he’s in this hotel,” she said. I leaped out of my seat and grabbed my gun after pinning my badge to my chest. “What floor?” I said. She looked stunned, but told me just the same. “Uh... Th-The ninth floor is where he should be.” I should have asked her how she got that information. I should have asked a lot of things. It was suspicious from the start. By the time these thoughts could have even registered in my head, it was too late. I raced up the stairs to the ninth floor and found a door slightly ajar. When I opened it all the way, my gun aimed inside to catch any would-be assailants off-guard, I noticed the writing on the back of the man on the balcony’s shirt. Secret police. I was an up-and-coming private investigator who had already done a few cases and got a few officials arrested. I guess they had had enough of me, because now my shiny gun was stained in blood and brain and mush. All of it belonged to me.
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Jed Herne is an Australian architecture student whose fiction has been published or is forthcoming in Scarlet Leaf Review, Flintlock and Down in the Dirt. Jed enjoys soccer, hiking, cut-throat board games and chances to discuss himself in the third person. He blogs at jedhernewriter.wordpress.com, and his writing advice has been published on The Better Novel Project, The Writing Cooperative and ProWritingAid. FIGHT OF THE CARGO HAULER Christina Everett’s day went downhill when the yellow light flashed on her spaceship’s dashboard. Groaning, she eased her bulky backside out of the pilot’s chair. She shuffled out of the cockpit, not bothering to grab the holochart with directions to the faulty boiler. Yellow wasn’t too bad. It didn’t mean Christina’s cargo hauler was in mortal danger – not like when it flashed red. Yellow just meant minor repairs. More damn repairs. She’d spent most of her six-month trip tightening screws, replacing fuses and wishing TransCorp hadn’t given her a spaceship that had been old at the start of last century. The holochart would’ve told her to turn right at the junction. Instead, Christina pried open a floor panel and squeezed into a service duct. She shimmied past pipes and wires, her large belly pressing against the walls, and opened another hatch. Climbing down a ladder, she emerged in corridor 2C. Striding along, she didn’t glance in the storage rooms on either side. When you’ve hauled cargo for half your forty-six years, it stops being interesting – no matter how much TransCorp gets paid for the delivery. She walked past the room with the hologram projectors. Ahead, gas spewed from the wall and a light flashed above. Christina checked her chronometer. She smiled. Thirty-three seconds from cockpit to boiler. She’d like to see someone beat that with the dumb computer’s directions – the computer that claimed to know everything about the vessel, but didn’t know half as much as her. Christina fixed the boiler with two tweaks of her wrench. Her smile faded. But of course, her skills didn’t matter. It didn’t matter how she could get from any point to any other in six minutes, even though the maze-like, four-level spaceship was five hundred metres long. It didn’t matter that she could fix every piece of equipment on board. No one would ever see. No one would ever care. Space was an abyss of nothingness, but the loneliness of her six-month cargo trips was nothing against the loneliness of the spaceports. Sighing, Christina trudged back to the cockpit, her flabby arms hanging at her sides. She needed to cheer herself up. She’d watch a HoloReel – yeah, a HoloReel! One of her favourites. A Clash of Colonies, or maybe Zanthus: Space Pilot. Sure, Zanthus was decades old, but they’d never made a finer film about the Galactic Navy. When Christina got back into the cockpit, the warning light was flashing red. Christina’s eyes widened. She checked the computer: [Alert] Fatal collision in 00:23:59. Course change advised [/Alert] Christina cursed. A spaceship was approaching: it would crash into Christina’s hauler in twenty-four minutes. Christina hit the identify button. A message popped up: [ID_Report_01] Identification request ping sent [/ID_Report_01] [Alert] Fatal collision in 00:23:56. Course change advised [/Alert] Christina waited for her ping to return. She swallowed. Only cargo vessels used this stretch of space between Yussal-3 and Dracona Minor, and the approaching ship was travelling twice as fast as any hauler had a right to go. The ping returned and a message appeared: [ID_Report_01] Identification request failed [/ID_Report_01] [Alert] Fatal collision in 00:23:51. Course change advised [/Alert] Christina breathed out. Okay. Maybe it was an error. Maybe a cloud of space debris had blocked the ping. She waited for a minute and re-sent the request. Seconds later, the ping returned: [ID_Report_02] Identification request failed [/ID_Report_02] [Alert] Fatal collision in 00:22:30. Course change advised [/Alert] Christina chewed her fingernails. The other ship was either behind the largest cloud of space dust this side of the Carlson Nebula, or her ping was being blocked. She pried her overalls off her sweaty back. Only one way to find out. She hit the communication button. “This is Christina Everett, captain of the TransCorp-2408-Bovine. Please identity yourself.” Static filled the line. “Unidentified ship, you are on a collision course with my hauler. Please identify –” The line crackled and a man spoke: “My name is Arnov, hauler.” “Arnov, be advised that –” “Quit worrying, Christina! We’ve got eighteen minutes until the crash.” Christina glared at the stars. She’d dealt with people like Arnov before: hotshot captains trying to impress their friends by skimming a cargo hauler. [Alert] Fatal collision in 00:17:47. Course change advised [/Alert] “Arnov, please change your thrust vector. I’ve got a lot of cargo and my boss won’t be happy if it tumbles into space.” “Don’t worry. You’ll have more to worry about than your boss when I reach you.” Christina’s skin crawled, as if a thousand nanobots were marching across her neck. “What?” “Are you deaf? I said, you’ll have more to worry about than your boss when I reach you.” Christina swallowed. “You’re not a pirate, are you?” “No. You’re only a pirate if you’re caught. I’ll be long gone when the Galactic Navy arrive.” Christina wiped her clammy hands on her overalls. Arnov was crazy. Christina had to get away. She overrode the autopilot and boosted the thrusters. [Alert] Fatal collision avoided. [/Alert] “C’mon,” said Arnov. “Where’s your sense of sport?” The radar blipped: Arnov’s ship had altered course. [Alert] Fatal collision in 00:16:01. Course change advised [/Alert] Christina’s heart raced. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but change your course right now!” Arnov laughed. “Don’t get your overalls caught in knot. If you don’t want to play, I’ll tell it to you straight. In fifteen minutes my crew will board your ship, and we'll take anything we fancy. I’d like to say we targeted you specifically, but you’re just a nobody who’s in our way. You can’t outrun us, you can’t outgun us and you sure as hell won’t get any mercy if you try to do either of those. Be in the landing bay when we dock. If we like the look of you, we’ll sell you as a slave in the next spaceport. See you soon, captain.” The line cut off. Christina stared out of the cockpit, her eyes wide. This couldn’t be happening. [Alert] Fatal collision avoided. Unidentified ship on docking trajectory. Will dock in 00:21:23 [/Alert] Christina swallowed. Twenty-one minutes until Arnov arrived. Then the best Christina could hope for was a quick death or a life of slavery on a backwards outer-rim planet. She hunched over and cried. Why her? What had she done to deserve this? The computer beeped: [Alert] Unidentified ship on docking trajectory. Will dock in 00:19:23 [/Alert] Christina grabbed the holochart and stumbled out of the cockpit. Blinking back tears, she waddled to the landing bay. She’d have to beg. She had to grovel, she had bow, she had to convince Arnov and her crew they’d be better off leaving her alive. [Alert] Unidentified ship on docking trajectory. Will dock in 00:18:12 [/Alert] Christina rounded the corner. She could’ve pried off a maintenance panel and taken a shortcut, but what was the point? Christina snorted. How pointless were all the things she prided himself on! All the shortcuts, all the memorised lines from Zanthus: Space Pilot, all the things that defined her. Pointless. She was as worthless as space dust. [Alert] Unidentified ship on docking trajectory. Will dock in 00:16:23 [/Alert] She tapped the wall panel and the bulky metal door to the landing bay slid open. She stumbled inside. This was it. Forty-six years of life about to be snuffed like a flame in a vacuum. And what had she achieved? She’d dreamed of being a Galactic Navy Pilot, and becoming a wisecracking adventurer like Zanthus. But she’d dropped out of the academy in her second year. The long stretches of interstellar transport routes had been her home ever since. She sobbed. No one would care when the pirates put a blaster bolt through her brain. There’d be no friends to mourn her, and no family to cry when they got the hologram from whomever found her dead body. Christina Everett was alone, and the cold stars would be the only ones to watch her lifeless body drift through space. The holochart beeped: [Alert] Unidentified ship on docking trajectory. Will dock in 00:15:00 [/Alert] Christina’s hands shook. The holochart beeped again. She screamed and hurled the machine at the wall. It bounced off, undamaged. Christina stomped it and kicked it and pounded it until her hands bled and still the holochart lay unbroken on the floor. And as Christina stood there, blood dripping from her knuckles to the floor, the holochart counting down until her life ended, she realised something. She’d failed as a Navy pilot, and she was nothing like Zanthus, but she did know this ship. She knew every corridor, every service duct and every stupid malfunctioning piece of equipment. And she’d be damned if she would let Arnov take it. Christina grabbed the holochart. She checked the alert: [Alert] Unidentified ship on docking trajectory. Will dock in 00:14:23 [/Alert] She strode out of the landing bay. Fourteen minutes to prepare for Arnov’s landing. There were no weapons on board – even TransCorp weren’t dumb enough to transport guns in a lumbering piece of junk like this ship – so a straight shoot-out wasn’t an option. Not that Christina had ever used a gun, anyway. She couldn’t fight the pirates like Zanthus would; guns a-blazing and wisecracks spewing out even faster than the blaster bolts. [Alert] Unidentified ship on docking trajectory. Will dock in 00:13:12 [/Alert] Christina opened a storage room and grabbed a portable electro-magnet. She took a shortcut through a service vent into corridor 2C and found the room with the hologram projectors. After fixing the electro-magnet to the ceiling and pairing it with a hand-held switch, she opened the case on a hologram projector and tinkered with the programing. [Alert] Unidentified ship on docking trajectory. Will dock in 00:09:45 [/Alert] Christina dashed out of the store room and took a shortcut to level 1. Plugging her holochart into the escape pod, she edited the code so she could control the pod with the holochart. She couldn’t use the escape pod to flee – the pirates would shoot it – but she could use it as a diversion. [Alert] Unidentified ship on docking trajectory. Will dock in 00:06:32 [/Alert] Christina’s fingers shook and she had to re-type a line of code. She swallowed. This was taking too long. Maybe she should’ve