Variance - Book 1, Issue #17

Sweetwater Creek State Park

Lithia Springs, Georgia

Day 39 of The Rise

    The basecamp where Higgins or Hodgkins or Whatever-The-Hell-His-Name-Was had returned holding his severed arm was made up of three separate barracks: the first for families, the second for survivors whose families were lost, and the third for military personnel.  There was a small landing strip on the north end of the base where a Boeing C-17 Globemaster sat parked.  While the runway was only 3,500 feet long, under normal circumstances it was more than enough length for the Globemaster to get off the ground.

    The night the Variants overtook the basecamp at Sweetwater Creek State Park was the night Enrique Valenzuala arrived.  It was also the night the Globemaster made its final takeoff from that narrow, uneven runway.  While the takeoff would be successful, it would not have the luxury of landing.

    The Army had marked off the base camp with temporary wire fencing.  It was the kind that could be constructed in a day and taken down at a moment’s notice.  There were four main lookout points with at least two Corporals stationed at those towers at all times.  Each tower had 360-degree views of the camp, as well as the surrounding park and reserve. 

    The Variants would storm Tower One at a quarter past eleven that evening and kill the two Corporals.  

    Hell would follow shortly after.  

    Enrique arrived to camp by bus, as so many of them had.  He sat in the very back even thought there were only six other passengers.

    When the bus dropped them inside the gate it was half past six in the evening.  The six passengers filed toward the barracks in a single line.  The survivors already at camp watched the new mess of “inmates” file in and Enrique felt a sudden tinge of nostalgic pain.

    When Enrique was thirteen he was caught shoplifting at the local stop-n-shop on the edge of Decora, the town he grew up in.  Decora, Georgia was so small that when Sergeant Matthews asked the storeowner to describe the suspect he simply said, “Well…It was Enrique.”

Enrique’s lack of remorse for the petit crime only agitated the judge presiding over the case, and he ordered him to remain at a juvenile delinquent center for no less than six months.

    He remembered what it was like when he arrived.  Filing in with ten other delinquents, their heads hanging low.  Ain’t so tough now, were they?  The other troubled youths stared at them from their barren, whitewashed cells, gritting their fragile, yellow teeth.  It was a hell unlike anything he had ever seen. 

    Now he was a 29 year old Mexican, having just witnessed some of the foulest shit anybody could ever see, filing off the bus like the naïve thirteen year old he once was.  Hell had returned.

    There were looks of hope in the other survivors’ eyes, anticipating the arrival of lost loved ones.  But there was no such hope to be found.  “My daughter’s still missing, and this dirty wetback gets a pass,” one survivor muttered as Enrique passed him by.  The man’s bludgeoning contempt almost knocked Enrique off his feet.  He dropped his head and made his way to the sleeping quarters.

    Enrique would manage a few hours of rest before the mayhem would begin.

Where Have All The Cowgirls Gone? - A Short

    The town of Huntsville—a town that no longer exists—once rested in a valley along a dense part of the Black Hills.  In its heyday, the town was filled with miners, proprietors, apothecaries, deputies, bartenders, cowboys, and the always-elusive cowgirls.  There was a time when Huntsville thrived with cowgirls, each one more beautiful and more brutal than the last.  They were the quiet ones, but they were also the temptresses.  Thirty years before the end of Huntsville, a cowgirl could walk into a bar, down a couple of whiskeys, shoot dead a fat drunk who got too handsy, and ride off with their cattle.  Their clothes were always neatly put together, but surprisingly rugged.  Their belts hung low around their hips, spare bullet cartridges digging into their thighs, guns hanging low.  And they always had dual pistols, as if they unionized and agreed every cowgirl demanded two guns rather than one.  The cowgirls of Huntsville were sexy and scary, intimidation one of their many tools.

    But as the rivers ran light with gold, the town began to dwindle.  The miners were the first to go, then the proprietors went because there were no more miners to buy their goods, then the apothecaries went because there were no more miners or proprietors to buy their drugs, then the deputies left because there were no longer any miners, proprietors, or apothecaries to arrest.  Huntsville slipped away.  The saloon was the only business left, serving whiskey and beer to the cowboys and cowgirls until they stumbled off or passed out at the bar.