hacked the life support for the landing bay … no, she didn’t have the time to do that safely. [Alert] Unidentified ship on docking trajectory. Will dock in 00:05:12 [/Alert] Christina pressed execute and her new programing installed. [Alert] Unidentified ship on docking trajectory. Will dock in 00:04:41 [/Alert] She dashed into the room with the artificial gravity systems. Another few lines of code linked the system to her holochart. [Alert] Unidentified ship on docking trajectory. Will dock in 00:03:12 [/Alert] Christina’s heart pounded as she climbed a service ladder. She was running out of time. She reached level four. Her bulky chest heaved and sweat stained her overalls. Adrenaline coursed through her system, but that didn’t change the fact she’d spent most of the last twenty-three years planted in a pilot’s chair. She staggered to the cockpit and opened the communicator, ready to send an emergency alert. Her hand hovered over the button. [Alert] Unidentified ship on docking trajectory. Will dock in 00:02:49[/Alert] What was she thinking? Could she fend off the pirates long enough for the Galactic Navy to arrive? This was a transport corridor. It’d take hours for a Navy ship to reach her. She swallowed. Once she sent the alert, Arnov would know she’d called for help and there’d be no turning back. [Alert] Unidentified ship on docking trajectory. Will dock in 00:02:20 [/Alert] Screw it, Christina thought. They’ll kill me either way. She hit the button. The communicator squawked. “What are you doing?” asked Arnov: there were growls in the background. Christina tried to sound braver than she felt. “This is a sting, Arnov. I’ve got ten Navy Officers on board and another two ships on the way. Last chance to escape.” Arnov snorted. “You wouldn’t have warned me if this was a trap. I’m disappointed, Captain Everet. We had an understanding, and now you’ve ruined it.” Fear surged through Christina. “No – wait, I was joking –” “Do you hear me laughing?” Christina sobbed. “Please! Please don’t kill me! You can have the ship – you can have everything! Just let me live!” Arnov sighed. “I gave you a chance, and you spat on it. Don’t worry, I’ll make your death quick. Painful, but quick.” The line cut off. [Alert] Unidentified ship on docking trajectory. Will dock in 00:00:59 [/Alert] Christina wanted nothing more to sit and weep. But there was only one way out of this, and it was to take down the pirates. Okay, thought Christina. What would Zanthus do? Christina hit the scan button. The specs for Arnov’s ship appeared on the computer: [Diagnostic_Scan] Mark 5B Corsair; full military arnament; top speed of 0.5c; max capacity of 8 humanoids. [/Diagnostic_Scan] Christina cursed. Arnov was piloting a Navy-grade ship with enough guns to turn the cargo hauler into space dust. The only good part of the scan was that Arnov’s Corsair was an attack ship with a maximum crew of six. [Alert] Unidentified ship on docking trajectory. Will dock in 00:00:30 [/Alert] A red light appeared amongst the stars. The light grew, and a few seconds later the Corsair appeared in the distance, shooting towards the hauler. Christina swallowed. Too late to back out now. She had to take down the pirates. With another line of code, Christina transferred the cargo hauler’s CCTV feeds to her holochart. [Alert] Unidentified ship on docking trajectory. Will dock in 00:00:15 [/Alert] Christina typed one last code and all the ship’s doors locked. She wiped her sweaty hands. Arnov’s corsair passed the cockpit, close enough for Christina to see the scorch marks on its hull. The hauler rattled. Christina gripped her armrests. [Alert] Unidentified ship has docked in main landing bay. [/Alert] Christina swallowed. The pirates were here. The computer beeped: [Alert] Attempted systems brea The readout faltered. “Hello, captain,” said Arnov over the cockpit’s speakers. Christina flinched. Arnov laughed. “I’d ask for permission to come on board, but I don’t feel up to formalities today.” Her fingers trembling, Christina brought up the landing bay’s CCTV feed. The grainy camera footage showed the airlock opening. A handsome man in a battered leather jacket stepped into the landing bay and sneered. “What a dump,” said the man, who Christina realised was Arnov. “We better get a decent haul, and not more damn grains.” Christina’s hands curled into fists. How dare Arnov insult her ship! Arnov frowned at the locked door. “Knelli, get over to that control panel.” “Sure thing, honey.” Knelli, a red-skinned, twelve-fingered Blohirk, strutted out of the Corsair and marched to the control panel. She started typing. “Man, this system’s older than the one on my nan’s ship!” “It’s not old!” said Christina, even though Knelli was three floors away. “It’s functional!” In the landing bay, a hulking eight-foot tall Krall emerged from Arnov’s ship, holding the leash of a snarling Flithe Hound. Christina’s eyes widened. Flithe Hounds were genetically engineered for hunting. Once a Flithe caught an escaped prisoner’s scent, they could track them to the other side of a planet. The Krall released the Hound. It bounded to a stain on the floor and sniffed. Christina cursed. That wasn’t a stain. It was her blood, from where she’d smashed the holochart. The Hound slammed into the landing bay’s door, barking. Christina trembled. The Hound had her scent. At least it couldn’t – The cockpit door opened behind her. She whipped around, half expecting Arnov to storm into the room. He didn’t. Christina laughed. Of course he hadn’t. The landing bay was on level 1, next to the life support and artificial gravity machines – far away from the level 4 cockpit. She glanced at her holochart. Her laughter died. Every door had opened, and the Hound had disappeared from the landing Bay. Arnov smiled at the camera. “Better run, girlie!” Christina cursed. Knelli – she’d hacked into the system! A bark echoed from the corridor behind the cockpit. Christina stood and turned around. The Hound crouched at the far end, hackles raised, spit dribbling from its mouth. It sprinted towards Christina. She yelped and pelted down a side corridor as fast as her flabby legs could propel her. The Hound tore around the bend. Christina cursed. She couldn’t outrun the Hound. She needed a plan. Christina raced around the corner and pelted towards the storage room at the corridor’s end, her lungs on fire. Rabid growling echoed behind her. She fumbled with the holochart. The Hound streaked around the corner behind her, mouth foaming, eyes gleaming with rage. It leapt at Christina – And she ducked and switched off the artificial gravity. The Hound soared over Christina, claws tearing through where her throat had been, and crashed into the wall beside the storage room’s door. Christina floated into the air, cursing. She’d wanted the Hound to fly into the storage room. She stretched for the wall-mounted fire extinguisher. It was too far away, and now she was floating towards the Hound. Christina hurled the holochart. The throw propelled her to the fire extinguisher, which she tore off the wall. She spun, the corridor revolving around her. A blast from the fire extinguisher stopped her spinning. She aimed the nozzle at the dog and fired. The gas hit the Hound and it yelped as it flew into the storage room. Christina shut the door, locking the snarling creature inside, then grabbed the floating holochart and re-enabled gravity. Crash! She fell to the floor. Sweat coated her body and her hands shook like a malfunctioning ion drive. But she’d done it. She’d bloody done it! She vomited. Once she finished, she grabbed the holochart. Zero-G always made her puke. Just another reason she’d failed as a Navy Pilot. The floor shook. Christina turned around and the eight-foot tall Krall lumbered around the corner. “That was my pet, you pathetic hauler!” The Krall crashed into Christina. Christina flew back and slammed into the door. The Hound barked on the other side. The Krall loomed over her. “Open the door!” Christina wiped blood off her split lip. “N-N-No.” The Krall drew back a gigantic fist. “What was that?” “I said –” Christina rolled to the side. She scrambled up, trying to get past the Krall, but huge hands grabbed her and hurled her down the corridor. She crashed into a wall and groaned. The move-mid-sentence-trick had always worked for Zanthus. Her chubby legs shaking, Christina stood. The Krall pounded towards her. “You’ve got four limbs, fatty. How many do I have to rip off before you open the door?” Christina staggered away. The Krall laughed and pounded after her. Christina’s mind raced. She couldn’t outrun the Krall and she couldn’t fight him – even strong humans were no match for Kralls. Wait! That was it! The Krall wasn’t human, which meant he couldn’t metabolize alcohol. Especially not the fifteen kilo-litres of hundred-percent pure, burn-through-engine-grease alcohol in storage room 3E. Christina stumbled around the corner. The lumbering Krall overshot her and bounced off the wall. Christina pried open a hatch. She slithered into the service tunnel – And the Krall’s meaty hand wrapped around her ankle. Christina yelped. She grabbed a pipe and her chubby arms were almost wrenched off as the Krall tugged her. The pipe burst. Gas billowed up and the Krall stumbled back, his grip loosening. Christina tugged her ankle out of the Krall’s hand. She scrambled along the duct and dropped into the corridor below. Wincing, she stumbled to the nearest door. Her flabby arm throbbed when she opened store room 3E. She sighed. Good thing the Krall was too bulky to crawl through – Crack! The ceiling fractured. Panels fell onto Christina, who dropped the holochart and dove into store room 3E as the ceiling collapsed. The Krall thudded into the corridor. “Enough running, puny hauler!” Christina crawled to the tank of alcohol. “You’re–” Christina coughed blood. “You’re the one who’s puny.” She stood and leaned against the tank. The Krall strode into the room. Blood dribbled down Christina’s chin. “Bet you couldn’t even knock me out with a punch, you weakling.” The Krall roared and punched at Christina. Christina ducked. The Krall’s fist glanced off Christina’s head. Light flashed behind Christina’s eyes and she crashed into the floor as the Krall’s fist crunched into the tank. Floosh! The tank burst. Alcohol exploded outwards. Christina spluttered, trying to hold her breath as liquid spewed into the Krall’s face. He stumbled back, choking. Clutching his throat, the Krall lurched towards Christina. She shied back, but the Krall collapsed with a crunch that shook the floor. Christina stood. Alcohol dripped from her hair. Her eyes stung, her overalls were soaked and she reeked of ethanol. Slipping on the wet floor, she staggered outside. She locked the storage room’s door. Even if the Krall was alive, the hauler’s bulky doors were too tough for him to break. She grabbed the holochart. Despite the cracked screen and the sticky buttons, the machine still worked. “What the hell are you doing, Captain Everett?” said Arnov over the speakers. Christina jumped. “Do you know how many people we’ve killed?” said Arnov. “Do you know how many pathetic cargo haulers have begged us for mercy? And do you know how many got it?” Zanthus would’ve made a witty quip. Christina was too busy trembling. “No one, Everett!” roared Arnov. “No one!” The doors at the ends of the corridor shut. Christina’s eyes widened. She was trapped. Toxic gas hissed up from the floor’s vents. Christina held her breath. Arnov must’ve triggered the coolant pipes’ emergency valves! Christina slammed the button to open the door. It stayed shut. Lungs straining, Christina fumbled to bring up the door codes on her holochart, squinting through the thickening gas. The door slid open. A hint of fresh air wafted in, but the door slammed shut straight away. Cursing, Christina checked the cockpit’s camera. Arnov sat in the captain’s chair. Knelli – the red-skinned Blohirk – crouched behind the computer console. Christina tried to open the door again, but Knelli hit a button and it stayed shut. Christina’s eyes stung. The gas was so thick she had to hold the holochart a hand’s breath from her face. She couldn’t hold her breath much longer. She had to get Knelli out of the cockpit. Christina had one chance. She typed in a line of code with shaking fingers and the ship shook as the escape pod launched. The cockpit’s camera showed Knelli turning to Arnov. “She’s launched the escape pod!” Arnov frowned. “What?” Christina gasped and acrid gas swirled into her mouth and she coughed. The escape pod cleared the ship. Christina entered new co-ordinates and watched through the pod’s camera as it accelerated back to the cargo hauler. Nausea swept through Christina. She slid down the wall. “I don’t like this.” Arnov took out his blaster. “I’m going to kill her.” “Have fun, sweetie!” Knelli said as Arnov strode out of the cockpit, the cockpit’s door sliding shut behind him. Christina’s fingers hovered over the final line of code. She blinked. The holochart was blurry and flickering. Christina swallowed. Knelli would escape if she mistimed this. But the gas would kill Christina if she waited any longer. She transmitted the code. The escape pod shot towards the cargo hauler’s cockpit. Knelli cursed. She scrambled to the closed door – And the escape pod crashed into the cockpit. Crack! The plexiglass splintered and the cockpit exploded. The captain’s chair was ripped from the floor and Knelli hurtled into space, screaming soundlessly. Christina wacked into the wall as the ship jerked back. Her hands shaking, she typed in a line of code. The doors at either end of the corridor opened and Christina crawled out of the billowing gas, gasping. Fresh air filled her lungs and she stood on shaking legs. Footsteps echoed from around the corner. Christina’s mouth went dry. Arnov. Christina dashed to the nearest service hatch and pried up the cover. She scrambled into the service vent. Behind her, the duct was full of billowing gas, but Christina’s position was gas-free. Footsteps clanked from the corridor above. Christina held her breath. She couldn’t make a sound, couldn’t let Arnov hear – Bang! A blaster bolt seared through the vent and struck the floor in front of Christina. Christina yelped and peddled back. “Come out, you coward!” yelled Arnov. Bang! Another bolt cut through the floor and nicked Christina’s hand. Pain lanced up her arm and she screamed. Arnov dropped into the duct. Sneering, he aimed his blaster at Christina. Christina pummelled a hatch. It popped open and Christina fell into corridor 2C, a blaster bolt shooting past her head. Christina lurched around the corner. Boots clunked into metal behind her: Arnov was closing in. Panting, Christina staggered down the corridor. Needles of pain drove into her chest with every step and her flabby legs wobbled. A blaster bolt sizzled her shoulder. Christina screamed and stumbled into a storage room. She collapsed beside the door. With blood-stained fingers, she sent the last line of code from her holochart. Measured footsteps sounded from the corridor. Arnov appeared at the door. He saw Christina standing on the room’s far side. Arnov didn’t bother with a eulogy; he just strode inside, raised his blaster, and fired. The blaster bolt hit Christina – And passed through. The real Christina, who’d been crouching beside the door, strode out into the corridor. She shut the door and locked it. Christina’s hologram flickered and Arnov turned, his face livid with anger. He aimed his blaster at the viewport. Christina pulled the transmitter out of her overalls and pressed the button. The electromagnet on the storage room’s ceiling tugged Arnov’s gun out of his grip and it crashed into the magnet with a sizzle of fried electronics. Arnov hammered the door. “You worthless cargo hauler! I’ll –” Christina hit the mute button and Arnov’s protests grew silent. “That door’s held a 5-ton Ovrad Elephant – don’t bother trying to break it. Also, you might want to keep this story quiet in prison. If a worthless hauler outwitted you, how bad of a pirate does that make you?” Grinning, she strode to the MediStation and grabbed a pocket of antiseptic gel. Christina sat and waited for the Navy’s red-and-blue lights to appear amongst the stars. Her shoulder stung, her chubby arms ached and she felt ready to puke, but Christina Everett grinned. This’d be one hell of a story for the spaceports. Jack Bristow's work has most recently been published in The Huffington Post, The Saturday Evening Post and The Santa Fe New Mexican. Follow him, @realjackbristow The Warzone Sergeant Henderson had been adamant in his instructions to me, "I want every damned drug dealer off the street. As you might already know, Mayor Muller is up for re-election. He can't have his constituency believing he isn't tough enough on crime. That's where you come in, Lufthansa. I want you to round up as many drug addicts, drug dealers, and pimps as humanly possible. If you do, there's a good bonus in it for you." I had been working central Albuquerque, aka "The War Zone," for quite some time now. This part of the city has become a steady mecca for drug dealers, prostitutes, and a bevy of other carnal creatures, specializing in works of the flesh. The War Zone is filled with every type of lowlife imaginable: The pickpocket, the combative vagrant, gang members of every stripe. One thing thing you learn early as an undercover officer is to establish trust with certain criminals. And notice how I emphasized the word "certain." You can't just arrest any gang-banger, drug pusher, corrupt pimp or harlot and give them the alternative to blab. You do that and your cover is blown, instantly. Instead, you have to know the look. You need to read the body language. There are certain signs that will help you in your quest in establishing who's going to roll and who is not. Hair pulling is already a good sign, a fantastic nervous tick, an indication that neo-cortex section of the brain is going haywire. Their lips are telling you, "No, Officer Lufthansa"; their actions are telling you otherwise. You tell them "Sure. No problem." You don't press it. You take them downtown, book them at the office. You place them in cooler with a bunch of raving, babbling drunks, urinating and defacting themselves. You do that, nine out of ten times the arrested party will sing. Guaranteed. Yesterday, I was cruising Central. I noticed this young woman. She couldn't have been much older than eighteen. She sat on the park bench, wearing clothes which seemed only mildly provocative. I had her pegged as what we call in the city the three h's: Either a harlot, heroin abuser, or heroin pusher. After parking my car across the street at Terry's Taco stand, I got out, and walked inconspicuously over toward where the young girl was sitting at the bench. She was dressed saucily, eccentrically, in torn blue jeans, cut and fashioned into shorts. Her legs were covered in long thermal underwear, which was torn and rough looking as well. I myself was dressed for this side of town: I wore baggy pants, a large over-sized Dallas Cowboys T-shirt, along with Nike tennis shoes. Oversized Gucci sunglasses surrounded my face, covering my eyes, obscuring my true intent. I like to keep my eyes covered whenever I'm in the middle of one of these transactions. Without making eye contact, it felt so much less like betrayal and so much more like legitimate police work. I sat beside the young woman on the bench, who was dangling her her legs listlessly. As I gazed over at her I had noticed, for the very first time, small earphones in her ears. She must have had an Ipad concealed under the white jacket, that was on her lap. It's always a good idea to hide your valuables on this side of the city. I knew I had to get her attention. I tapped her shoulder, gently. She looked over at me. I motioned to my ears. She got the hint. She took the headphones off. "What do you want?" she said, clearly annoyed. "Sup?" "Nothing much," she said. "I was just listening to the radio, until someone rudely interrupted me." I have been working the War Zone for close to five years this June. I have seen a lot of people. And most were easy to pin down to a certain criminal vocation: Harlot, druggie or neither. With his girl, for some odd reason, I just couldn't tell. She was sending me mixed signals. One half of me sincerely believed, hooker; one quarter believed drug dealer; the other quarter, however, said the girl was neither, and that I was just wasting my time. Wanting to establish rapport, I decided to tell the young lady my name: "My name's John by the way." The girl flinched. "Why are you telling me this?" "I just wanted to get to know you, that's all." I inched closer toward the young lady, and I glared at her lovingly, as though she were the apple of my eye. "Listen, it's time to drop the charade. How much for the hour? I have been very, very lonely." The girl's face contorted into a momentarily unsettling ball of rage. For a split second, all her beauty had evaporated. I thought she was going to punch me in the nose. Then, suddenly, she exploded in unbridled, unrestrained laughter. "Hell, no," she said. "But I do sell." Aha. This was it. This was my moment. Like a Leopard moving in on its prey, I prepared myself to pounce, so to speak. "I've been really itching for some H." The girl frowned. "I don't have any scag on me. But I am carrying some Hydrocodone pills, if you're interested." Hydrocodone pills? A class A felony! I smiled to myself, knowing both the mayor and sergeant would be pleased over my most recent bust. My bonus was inevitable. I almost started salivating, then and there. "How much?" I asked, finally. "Ten dollars per pill." "Shoot," I said. The girl sneered. "Hey, you're out of the loop, man. That's a good price. Other dealers are asking fifteen a pill." "Okay, okay," I said, playing the victim, acting as though I was the one finally being taken in. I pulled the ivory-colored wallet from the back of my pants, counted out two-hundred dollars and then handed the money over to the girl. "I'll take twenty pills." She took and counted the money. Like most pushers, this young woman wasn't the sharpest tack in the box. She had to count the money twice. "Okay," she said. She stuffed the money into her shorts pockets, than she peered around, to her left and right, furtively a few times. Then she reached in her right side pocket, pulled out a handful of small, oblong pills. She counted out the twenty Vicodin but somehow--miraculously--she didn't have to count twice. "Here you go. Twenty. Just as you asked, John." "Thanks," I said, stuffing the pills into my very own right side pants pocket. I stood up to leave, but there was still one more thing I had to say. "Hey, miss?" "Yes?" I pulled the badge from my pocket, and I held it right in front of her face. "You are under arrest." And then I read her the Miranda rights: You have the right to remain silent... You Have a right to attorney... If you cannot afford said attorney... Etc... I asked for her identification. She handed her ID over to me without protest. The name on the card read: Sarah P. Muller." I handed the ID back to Ms. Muller and then I handcuffed her. We walked over to the car I was driving--the old beat-up 2005 Bentley Continental GT--and she got inside without incident. Enroute to APD, I noticed the young lady was