    At first it seemed the cowgirls simply faded away, slowly becoming less and less.  They disappeared without any real memories or impressions; one moment they were there, and then they were gone.  

    By the time winter came the saloon was filled with only cowboys and Huntsville’s two remaining cowgirls: Amy Kline and Kat Thomas.  Amy was the louder of the two, more assertive, but also more obnoxious; after a few drinks she’d run her mouth to anybody who would listen.  She was also terribly attractive, sporting these long brown locks that waved behind her like a cape.  She could ride for days and step off that horse without a strand out of place.  Her body was curvy in all the right places and she had these small, calloused hands that looked decades beyond her years.  She flirted with the cowboys, but never left with any of them.  She’d laugh and she’d tease, but it was always her usual schtick. 

    Kat was much different.  She kept her head down and never took off her hat.  She always had it pulled down low as if preparing herself for sleep.  Her body was much slimmer than Amy’s, but there was nothing fragile about her.  Kat was tough.  She had these lean arms that could have tore the head off any number of cowboys.  She barely spoke, but, when she did, her words were full of elegance and refinement.  She was calculated in her actions, confident and beautiful.  When Amy walked into the saloon, the cowboys yearned; but when Kat walked in, they became breathless.

    Amy was the first to be gone.  She and a group of cowboys stayed up taking pulls of cheap beer while watching the sun rise over the ridge.  Morning light spilled into the valley.  A few cowboys offered Amy kisses and proposals, all of them she declined with a smile and a bat of the lashes.  The cowboys’ hearts swooned and swelled, but they were never satisfied.  When Amy was sure the last of the beer had gone, she straddled her horse and rode off into the hills.  The cowboys of Huntsville never saw her again.

    And then there was Kat.  Kat was the last of Huntsville’s cowgirls.  She didn’t seem to notice Amy had gone, or—more than likely—didn’t care.  She kept coming around the saloon and drinking her whiskey in silence.  Every so often a drunk and audacious cowboy would set a beer in front of her and ask to dance.  Kat would drink the beer, slide the empty glass back, and shake her head “no.”  The cowboys were never offended, Kat was far too alluring to warrant offense.

    Winter drew on with its thick sheets of snow and hazy storms of ice.  The Black Hills were frigid, unbearable, and deathly.  With each passing moon, the cowboys become more and more convinced they would wake to a Kat-less saloon.  But each afternoon she sauntered in and sat down at her usual booth.  The cowboys would breathe a sigh of relief and wait until the next day to stress.

    Spring finally came to Huntsville and the nights grew warmer.  The streams shed their ice and the snow drained away.  The hills became black again.

    It wasn’t until evening that Kat walked in.  Usually she strolled in around midday or just thereafter, but on the first day of spring, she came in well past 7.  The bartender slid her a beer and a shot and moved off without either of them nodding or smiling.  She drank both slowly, finishing the drinks in two hours times.  When it was time for another, the bartender brought her two shots and a beer.  “The second shot’s from him,” he said pointing to a cowboy at the far end of the saloon.  “Come on, Kat!” the cowboy (whose name was Warren) called to her.  “Give us a kiss, will ya?”

    Kat eyed him suspiciously and Warren grinned at her with his decayed teeth.  She took a couple sips of beer and Warren watched her patiently.  Finally she gathered up one of the shots and carried it over to him.  Warren was sitting with a larger group of cowboys, their table littered with empty shot and pint glasses.  Cards were scattered about, but nobody seemed to be playing.  Kat walked with those long, skinny legs, her spurs clicking across the wood floor as she went.  The whiskey in the shot glass sloshed and swayed, but she didn’t spill a drop.  Warren licked his lips.

    Kat set the shot on the table, covering up a pair of Jacks.  He smiled again.  The other cowboys were leaning back in their chairs, uneasy of Kat’s proximity.  They had spent many nights watching her in the shadows, but now that she was in the light, there was something daunting about her, invincible.  Warren continued to leer and that further fueled their uneasiness.

    “Something wrong wit’ the drink?” Warren asked.