unusually quiet. Therefore, I felt it a good idea to give her a pep talk, tell her to stay away from crime. That she had her full life ahead of her. You know, all the stuff you'd imagine a concerned law enforcement officer to say. "Are you scared, miss?" "Nope," the young lady responded irreverently, laconically. Her response had unnerved and unsettled me. What was wrong with this Sarah Wells, I thought to myself. She was facing over ten years at NMWCF--the New Mexico Women's Correctional Facility; yet she didn't even display ounce of remorse or repentance for her criminal transgressions. After I braked the Bentley at the stoplight I inquired further about her coolly indifferent attitude. "Aren't you scared or even just a little bit unnerved by this," I said. "I mean, a decade behind bars, in prison? That's a huge chunk of your life, right there. And there won't be much chance of parole. The mayor is on a crusade to crack down hard on crime. The judge is going to really throw the book at you, Sarah." The light turned green. I stomped my foot on the accelerator and we were sailing off once again, enroute to the Albuquerque Police department. Sarah yawned. "Yeah, well that doesn’t concern me." "It doesn't concern you," I exploded. "Why the hell doesn’t it?" "Because Mayor Muller is my father. The charges will be dropped soon, you'll be fired, and I'll walk before sunset," the girl responded, truthfully. "stevelebow" is a graduate of Nova High School (Ft. Lauderdale, Florida) and of Kenyon College (Gambier, Ohio). He has published science fiction in "Aphelion Magazine of Fantasy and Science", "Infernal Ink", "Literally Stories", "The Bitchin' Kitsch", "Flash Fiction Magazine", and "The Airgonaut". "Do You Know What A Chinese Handcuff Is?" Is his first try at a horror story. Is It Safe To Come Inside? The bass player looked down at her face and remembered that he had forgotten to put new litter in the cat box. “There’s going to be a mess when I get home,” he whispered to her. As he looked at her he thought about how pretty she had been when he had picked her up at the club that night. But now her eyes were red and swollen shut. “It’s all your fault,” he said to the girl. “You know you made me do this, right?” He dressed and left her apartment. Sally Vesper was starting a career as the first “White Reggae and Country singer”. She had picked up the guitarist at Club Robinette that night who had the unlikely name “Gene Whiskey”. “I am the one who asked him back,” she said to herself as she stood in the shower after he was gone. Foolishly, she blamed herself. “It really is my fault.” She took a psychoactive drug and slept for an entire day. When she woke up she went through her underwear drawer and found a package of new underwear. She threw out every other pair of panties in the drawer and put on the only new ones she had. She was reporting to her new job that day, “Cybernetic Plastic Surgery of Old Miami”. “You leave with more than when you came in,” said the internet advertising for the clinic. “Welcome to our clinic,” said Doctor Stacie when he came into the examination room. “Did our clinical manager explain what we needed from you?” “Yes,” she said. “He told me you needed subjects to attach cybernetic enhancements to their bodies to see how they would work out before you went for full FDA approval.” “That’s right,” he said, as he indicated to the nurse anesthetist to begin. “You going to wake up with some new part and let’s see how that works out for you.” When she woke up from the surgery a few hours later she had an extra mouth on the side of her face. “What does it do?” she asked the doctor. “We’re experimenting to see if you can talk with your regular mouth,” he said, “and then drink with the other one on the side of your face.” “Fair enough,” she said. “Hand me a drink and a phone. We’ll see if I can do both simultaneously.” For the next several weeks she came into the clinic and the doctor took off and then put on new cybernetic implants all over her body. “We’re going to give you a third eye,” the doctor explained one day. “It will be attached to your pineal gland, at the base of your skull.” “After the procedure we going to make you walk backwards for a month,” he said. “Let’s see if you can get around just using that third eye.” After months of wearing an extra mouth or an extra eye she approached the doctor one morning at the clinic. “I have an idea for the next implant,” she said. “Am I allowed to suggest possible enhancements?” “Of course,” he said. “I’d love to hear your thoughts.” She explained her plan to him and all he said was, “Fine, come in tomorrow morning. Let’s see what we can do.” After weeks of healing she went back to Club Robinette on a Wednesday night. “Do you remember me?” she asked the bass player at the end of his set that night. “Not really,” he said. “But I’m off now. Can we go back to your place?” When they came into her apartment she turned off the lights and lit a single candle. A few minutes later he looked down. She had an odd expression on her face. “Do you know what a Chinese handcuff is?” she asked “Oh my God,” he blurted out. “Do you actually have teeth…” “Yes,” she whispered in his ear. “In fact, I’m famished. I haven’t eaten anyone all day.” As Gene screamed that one last time she blew out the candle and the only light left in the room was the final sliver of a dying moon. William Quincy Belle is just a guy. Nobody famous; nobody rich; just some guy who likes to periodically add his two cents worth with the hope, accounting for inflation, that $0.02 is not over-evaluating his contribution. He claims that at the heart of the writing process is some sort of (psychotic) urge to put it down on paper and likes to recite the following which so far he hasn't been able to attribute to anyone: "A writer is an egomaniac with low self-esteem." You will find Mr. Belle's unbridled stream of consciousness here (http://wqebelle.blogspot.ca) or @here (https://twitter.com/wqbelle). Picture: Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Swimming_pool The Pool Boy Marlene swiped at the flesh under her upper arm and watched as it jiggled. For a moment, she stood transfixed then let out a long sigh. Picking up the bottle of suntan lotion, she squirted some into her palm, spreading it over her neck and upper chest. As she glanced down, she stopped and stared along the top of her bathing suit. With one finger, she gingerly poked several stretch marks. Should she expect anything less after two kids? She cupped her right breast, lifted it a moment before releasing it and watching it sag. Squirting more lotion into her hand, Marlene set the bottle down and put her foot on the lounger. She rubbed her hands together and bent forward to cover her legs and thighs. Twisting and looking closer at her outer thigh, she exhaled noisily. More cellulite. As she worked on the other leg, her eye caught the roll of flesh protruding over the waistband of her swimsuit. Standing, she ran her hand over her stomach. It wasn’t flat: it bulged. With one hand, she squeezed a love handle. Marlene cast an eye at the second lounger. It was Saturday, and yet Richard was at the office. Is he working more these days? she wondered. He recently received a promotion which meant more responsibility, but there had been a time when he was home every weekend. Again, she held up her arm and swiped at the hanging flesh, wincing. Was she merely unhappy with Richard’s absence or was she disgusted with her own body? Is ‘disgust’ too harsh a word? She knew she had to do something if she wanted to rid herself of such feelings, but what? Go on a diet? Join a gym? Were there any true anti-aging treatments for women her age, or was the only real option plastic surgery? She blanched at the thought. There was no way she was going to turn into one of those desperate women, seeking all sorts of ill-advised procedures and turning into some sort of disfigured, artificial-looking freak of nature. She shivered, thinking of the before-and-after pictures she’d seen in magazines. If her husband wasn’t coming home every night now, bad cosmetic surgery would ensure he never came home again. She let out another sigh, hearing for herself the touch of exasperation mingled with sadness. She was getting older, her body was aging, and there wasn’t anything she could do to stop the progress of time. Unfurling a beach towel, she arranged it on the lounger and adjusted the back into a semi-upright position. Stepping out of her flip-flops, she sank down and stretched out her legs. The light reflecting off the pool was mirrored in her sunglasses. It was warm, and the sun felt good on her skin. She reached out and picked up her book, but changed her mind and laid back down. Instead, she shut her eyes and listened to the quiet behind the house. A bird chirped; a car went by. Next week, this would be a busy spot. Richard was planning a big celebration, with family and friends, for her fiftieth birthday. He’d decided to have the party catered so she wouldn’t have to do anything except enjoy herself. Marlene knew everybody would gather to congratulate her on managing to make it this far; congratulate her on still being alive. But is that an accomplishment? She wondered about that book she’d always wanted to write. Or the sculpting class she procrastinated about. Last week at the salon, Candy had made note of some gray hair. Would it be considered vain to color it and delay the inevitable? Or should she just give up now and let nature run its course? She considered if such a color would make her look dignified, or if it would leave her looking older than she was. Men seemed to look more distinguished with hints of gray, but was that idea applicable to women? With her eyes shut, the image of her loose skin flopping back and forth haunted her. “Ah, Jesus,” she muttered softly. Fifty years old. Gray hair. Stretch marks. It was all adding up, and it wasn’t looking good. Off to her left came a distinct metallic squeak and Marlene opened one eye. The pool gate swung open and Freddy, the neighbor’s kid, entered the yard. He set a satchel and a smart phone on the patio table close to the house and started around the edge of the pool, heading toward the utility shed. She followed the seventeen-year-old with her eyes, blushing when he stopped and stared at her. “Oh, hello Mrs. Caulfield. Sorry to disturb. Would you like me to come back later?” “No, that’s fine, Freddy. Just ignore me and do your work.” “Okay. This shouldn’t take any more than thirty minutes.” “That’s fine,” she said, adjusting the back of the lounger. Turning over, she laid her head to one side, fiddled with her sunglasses, and again shut her eyes. The sun beat down on her skin, making her feel drowsy. She was only vaguely aware of Freddy dragging out the tubing for the pool vacuum. *** “Mrs. Caulfield? Mrs. Caulfield?” Marlene opened her eyes and turned her head to see Freddy standing to one side. She must have dozed off. “Yes?” “I’ve finished up.” “Okay,” she said, half-rolling over and propping herself up on one arm. “Everything is vacuumed, and I cleaned out the skimmer. Plus, I tested the water and put in some more chlorine.” “Thank you, Freddy.” She shook her head groggily. Marlene realized he was staring at her a little more closely than usual. Was she showing too much skin; too much old weathered, wrinkled skin? What would a teenage boy think of my sagging body? “Mrs. Caulfield?” “Yes, Freddy?” “Ah ... could you pay me?” “Oh, yes! Of course.” She stood and looked down at her flip-flops, slipping one foot in after the other. As she glanced back up and stepped toward the house, Marlene abruptly came face-to-face with the boy. She stared at him, surprised, then realized he wasn’t looking at her but staring at her chest. When was the last time Richard had looked at her like that? “Freddy?” He looked startled, his gaze darting around. “Yes?” “I’ll get your money now.” “Yes, of course,” he said, stepping to one side. “Sorry.” She strode around the pool and toward the house, feeling as though her two-piece bathing suit left a lot exposed. What would the young man think of an old woman walking around in such an outfit? Should she care? Was fifty that old? Opening the patio door, she entered the kitchen and fished around in her purse for her wallet. When she turned back, she stopped and stared at Freddy, standing by a patio table thumbing a message on his smart phone. As she watched, he reached down to his groin, seeming to struggle a moment before continuing to type. He turned, giving her a side view. Does he have an erection? Quietly, Marlene stepped closer to the patio door. There was no doubt: she could see a bulge in his pants. She snickered. Is he looking at dirty pictures? Stepping back into the yard, she held out a bill. “Ten dollars?” “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” Freddy folded the bill, sliding it into his pocket. “Would it be too much trouble if I used your washroom?” He set the phone on the table. “Not at all. In the door, across the kitchen, and the first door to your left in the hallway.” He nodded and disappeared into the house. Curious, she eyed the phone and peeked through the open door to the kitchen. It was empty. Picking up the smart phone, she looked at the screen and the various icons representing the phone’s functions. A small numeral one appeared beside an icon labeled Text Messages. She touched the icon with her index finger and the screen showed the most recent dialog. Bob: Where are you? Our game starts in an hour. Fred: I’m just finishing up a pool. Bob: Where? Fred: Caulfield’s. Bob: OMG, she’s hot. Is she there? Fred: Sunning by the pool. Bob: God, ya gotta have a boner. That’s one foxy MILF. Just then Marlene heard a noise from the house. She closed the conversation and set the phone back down on the table. Freddy came out from the kitchen. “Thanks, Mrs. Caulfield.” She glanced at the phone then back to the boy. “Ah, thanks for your help today.” “The chlorine should be good for a few days, but I’d keep an eye on the deep end as I did see some algae. It tends to grow faster with the hot weather.” Marlene raised a hand and adjusted her sunglasses. “Yes, it’s hot,” she agreed, bringing her hand to her collarbone and tracing a finger along the strap of her top. “It’s very hot.” Feeling hidden behind her tinted shades, she studied Freddy as his eyes followed the movement of her hand. He was staring at her chest and let out an audible gulp. Is it this easy? She half-smiled. “Don’t forget your stuff,” she said, pointing to the table. Freddy turned and followed her gesture. “Oh... yeah... right...” He picked up his satchel and phone. “Thanks again, Mrs. Caulfield.” “Have a good day, Freddy.” The boy scanned her chest again before walking to the gate. He carefully shut it and waved over the top. “See you!” She stared after him, feeling flush. MILF? What did that mean again? She thought back to a newspaper article she had read once about older women. Ah yes, MILF: Mother I’d like to-- She chortled and turned to survey her reflection in the patio door. Freddy clearly had a hard-on. “Because of me? Seriously?” she said out loud. Turning sideways, she looked at her profile. Was she old, or just older? Was she out of shape, or simply more mature? She shook her head and clicked her tongue. “Tsk, tsk.” She looked around, suddenly worried someone was watching. Did anybody hear her? She looked again at her reflection. He was only a boy, but it felt good to be appreciated, to be desired. She sucked in her stomach and stuck out her chest. Turning back and forth, she smiled as she looked at herself from different angles. I’m foxy. I’m hot. Marlene glanced once more around the backyard, stepped into the kitchen, and slid the door shut. Picking up the phone, she dialed Richard’s office and waited for him to answer. “Hi, sweetie. How’s work?” She leaned against the counter. “Why don’t you knock off and come home? I’d like to spend some quality time with my man.” She listened to his response and regarded the clock. “See you at five.” She hung up and stood still, staring off into space. She shook her head and grinned. “This cougar ain’t dead yet.” END Charles Hayes, a multiple Pushcart Prize Nominee, is an American who lives part time in the Philippines and part time in Seattle with his wife. A product of the Appalachian Mountains, his writing has appeared in Ky Story’s Anthology Collection, Wilderness House Literary Review, The Fable Online, Unbroken Journal, CC&D Magazine, Random Sample Review, The Zodiac Review, eFiction Magazine, Saturday Night Reader, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Scarlet Leaf Publishing House, Burning Word Journal, eFiction India, and others. Kicking It All In Reflecting off the brass instrument, sunlight flashes on the small gathering as the bugler stands at attention and plays Taps. Scripted sounds and actions that have been honed for decades. His mother dead from cancer, Johnny has only me and a few of his high school friends here for his burial. Enough people, I suppose, for those who run these parodies of honor and sadness to make a buck. It’s what he wanted. Never able to grasp the things I tried to tell him, he was still a good kid, but just plain humble. It was always about something greater than himself. Sacrifice or struggle was almost as alien to him as pride. Johnny was simply what he was, a good boy who naturally wanted to help others. Easy pickings for the war mongers drumming moralistic jargon about a greater good. If only he could have seen it another way. But Johnny had no capacity for that kind of insight. That would have required a feeling for dishonesty. Too trusting, my boy. After losing his mother, his natural anchor gone, he was no more than high cotton to those ass holes. Setting near my boy’s casket, I see the young uniformed man approach. Proffering the folded flag with white gloved hands, he dips to almost one knee in front of me, like a curtsy to royalty or something. Looking at his eyes, which are fixed on his flag, I wonder where he will spend his evening liberty while my boy lies cold in this ground covered with crosses. Taking the flag for Johnny, but in my heart hating this symbol and the people who dress it as worthy of my son’s life, I wish this garish spectacle over with. So I can say goodbye to my boy. Holding the flag to my chest, lest I sling it to the ground, I watch all the cute precise closing turns and steps of this charade. At the same time I try to show a little appreciation to Johnny’s friends for coming. But half of them, I know, went with him to that God awful recruiter and his tales of honor, service, and adventure. That makes it tough knowing that, for them, Johnny’s death only brightens their tokens of luck, with nary a regret for the hand they had in it. Just a metal fragment with Johnny’s name on it is all that it is to them. The kind of reasoning that the adventurer always offers up. Or the plain decadent. *** Wheeling my chair over to Mary’s grave, I try to avoid the other markers all around but my vision is not so good when I am weeping. Hitting the marker next to Mary’s throws me forward and out of my chair, scraping my forehead on the ground. Getting back in my chair is a chore but, with the help of a nearby monument, I manage. Having had my legs blown off in a Vietnam sewer paddy, my nubs are not much help when it comes to regaining my chair after a fall. Just able to reach down and touch Mary, I tell her that Johnny is on his way. And that, after much thought, it seems only right that I come as well. She seems to understand. I remember how she priced my legs as not worth enough to kick it all in. We always had a lot of fun using words that suggested that I still had legs. Our humor would make Johnny laugh as well. And we moved on. I tell her it’s not like when she left and told me that I had to take care of Johnny. She understands and doesn’t hold it against me that I couldn’t make him see. She says that such things, done by those so keenly sharp at what they do, would have been a challenge for her as well. I wheel around and straighten what I can reach of her place then, using the monument again to lower down out of the chair, I finish the job by rolling around on my nubs. My place next to her’s needs not much tending. The one stone is for both of us and I’m already on it, with only the date to be inscribed. Rolling to my face, I spread my arms over Mary and lie with her until the sun is almost down. Then, my resolve firmed, I regain my chair and wheel back to my customized van. *** Making it to the cemetery while there is still a touch of dusk left, I wheel my chair under a half moon and a beginning blanket of stars back to Johnny’s grave. The dusky purple of the early evening lends a somber and calming feeling to this place as I tilt the chair over and hit the grass, throwing both the folded flag and pistol from the small back pack on the rear of my chair. Taking the folded flag and standing it against the white marker, I pick up the 45 caliber pistol that I led my platoon in Vietnam with, check the chamber and clip, and wobble-roll to the foot of Johnny’s grave. Holding the colt with both hands I put three shots into the flag, the colt rocking me back with each shot. Reaching forward, I lay my hand on Johnny and put the barrel just past my lips, pointing towards the roof of my mouth, and pull the trigger. Standing in a booth almost a mile away, a uniformed sentry hears three shots echo across the dark interior of the cemetery. Picking up his landline to the guard shack he says, “I just heard what sounded like three gunshots, wait a minute,…..make that four gunshots out in section D. Want me to drive out there and check it out.” “No that’s ok,” comes the reply, “we got another burial out there tomorrow morning. That will be soon enough.” “Roger,” replies the sentry. “I pulled one today. Nobody out there going anywhere anyway. Out.” Naushena is a teacher on hiatus and a mother. Poetry writing is her passion through which she expresses her feelings and emotions. She also writes essays but publish them sporadically. Her work has appeared in Scarlet Leaf Review besides , Five Poetry, Boston Literary Magazine, Mamalode, Mothers Always Write, EXPOUND and is forthcoming in few others. Waiting; a Mother’s prerequisite Its 12:00 pm. I am sitting alone in the terrace of my house. It’s dark and quiet with no sound except for a distant barking of a dog. The cold breeze is making my nose colder. As I look up, I see the stars shining down to me. My husband is very late today, he has not taken the keys as usual and I am waiting for him. Though I am up since early morning, though I badly want to sleep yet I chose to stay awake so that my teenage children can sleep as they have their school tomorrow. I am waiting so that as soon as I see his car, I can press the gate open so he does not ring the doorbell and disturb their sleep. In these one and a half hours I have travelled back to their childhood. This waiting is a unique element of motherhood. I just realized that we mothers are prone to it and waiting becomes a part and parcel of our lives long before we become mothers. Waiting for the baby to arrive, waiting to see his face, to hold him, waiting to hear them say ‘mama’, waiting for his first tooth, waiting to start weaning and walking, to see him ride a