    Kat’s hand fell to one of her pistols.  The bartender watched on, his hand resting on the shotgun behind the bar.

    “Come on now, love,” said Warren.  “No need to get saucy.”

    Kat bent down and took Warren’s chin with her thumb and index finger.  She pulled him close, feeling his breath on hers.  He watched her, mesmerized.  Her eyes, normally cold and grey in the dark of the saloon, were now startlingly blue.  She pulled him toward her and kissed him with those thin, subtle lips.  It was short and quick, but it stole his breath away. Kat picked up the shot and swallowed it down.  She wiped her lips, not because of the whiskey, but because of the kiss.  Warren, though, was none-the-wiser.  

    She tapped at her holster again.  The bartender continued to watch her carefully.  Warren’s lip was quivering.  “All right then?” the bartender called over.

    “Yeah…” Warren stammered.  “All right.”

    Kat turned on her boots and carried herself out of the bar with an eerie silence.  The night birds chirped, singing their spring songs of glee, but they were drowned out by the neighing and nickering of Kat’s horse as she climbed upon him.  Its hooves thundered across Main Street’s thawed dirt as she raced it out of town.  

    After a while Huntsville became quiet again.

    The cowboys drank in silence until dawn came over the hills.  They wandered to wherever cowboys wander and slept off their sorrows.  Some of them were drunk, some of them were broke, but all of them were dream-starved. 

    The next evening the cowboys came back to the saloon and waited for Kat to return.  But the night wore on and the saloon remained empty.  The town was unbearably sullen.  Another dawn came and the cowboys became convinced that Kat had gone.  The next night was far gloomier.  They waited and they drank, but Kat never came.  The Black Hills had her now.

    Huntsville withered away.  It wouldn’t take long for the other cowboys to disappear into those hills just as the miners, the proprietors, the apothecaries, the deputies, and the cowgirls had.  There was nothing left for them in Huntsville anymore.  

    The bartender was the last to leave.  On the day the final cowboy left (which, coincidentally enough, was Warren), the bartender locked up the saloon and left Huntsville behind.

    Maybe there would be other cowgirls, he thought as he packed up his horse, maybe some place where the gold continued to rush and the winters weren’t so vicious. 

Marcy Playground's 'Sex & Candy' Music Video - A Conversation

    Ron is sitting on a couch.  Stuart comes in and sits next to him.

    “Hey,” says Stuart.

    “Hey,” says Ron.

    “What’s up?” asks Stuart.

    “I was just using your computer earlier and I gotta be honest: I find it disturbing that you’ve seen the Marcy Playground ‘Sex & Candy’ music video three thousand times.”

    Stuart blinks.  “What?”

    “I said I was just using your computer and saw your youtube history and it said you watched the Marcy Playground ‘Sex & Candy’ music video 3,192 times.”

    Stuart blinks again.  “It’s a good song.”

    “It is, I agree.

    “So what’s the problem?”

    “I just don’t think Marcy Playground deserves 3,192 consecutive views.”

    “Consecutive?”

    “Yeah,” says Ron.  “Your youtube history is Prince’s ‘Purple Rain,’ followed by 3,192 viewings of ‘Sex & Candy,’ and then, most recently, you watched ‘Tom Hanks Mowing Lawn;’ which, for the life of me, I can’t understand.”

    “It’s just a video of Tom Hanks mowing his lawn.”

    “No, I understand the video.  That’s not what I’m saying.”

    Stuart blinks, cocks his head to the left, inspects the ceiling, then says, “Are you asking about Tom Hanks or ‘Sex & Candy?’”

    “What?”

    “I asked if you wanted to know about Tom Hanks or the 1997 hit song ‘Sex & Candy?’”

    “Hit song?”

    “Yeah.”

    “You consider 'Sex & Candy' a hit song?”

    "Yeah."

    "Why?"

    “It spent 15 weeks at Number 1 on the Billboard Modern Rock Tracks chart.”

    “Why do you know that?”

    “I don’t know.”

    Ron grits his teeth, his face turns red.

    “So which is it?” asks Stuart.

    “Huh?”