bicycle, waiting for his first day of school, for his result, then college, then wedding and the list goes on and on but the wait has no ending. The way mothers do it with such aplomb is so sweet and wonderful. It’s exemplary. Have you ever realized that you kept sitting on the school bench at home time waiting patiently to see your child’s happy face, to greet him as he comes out of his class? Or if your kids are late for home, you get restless and take innumerable rounds of the gate? Even when you feel hungry, you wait to have lunch with them. If there is a test in class or a contest you keep waiting and thinking till your child arrives home and tells you the news, don’t you? No one in the world can wait longer than a devoted mother. Waiting teaches us patience. Many times just before leaving a park you must have waited for your child when he had asked for a last turn on the swings (though never the last one) How lovingly just to make him happy you must have nodded. You stay cool as a cucumber. Sometimes you feel that you are not a human because you are ethereal. You are an embodiment of waiting and motherhood teaches you that in a subtle way. There was a time I hated waiting. It would just make me irate but now when I look back, I feel that I am a different person. When my children were small, and we would take them to our club for swimming, I would sit there watching, in case they needed me to supply a towel or water or merely tighten their goggles. I’d wait for the time to get over. Because of this waiting I was able to witness their gestures of pride and confidence when they learnt a stroke or two and encouraged them. Will you believe if I tell you that for fourteen years I didn’t enter the Gymnasium though it was in the same club! Because I would stay with my kids where ever they went, on the swings, to the cricket field, roller skating rink etc. not hovering but watching them from a distance not to impede. There were many children and I didn’t want any mishap to happen again. As once I had left my elder son on the slide with my husband and taken my daughter to the snacks bar. Within few minutes, my husband came with my son having a big bump on his forehead for he had fallen off the slide. Since that day, I never relied on him. I wasn’t overprotective, I was just, well may be, over cautious. I think all mothers are. From carefree girls we transmute into prudent women. So when all three were big enough and my daughter turned fourteen, I set foot in the Gym. When she asked, “Mama, why didn’t you join the Gym before?” I replied, “Because I was waiting for you guys to grow up.” For a moment I felt that I was too late, that I wasted many years of life. There was a feeling of regret too that I could’ve made more friends, I should’ve given time to tone my body and learnt few things but then that feeling was overpowered by another one; the feeling of satisfaction that at least I gave ample time to my kids by being there. Now I stay home as I am on hiatus from teaching, I wait from morning till afternoon for my children to return home. At this stage, there isn’t enough work to do for they are old enough to keep me occupied. Sometimes I miss those days when I was busy with the hullabaloo of mothering. From a rollercoaster ride it has come to a serene phase with occasional ripples in the water. While I sip coffee in the evenings sitting alone, I wait for my kids to come out of their rooms or finish their projects to talk to me because a mother’s wait never ends. Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. His fiction and poetry have appeared in various publications, including The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Christian Science Monitor, Commonweal, Guwahatian Magazine (India), The Galway Review (Ireland), Public Republic (Bulgaria), The Osprey Review (Wales), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey) and other magazines. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.dpbs Margaret Mary Kelly, 82, Wants to Marry Paddy Regan, 84 Father Brennan had been pastor of St. Ignatius Church for 20 years, a long time for any one priest to remain at one parish. Usually the archbishop would transfer a pastor after he had served seven years. By that time, parishioners might have needed a fresh face and fresher homilies and the pastor, truth be told, might like to see a few new faces himself in the pews every Sunday morning. That wasn't the case with Father Brennan, however. St. Ignatius was a parish in decline in terms of parishioners and he loved those who were still there, the ones who hadn't moved or passed away. There were only about 60 people left now, most of them widows and widowers as well as one nice elderly maiden who had never married, Margaret Mary Kelly, who studied early in life to become a nun but ultimately decided that life as a nun was not for her. She moved back home to care for her aging parents and did a fine job. Her father died at 84 and her mother at 81. Margaret Mary herself now was 82. That's why Father Brennan was surprised to hear--word travels like a rabbit in a small parish--that Margaret Mary was thinking of marrying a widower older than she was, a man named Paddy Regan, 84, who lived in another parish a few miles away. She had never in her life shown any interest in marriage. Nor did she ever have to fight any men off. She was a fine woman not known for her comeliness as much as for her wit and her holiness. Father Brennan didn't know what to think. "Well," he said to himself over a cup of tea, "if Margaret Mary wants to get married, we'll do our best for her. I just hope the groom-to-be is in fine health. The two of them may not realize that in the Catholic Church a couple must be able to engage in sexual intercourse or the marriage would be null and void. I know they have all these medications now to give a man a boost but at 84 a man might need a rocket to get the job done." Sure enough, two weeks later, Margaret Mary rang the rectory door bell and asked to see Father Brennan. He was about to eat lunch but asked her to come right into his small library where they could sit and talk. "I'm planning on marrying Paddy Regan, Father, a widower one parish over," Margaret Mary began, "and I thought I should come see you to make the arrangements. At our age, Paddy and I would like to get married as soon as we can. Even though we have no serious health problems, God might call either one of us any day now. So we'd like to take our vows and, as they say, start living happily ever after, however long that might be." Father Brennan didn't know how to begin to approach the potential problem of the couple's physical readiness to engage in the conjugal act, the Church's official term for sexual intercourse within a marriage. Even if Margaret Mary had brought Paddy Regan with her, it wouldn't have been any easier to approach the subject of Mr. Regan's potency or lack thereof. Father Brennan figured Margaret Mary might be marrying for companionship as might Mr. Regan. Every once in awhile, however, another Hugh Hefner pops up but that had happened only once before at St. Ignatius parish and the man, a legend in the neighborhood, died on his honeymoon, blissful, Father Brennan hoped, at age 87. "Well, Margaret Mary," Father Brennan said, "you say you and Paddy are both in good health. Does he get out and about or sit around all day watching TV?" Margaret Mary didn't know what to say except that Paddy Regan had struck her as being in fine shape, no matter the fact that he was into his eighties. After all, he had been a widower for three years so he must know what he wanted to do. Besides, he had been married twice before and both wives had died of natural causes. The first one had given him six children and the second one had given him another five. All of the children, well into adulthood now, were married, had good jobs and were a joy to Paddy. Besides, he didn't drink or smoke and could dance much younger women to the point of being too tired to continue. Light on his feet, Paddy was. Father Brennan's reluctance in getting down to business had a lot to do with knowing Margaret Mary had once studied to be a nun and had spent the rest of her life taking care of her aging parents. She was a very spiritual woman. When possible, she used to bring her parents to daily Mass until they got too sick to come. After both had died, she herself attended daily Mass at 6:30 a.m. and had been doing that for at least 15 years. He doubted Margaret Mary knew much about sex, never mind the Church's requirement that any man seeking to marry had to be capable of having sexual intercourse. There would be no pass for Paddy Regan if he couldn't deliver the goods, as Father Brennan liked to think of it. God bless Paddy if he's up to it, Father thought, and then chastised himself for the unintended pun. "Well, Margaret Mary, I know that you and Paddy won't be having a family but tell me are you sure he's looking for a wife and not a housekeeper?" This comment did not sit too well with Margaret Mary, who rustled in her seat. "Father, I told Paddy Regan there would be no messing around till I had a ring on my finger and we had said our vows. I told him I was a virgin and I would remain a virgin if we didn't get married. The man has had two wives, Father, and 11 children. I don't think he's looking for a housekeeper. He has a daughter who comes over twice a week to clean his house and she does a fine job of it. No, he's looking for a wife, I can tell you that. We have only kissed and hugged but he doesn't kiss me the way he might kiss his sister who, God bless her, is still going strong at 90, having been widowed twice herself. If I had a brother, I'd introduce him to her. A very nice woman." Father Brennan decided he probably had to get to the point. "Margaret Mary, your intended has had sex for most of his adult life and this will be something new for you. I imagine you have some idea what to expect if Paddy is still able to make love. Some men at his age aren't capable of doing that any more. You are probably aware of the physical aspects of marriage, I'm sure, and what will be expected of Paddy in the marital embrace." Marital embrace was another term the clergy used when discussing sexual intercourse. Margaret Mary took a deep breath, uncrossed her legs and looked Father Brennan right in the eye. "Father, all we have done is kiss and hug but on his birthday Paddy asked me to sit on his lap and give him a big kiss. Well, if he's not healthy enough to have sex, Father, I wish he had taken that crowbar out of his pocket. Scared the dickens out of me. I almost jumped off his lap. Can we get down to business now and set the date. Paddy and I aren't getting any younger." Father Brennan coughed, looked at his desk calendar and said "How about four weeks from now? That will give us time to announce the bans of marriage in church and do everything right. And, of course, I'd like to meet Paddy Regan myself so I'll recognize him at the ceremony. I'd hate to make a mistake and marry you off to the best man." Margaret Mary Kelly left the rectory that day happy to have the date for her wedding set. That night, Father Brennan called another priest a few parishes over and told him about the upcoming wedding without mentioning any names. They both had a bit of a chuckle and marveled at how hope springs eternal in the people of God, whatever their age. Then the other priest, before hanging up, said he'd bet the flower girl will be at least 65. Stephen Tillman is an emeritus professor of Mathematics at Wilkes University, where he taught for forty-two years. Wilkes is a small, private college located in Northeastern Pennsylvania. He holds a Ph.D. in Mathematics from Brown University. He is an avid reader of mysteries and science fiction. Short stories he has written include, “The Tunnels”, published in the January, 2015 issue of Mysterical-E, “Payback” in September, 2016, in Twisted Sister Lit Mag, “Cold-Blooded”, accepted for publication by Vinculinc, Inc., “Reversal” published in January, 2017 in Twisted Sister Lit Mag, and “Resolve”, accepted for publication in Yellow Mama.
Invasion Blumberg was dozing in the hospital room when the cop on duty stuck his head in the door. “Saul,” he called softly. Blumberg awoke and said, “Hey, Jack. What’s up?” “It’s 4:15. The place is dead. My shift’s been over since 4:00. My relief must be delayed, but he should be here any minute. You mind if I take off?” “No problem.” “I owe you one, Saul.” Blumberg stood and stretched. He walked around so that he was between the door and the bed. He heard a noise and looked back. The kid moaned, but was still spaced out from the painkillers. Blumberg turned to the door and saw a large man. The man entered the room, brandishing a wicked looking plastic knife. Blumberg regretted not having his gun. At least the other man hadn’t been able to get one through security. “Heard you was doing guard duty,” the large man said, a feral grin on his face. “Listen, guy,” Blumberg said, recognizing the thug as Bruno Homand. “His testimony’s been signed, sealed, and delivered. Killing him won’t get you anywhere.” “It ain’t him we want, it’s you,” Homand said, flicking the knife back and forth. “He’s just a bonus. You’re the one fucked up Likharev.” “Likharev?” Blumberg said in surprise. “He’s in the slammer.” “Not no more, he ain’t. Wants revenge on the one sent him up.” “I was a cop then. I’m not now.” “Don’t give a shit,” Homand said shrugging. Homand, seven inches taller than Blumberg and seventy-five pounds heavier, had the advantage in size and reach, but not strength. Little of Blumberg’s weight was fat. He worked out daily and could bench press 400 pounds. Homand had a large beer belly and didn’t usually face men who fought back. His job was to intimidate people who were late making loan payments. Blumberg was a street fighter dating back to his days growing up in Brooklyn. Homand lunged, knife outstretched. Blumberg knocked the extended arm aside, caught it with his own left, and attempted to kick his assailant in the groin. Homand, no stranger to street fighting, was able to deflect the kick with his thigh, though he grunted in pain. Moving in closer, he tried to gouge Blumberg’s eyes with his left hand. Blumberg managed to catch that hand with his own right, and started shouting. A nurse appeared and Blumberg yelled, “Call security and the police! This man’s trying to kill the patient!” The nurse darted away. Taking advantage of the leverage and size discrepancy, Homand began forcing Blumberg’s arms back. He leaned forward, putting extra effort into overcoming his adversary. As Homand’s face neared Blumberg’s, the smaller man snapped his head forward, mashing his forehead into the other’s nose. It shattered and blood spurted. Homand screamed in pain just as two security men appeared, a nurse behind them. He pulled away from Blumberg, slashed one of the security men across the arm, and ran out. The nurse and the other security man went to the aid of the injured man. Blumberg leaned back against the bed, breathing heavily, shaking from his close call. *** Blumberg awoke suddenly. 3:17 AM. He listened carefully, and was able to detect noise coming from the kitchen. He got silently out of bed, went to his gun safe, and worked the combination. He took out two handguns and several magazines. He picked up the phone. No dial tone. His cell had no bars. He went back to the bed, put his hand over Mollie’s mouth, and shook her gently. She came awake, startled, but could make no noise with Blumberg’s hand over her mouth. “I hear something,” he said softly. “Our landline is dead and there’s no cell signal. If someone thought to jam cell signals, they probably also bypassed the alarm. Take this gun. Get Jonathan. Go to the basement and bolt the door. The noise is coming from the kitchen, probably the backdoor, so don’t put on a light until you close the door to the basement. Don’t let anyone in except me. If someone breaks the door down, shoot. Don’t hesitate. Got it?” She nodded. He handed her a Glock 42 .380 and extra magazines. He kept a Glock 17 9-mm for himself. She slipped on sweats and went to get their son. Blumberg pulled on dark colored sweats and sneakers, stuffed three magazines into his pockets, and headed down the hallway of their ranch style house. Keeping low he peeked around the corner, looking toward the kitchen on his left. Now he could clearly hear somebody working on one of the backdoor locks. He knew it’d take them a while to get through all three locks. The door to the basement was off the kitchen. He waited until he saw his wife close that door behind her. He regretted that their home was isolated with no nearby neighbors. Figuring that they, whoever “they” were, had someone watching the front, he crawled through the living room, making sure to keep below the windows. He came to the study at the far end of the house from the bedrooms. It had a window on the side of the house. Silently he opened the window and crawled outside, shivering in the cold. Blumberg belly crawled to his left until he reached the back of the house. He looked around the corner and saw two men at the backdoor, approximately twenty-five feet away. One was working on a lock while the other was watching, holding a flashlight. Stupid, Blumberg thought. The second guy should be looking around, not watching his partner, and the flashlight is silhouetting them both. Facing at least two and almost certainly more adversaries, Blumberg knew this was a time to shoot first and ask questions later. Bracing his gun with both hands, he took careful aim towards the head of the man working on the lock. He fired twice. That man went down, and the other, instead of diving for cover, stood up straight, turning his head from side to side. In case he was wearing body armor, Blumberg aimed at his legs and fired four more times. The man went down, screaming. Blumberg dashed to the shed in the backyard. Peering out from behind the shed, he heard pounding footsteps. Two more men appeared from the opposite side of the house, barely visible in the nighttime gloom. He emptied his seventeen shot magazine at them, not knowing whether or not he hit anyone, and then darted around to the opposite side of the shed. Several return shots were fired in the general direction of where he’d been. Ejecting the empty magazine, he inserted a fresh one. He spread mud over his face and peeked around the corner of the shed. Man One was lying motionless. Man Two had stopped screaming, but was still moaning. Man Three was on the ground attempting to crawl around the corner of the house. At first Man Four was not visible, but then Blumberg saw a head poking up from behind the two-foot patio wall. Blumberg slithered back to the side of the house from which he’d emerged. Once he was out of sight of Man Four, he got to his feet and ran around the front of the house to the other side. He saw Three trying to get to his feet, looking toward the rear of the house. Blumberg silently went up to Three, reached around, grabbed Three’s gun, and pressed his own gun into Three’s back. “Make a sound and you’re dead,” Blumberg growled. Three stood still and raised his right arm. His left hung by his side, blood coming from it. Wishing he’d thought to bring duct tape or plastic handcuffs, Blumberg marched Three toward the rear. Four must’ve heard them because he turned and fired wildly. Blumberg and Three hit the ground, Three screaming in pain. Blumberg returned fire. Four ran around the other side of the house. A few seconds later Blumberg heard the sound of a car engine. Blumberg pushed Three over to One and Two. One was dead. Two was breathing, but had passed out. Three had a gunshot wound to his upper left arm. He winced in pain while being frisked. After securing Two and Three with their own belts and strips of their own clothes, Blumberg reentered his home via the study window. He went to the basement door, knocked and called, “Mollie, it’s me. Come up.” Mollie came out of the basement, still carrying her son, who’d slept through the entire ordeal. “I heard shots,” she said. “What happened? You okay?” “I’m fine. I’ll explain later. Put Jonathan in his crib, get a warm coat, and go out the back door. Have your gun with you.” Then he headed back outside. Less than a minute later, Mollie came out. “Keep your gun pointed at these creeps,” Blumberg said. “If either of them twitches, shoot him in the balls.” Mollie nodded and asked, “Where will you be?” “I’m going to go far enough away to get out of range of their jammer and call the cops.” “Who are these guys?” “Gotta be Likharev’s men. I think you and Jonathan should stay with Jaime and David until I can take care of things.” *** 4:45 PM, Thanksgiving day. The temperature was in the low 40’s with overcast skies and occasional drizzle. The convoy passed the “Welcome to Brindell” sign. Bruno Homand was royally pissed and the weather didn’t help. He’d arrived at the starting point at 7:55 AM, raring to go, and found nobody there. It wasn’t until almost 10:00 that the last two men staggered in, hung over. By that time Homand was pacing like a caged tiger, grumbling to himself, and directing intimidating looks at his compatriots. The others stayed well clear of him. They piled into the cars only to find that one wouldn’t start. Homand wanted the men to squeeze into the remaining two cars, but the others balked. Likharev, their leader, said that it’d be too uncomfortable for twelve men to be squeezed into two cars for the three hour ride. He ordered them to get another car. It wasn’t until 10:30 that a replacement was found. They started out, only to stop immediately because one of the hung over men barfed all over himself, his backseat companion, and the interior of the car. That caused his seatmate, also hung over, to do likewise. Because of the smell, nobody would ride in that car. Homand had seriously contemplated shooting the two drunks. Likharev sent them home. Finally they managed to get another car. However its gas gauge read nearly empty. It took a while to find an open gas station on Thanksgiving, but by 11:30 they, now down to ten men, managed to get on the highway, only to have one of the cars get a flat tire. To say the atmosphere was strained would be a considerable understatement, as the convoy entered Brindell proper. Likharev called the private investigator who was keeping tabs on Blumberg. “Where the fuck have you guys been?” the detective said on answering the phone. “You was supposed to get here by noon.” “We got delayed.” “You coulda called. If I knew you was gonna be this late I coulda done some other stuff.” “Listen shithead,” a none too happy Likharev said. “You’re being paid too much as it is for a simple job–to keep an eye on Blumberg. So. Do you know where the fuck he is? And the answer better not be no!” “Don’t worry. I did my job. But they ain’t at the place I told you about on Tuesday. I followed them to this big fucking house about ten miles away.” He gave the address. “Okay,” Likharev said. “You take off. We’ll take it from here.” Likharev plugged the address into his GPS. When he and his men arrived, they saw a large mansion at the peak of a small hill, set back a ways off the road. It was located in the middle of three acres of cleared land, with a well-manicured lawn. No trees were near the house. The lawn was