    “Do you want to know about the Tom Hanks lawn mowing video or the Already-Established-1997-Billboard-Number-1-Hit-Song-‘Sex-&-Candy?’”

    “The song, goddamn it, the song!  I wanna know about the goddamn fucking song!”

    Stuart picks his teeth, asks, “What do you wanna know about it?”

    “I wanna know why you watched the ‘Sex & Candy’ video 3,192 times!” cries Ron.  “Once, sure.  Maybe even twice.  It depends on where you’re at and what you’re doing, maybe ten times in a row.  I don’t know…You’re at a party and something gets put on repeat, nobody notices—it could happen—but even then you’d get to 20-30 times before somebody notices.  But 3,192 times?!”  Ron’s head twitches.

    “But you like the song, yes?”

    “We already established that!”

    Stuart blinks, scratches the side of his face, and says, “I don’t think I want you using my computer anymore.”

    Ron says, “Ok.”

    They sit in silence for a while.  “You wanna watch ‘Joe Vs. The Volcano’ or something?”

    Ron thinks about it and asks, “‘The ‘Burbs?’”

    “Sure,” says Stuart.  “Let’s watch ‘The ‘Burbs.’”

    They watch “The ‘Burbs.”

Valentine's Day in Manhattan - A Rant

    Manhattan on Valentine’s Day is dreadful.  The sheer magnitude of the city becomes this overwhelming weight, an island for the demonically “in love.”  Each block is lined with starry-eyed, moonstruck dunces.  The city transforms into a blur of roses and cheap Champagne.  Messengers mumble and grumble as they carry arrangement after arrangement from one business to the next, each bouquet uglier than the last.  Nobody knows what they’re doing and they smile blindly through it.  The people wait expectantly, either hoping for a delivery or hoping the woman with the Lilies at the cubicle over falls down an elevator shaft.  The Empire State Building flashes this revolting red and can be seen from every dank alley in the city.  There is no escape from those flashing, cartoon hearts.  But it’s not just the Empire State Building in Manhattan, everything is bright red.  Everything stings the eyes.  And the weather is always cold.  The taxis kick up muddy snow as they careen out of control and there are puddles of dog urine everywhere.  As the hours drag, the buildings shade orange and the Hudson glows its horrible winter glow.  The faces yell, each one over the last, each voice becoming less and less sensical.  Rather than argue about cab routes and sidewalk zonings, people shout about the cost of Carnations and stingy chocolate sales; nine million people clamoring for ten percent off their chocolate covered cherries.  Restaurants clog with the overprivileged and depraved, the dining rooms packed well beyond capacity.  You can hear every conversation and every conversation is either boring or tragic.  There is no affection, only that same anxious energy, waiting for the day to be over.  Everybody has this glint of madness in their eye, as if the woman at the painfully close table could grab her fork and pluck out her companion’s eye.  On Valentine’s Day in Manhattan, nobody looks “in love,” everybody just looks stressed.

    Small towns aren’t any better, though.

Variance - Book 1, Issue #16

   The survivors ascended the tunnel to Lake Street and were met by a marvelous orange glow.  Night hadn’t yet come.  They surely should have time.  At most, though, there would only be twenty minutes of sunlight, so the survivors quickened their pace.  

   The United Center was less than a mile away, but the Variants would soon be out in droves.  Daylight had always meant the absence of Variants.  At night the Variants moved in packs that were fantastically dense.  Now, however, they were testing the waters, feeling out the boundaries of dusk and dawn.

   Adaptation, Martin continued to wonder.  They must be adapting.

   They made it to the corner of Warner and Wood Street by 8:38pm.  Night was beginning to drown out the day.  The air was becoming dank and cool.

   Adjacent to where they stood, across a sprawling parking lot, was the United Center.  Behind them was William H. Brown Junior High School.  Its cracked brick and broken windows made it look like an abandoned insane asylum.  There were abandoned cars all around them, but the landscape was void of any military or relief vehicles. 

   “Don’t look like no FEMA camp to me,” Enrique said.

   “Where are all the people?” asked Annie.

   Her question was met with only silence.