lit by flood lights on all sides. There was a circular driveway with three cars parked in front. Dense woods surrounded the land on three sides. Likharev found a spot about a quarter-mile away where they could pull off the two lane road. They trudged back, making sure they weren’t visible from the house. Likharev detailed a man to locate the power and phone lines. By the time the man returned it’d become fully dark. The temperature had dropped into the upper 30’s, and it was raining harder. “You find it?” Likarev asked. “Yeah, and we got a break,” the man replied. “The lines come off poles still in the woods and go underground. Be a piece of cake to cut them.” “About fucking time something good happen,” Homand grumbled. “Take the bolt cutters,” Likharev ordered. “Go back to the power and phone lines. When I call, cut the phone line first, then the power line. Soon as that’s done, join us in the front.” Turning, he pointed to four men. He told one of them to watch the right side of the house, another the left, and the last two, the rear. Each should have a cell jammer, and should turn it on when he called. “Shoot anyone trying to get away,” he said. “When these guys are in position, I’ll give the signal,” Likharev said, looking at the remaining men. “The rest of us will charge the house. When we get close, we start shooting. We’ll use the C-4 to bust in the front door. Then we kill everyone. Don’t leave no witnesses. Possible that Blumberg is armed, so get him first.” *** Jacob Huffman thought Courtney was kidding when she said her only worry about staying at her mother’s house during Thanksgiving vacation was that her mother would hit on him. But on meeting Lydia Steinman MD, he wasn’t so sure. He knew Lydia was 44, but she looked significantly younger. If he’d seen her on the street, he would’ve guessed early 30’s. Up close she looked a couple of years older, but still much younger than her actual age. Her jet black hair showed no gray roots. She had fine facial features and her skin was devoid of blemishes, at least the part he could see. And he could see quite a bit. She’d been showing more skin than he was comfortable seeing in his girlfriend’s mother. If that wasn’t enough, she had a terrific figure. Courtney told him, with a mixture of pride and envy, that Lydia was the woman the teenaged boys ogled the most when they saw her in a bikini. Courtney also said her mother had been voted the boys’ number one MILF. On seeing her, Huffman could believe it. When they first met, Lydia put her arms around him, pressed her body against his, and kissed him lingeringly on the lips. She insisted that he call her “Lydia” rather than “Dr. Steinman.” He could see Courtney grinning broadly at his evident discomfort, and even when Courtney later admitted she’d put her mother up to it, he was still uncomfortable whenever he and Lydia were alone. Therefore Huffman was relieved when, on Thanksgiving morning, a man introduced as Scott Carmintz showed up. Carmintz was muscular, slightly over six feet, with thinning salt and pepper hair. Courtney said he’d been a “friend” of her mother for several years. Huffman knew that Courtney’s grandfather, Stuart Renninger, was wealthy, but he’d still been impressed by both the man and his home. Renninger, bald, with a fringe of hair around the edges, was well into his 80’s, yet he stood erect and had a firm handshake. His home was a twenty room mansion. It was obvious the owner was very security conscious. The doors were steel reinforced, the first floor windows were barred, and all windows were made of bullet-resistant material nearly an inch thick. Courtney saw Huffman looking at the bars on the windows, grinned, and said, “If you’re thinking my Grandpa is paranoid, you may be correct. The roof and the walls are made of flame-retardant material, he’s got spy holes for shooting on the second floor, and a bomb shelter in the basement with enough food and water to last a long time.” About an hour after Huffman, Courtney, Lydia, and Carmintz arrived in Lydia’s Escalade, two more cars pulled into the driveway. David Steinman, Lydia’s ex and Courtney’s father, Jaime Kantor, David’s current wife, and their twin sons got out of one. Saul Blumberg, Mollie Nielsen, and their son got out of the other. Courtney had said that Huffman would get a kick out of the way her mother and Nielsen interacted. The blonde Nielsen, the younger of the two, and the dark haired Lydia looked nothing alike, but both could be described as gorgeous. Huffman was reminded of a video he’d seen of two female lions meeting for the first time. Although everyone else was on a first name basis, Nielsen addressed Lydia as “Dr. Steinman,” and Lydia reciprocated with “Professor Nielsen,” as Nielsen was on the faculty of the local college. The group was in the process of eating dinner, when there was a loud buzzing. “What’s that?” Nielsen asked. “My intruder alarm,” Renninger replied, getting to his feet. “Local high school kids sometimes cut across my property to the woods. They have pot parties, drink beer, and screw. Probably nothing, but just in case, I’ll check my security cameras.” “In the dark? In the rain? When it’s close to freezing?” Blumberg said, also standing up. “I hope you’re right, but I doubt it’s kids. Sorry Stuart. I may have led the bad guys here. Let me look at the cameras with you.” “I’ll go also,” Carmintz said. “I’m a former cop,” Blumberg said, implying that this was no job for amateurs. “Scott’s an FBI agent,” Lydia said. *** “Cut the phone line and the power line,” Likharev said into his cell. “Soon as the lights go out, start up the jammers. The guys on the sides and back, keep watch for someone trying to get away. The rest of us charge the house. We wanna hit it real quick, so they don’t got no chance to react. Bruno, soon as you’re close enough, throw that Molotov cocktail.” “My pleasure!” Homand said. About a minute later the lights went out. The man with cutting tools returned and the six gangsters sprinted toward the house. *** “Shit,” Blumberg said, taking out his gun. “That big guy is Bruno Homand. I did lead the assholes here. They have a goddamned army. Call the police. You armed Scott?” “Yeah,” Carmintz said, taking out a gun and checking the magazine. “But we’re outgunned and I have no cell signal. For sure they cut the phone lines.” “Not so outgunned as you think,” Renninger said, grinning. “Follow me.” Turning to Courtney, who’d trailed along, he said, “Court, get Jaime, Mollie, and the kids to the bomb shelter. Then have everyone who can handle a gun come to my study. Hah! Who’s paranoid now! Nobody invades my house!” “What if they break in while we’re in your study?” Carmintz asked, as Courtney sprinted back to the dining room. “They won’t get in that easily,” Renninger replied. He was clearly enjoying himself. *** “Mom!” Courtney yelled as she entered the dining room. “Some guys are gonna attack. Lead Jaime, Mollie, the kids, and Jake to the bomb shelter! I’ll bring the help. Everyone who can handle a gun head for Grandpa’s study!” “Why should I be hiding if you’re not?” Huffman asked, his pride wounded. “Have you ever fired a gun?” Courtney asked. “Well, ah, no.” “I have!” Courtney stated. “This is no time for macho bullshit! Don’t argue. Get going!” *** As Blumberg, Carmintz, and Renninger entered the latter’s study, the lights went out. “Crap,” Blumberg said. “We’re screwed.” *** The attackers were about halfway to the house. Homand couldn’t conceal his glee. “Got you now, you bastard,” he yelled. “Teach you to break my nose!” Suddenly the lights came back on, nearly blinding them. Startled, Homand heaved the Molotov cocktail, but it fell well short of the house. The fiery explosion did little more than scorch the grass. “Fuck!” Homand roared. “They must have a backup generator.” “Why’d you throw the firebomb before you was close enough?” Likharev yelled. “Reflex,” Homand said, defensively. “We still got the C-4.” “It don’t matter none, anyway,” Likarev said. “They probably figure the storm knocked out the power. Probably happens a lot. Why they got a backup generator in the first place. But even if they see us, so what? We break in the front door, shoot them. Done! Don’t hafta burn the place. Let’s go. Start shooting soon as we get close.” *** “Just hold on a second,” Renninger said as the lights went out. A short time later the power came back on. “Back up generator. Has enough fuel to last several hours.” “But we’re trapped here with only two guns,” Carmintz said. “Handguns at that. No signal to call for help. I saw a couple of them carrying sub-machineguns.” “We have more than two guns,” Renninger said, leading them to a cabinet in the study. He opened the outer doors, took out a key, and opened an internal cabinet revealing a gun closet with more than fifty guns of various types. Blumberg just gaped, as Courtney, Lydia, and David ran into the study. A smile appeared on Carmintz’s face as he pointed toward one of the guns. “A Thompson?” “Yep,” Renninger said. “Where’d you get it? Got ammo for it?” “Was a souvenir from my army days,” Renninger said with a sly smile. “Wouldn’t have a gun without ammo.” Renninger started handing out guns and giving orders as if he were an army master sergeant, which he’d been. “Lydia, take the left side of the house. Court, take the right side. I’ll take the rear with this rifle. Scott, you take the front with your new toy. Stay on the second floor where you’ll have a better field of fire. Saul and David, go downstairs in case they manage to break in. The floodlights will give a good view. We’ll have to hope we can hold them off until someone comes, since we can’t call out.” “I have a satphone in my car,” Lydia said. “It’s raining. That a problem?” “Nope. No trees nearby and we’re on top of a hill.” “David, you take the left side of the house,” Renninger said, changing assignments. “I’ll turn off the floodlights illuminating the front door. I’ll join Scott on the second floor with my scoped sniper rifle. We’ll forget the rear for now. We’ll keep them away from the front long enough for Lydia to dart out and make the call. Everyone got it?” *** The mobsters started shooting as they neared the house. “Hey,” one of them yelled. “Them windows got bars, and the glass is cracking but it ain’t breaking. Nothin’ happening to the door. What the fuck?” “Concentrate on the windows,” Likharev screamed. “We still got the C-4 for the door.” Suddenly automatic fire came from the second floor, where Carmintz was using Renninger’s Thompson sub-machinegun. One of the attackers fell, screaming in pain. Three retreated quickly, but Homand and Likharev continued on. “You guys,” Likharev shouted at the three retreating men, and pointing toward Carmintz. “Fire at that window. Get that guy to keep his head down. Me and Bruno will get inside and finish this!” “Where the fuck they get a machinegun?” Homand screamed in frustration. Just then the floodlights by the front door went out, and another shooter started shooting with deadly accuracy. Two more men fell, but Homand and Likharev were close enough that they were beneath the sightlines of the second floor shooters and not visible to Blumberg on the first floor. Homand slapped the C-4 against the door lock, stuck in a detonator, ducked back, and pressed a button. The explosion blew open the door. Likharev entered with Homand right behind. Blumberg fired several rounds into Likharev, but then his gun clicked empty. “Got you now, fucker,” Homand said, baring his teeth and advancing on Blumberg. “I don’t think so,” a feminine voice said. Homand whirled around, just as Lydia put two slugs into his body. |
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