   They could see a FEMA banner tied carelessly to the United Center’s marquee board.  The top corner, having pulled free, was now whipping back and forth against the concrete.  A series of metal barricades lined the stadium’s perimeter, though some of them were tipped on their sides or had crumbled to pieces, cast aside like old stones.

   A large, ancient-looking crow hopped down from the roof of the Center, swooped in front of the north entrance before perching on a downed power line.  It cawed and flapped its massive wings.  The sound swooped through the parking lot before disappearing into the empty city.

   “I don’t understand,” said Martin.

   “What do you mean: ‘you don’t understand?’  We got had, Martin.”  Captain Blake’s gruff voice was bordering on dejection.  “We’re as screwed as screwed can get out here.”

   “Well, this is just fuckin’ great!” Lara cried.

   “What do we do now?” Enrique asked.  “Sun’s goin’ down and we ain’t got too many options, ya know?”  He mindlessly rolled his St. Christopher necklace through his fingers.

   “Maybe there’s something inside the stadium,” Martin said.

   “Like what?” Lara challenged.

   “Like supplies.”

   “We don’t need supplies!  We need fucking help!  We need fucking answers!”

   “Either way, I reckon we get outta the dark.  And get outta the dark fast,” Captain Blake added surveying the night sky.

   Had they not stood around and argued for the next thirty seconds, things may have turned out differently for Enrique.  Maybe if they had agreed on where to go or what to do sooner, he may have avoided the bullet that ripped through his pectoral muscle, just below his collarbone, and exited his back with a “pffftt” of crackling bone and shredded tissue.  Sadly, though, that was not the case for Enrique Valenzuela on that muggy evening in Chicago.

   The bullet had barely made a sound.  By the time they made it to safety, Captain Blake estimated the bullet came from the barrel of a Barrett M82 sniper rifle somewhere on the roof of the United Center.

   “Either the M82 or the M107,” he would tell them.  “At that range though, either of ‘em could blow a man’s head into a flurry of brain paste.  So I guess it don’t really matter.”

   That goddamn bird, Lara would later realizee.  That goddamn crow swooped down cause some asshole climbed up on that roof and shot at us.  Goddamn bird…

   “Let’s just go inside.  If we can’t find anything, we’ll stay here for the night and head out in the morning,” Martin said.

   “I’m done taking orders from you.  It’s only led us to one dead end after another,” Lara shouted.  “Fucking miracle we’re still alive!” 

   “Lara, calm down,” said Captain Blake.

   “It’s true!  We’re better off on our own!”

   And that was the last of the argument.  

   There was a quick puff of air, sharp and quick.  They saw the blood next.  It sprayed across the asphalt in a fabulous mist. Enrique’s body went taut.  He looked like how a person does when they get jolted by a police taser.  Enrique stiffened and then fell forward into that misty blood cloud.  A second bullet flicked off the concrete just next to Lara’s feet.

   “Sniper!” Captain Blake yelled.

   What happened next was the perfect recipe of adrenaline, luck, and frantic lust for survival.  A teaspoon more of one or the other surely would have resulted in all of their deaths.  Martin crouched and grabbed hold of Enrique’s collar.  He felt the smooth rush of air lick his spine as a third bullet barely missed him.  Enrique cried out in agony as Martin dragged him behind an abandoned school bus haphazardly parked on Warren Boulevard.  A fourth bullet exploded through the bus’s rubber tire and shot a ghastly burst of old air into Martin’s face.

   Captain Blake grabbed Annie’s hand and spun her toward him.  The motion—had the tension not been so great—would have been considered a fancy dance move.  A fifth bullet skipped past their feet.  They rolled under the school bus and hugged the base of the curb.

   “Variants?” Annie screamed.

   “That ain’t Variants, sweeting,” Captain Blake said.  “That’s human.”

   Lara’s survival was nothing but luck.  She had stood flat-footed for most of the ordeal.  The whole scenario played out with such an inauthentic quality.  But when she saw Enrique’s blood careening its way down the sidewalk her mind finally assessed the situation.  She took an instinctual step backward as the sixth bullet exploded next to her feet.  There was no urgency in her movements, just wise, calculated steps.  A seventh bullet was a near millimeter miss.  Later, she would recall the scorching heat of that bullet as it tickled past her neck.  Lara took another step backward and did a half somersault over the curb and behind the front tire.  She found herself next to Enrique.  The blood was pooling around his head into a morbid sort of halo.

   He looked up at her, his skin colorless and his eyes glistening.  A tear rolled town his cheek and she wiped it away as quickly as it had fallen.

   “We can’t stay here!” Captain Blake shouted as another bullet blew out a second bus tire.

   “Let’s get him to the school!” Martin ordered.  He and Lara picked Enrique up and made their way to the front door.  The sniper bullets momentarily ceased.  Perhaps they were finding a better angle.  Perhaps they were out of bullets.  Perhaps they were just biding their time.

   Captain Blake shot the lock off the chain wrapped around the school’s front door and yanked it off in one swift motion.  The others raced into the school, Captain Blake following close behind.

   The last sound was the reverberating “ping” of the ninth sniper bullet splitting through the bus window and lodging into the school’s front door.  If one looked closely, a small indentation could be seen where the bullet had struck.  None of did, however, and the school’s recent renovation would go unnoticed. 

   The pain in Enrique’s voice shot out of him in a gurgling rage and wandered down the empty halls like a lost child.

   Lara was near tears as she watched Martin go to work.  Annie offered her a comforting shoulder, but Lara promptly brushed it aside and crossed to the other side of the room.  Annie watched her go, but made no move to follow.

   Martin and Captain Blake placed Enrique on one of the wooden benches, the kind with wide slats usually reserved for those waiting for the principal.  Blood dripped through the slats, collecting on the tile in a dense oval.  Enrique cried out in another fit of pain as Martin applied more pressure.

   “Break that and give it to me,” Martin said, referring to a moldy mop propped against one of the lockers.

   Captain Blake snapped the wooden handle over his knee and handed the smaller of the two halves to Martin. 

   “Open your mouth,” he instructed.

   Enrique did as he was told and Martin stuck the water-stained slab of wood between his teeth.  He bit down with such intensity Martin could hear the dry sound of wood particles grinding against the enamel.  He ripped open Enrique’s shirt and saw the blood loss was so severe, and the blood density was so great, it took Martin a moment to find the bullet’s point of entry.  

   Enrique’s breathing became strained and gurgled, the inhales and exhales painfully desperate.  He pointed at his neck as if to indicate he was choking.

   “What’s wrong with him?” Lara screamed.

   “His lung’s punctured,” Martin said.  “I need to alleviate the pressure.” 

   “How?” Lara asked, now on the verge of hysteria.

   “We have to get him to the United Center,” Martin said.  And he said it so quietly, at first he thought nobody had heard him.  Then he felt a gentle tugging at the back of his shirt.  He turned and found Lara, eyes harboring heavy pockets of tears, but cautiously calm.

   “Are you nuts?” she asked in a harsh whisper.  “I don’t know if you noticed, Doc, but a fucking sniper is raining caps down on us, and it’s another four hundred yards to the front entrance…At least!”

   “I know how far it is,” Martin said, grabbing hold of her wrist and lead her away from Enrique.

   Lara ripped her arm away and stepped as close as she could to him.  “Listen, if we go out there, then we’re all dead.  The sun’s down which means the Variants’ll be coming.  And if the Variants don’t get us, then that cheesedick with the rifle surely will.”  She wiped the tears from the shallows of her eyes.  “You’re just gonna have to fix him here.”

   “And I’m telling you, if we don’t get him out of here, then he’ll die.  I can’t fix him here.  That might not be a FEMA camp anymore, but it was at one time.  And that means they’ll have medical supplies, a lab, maybe even an operating facility.  I’m not asking for your opinion.  We’re going.  If you’d like to stay here, be my guest, but don’t expect any of us to come back for you.”  The icy contempt in his voice was staggering.  He turned his attention to Captain Blake.  “Captain, you think you can hot wire that bus out front?”

   “Ain’t a question of if I can, Doc, it’s a question of how fast I can.”

   Martin nodded his appreciation.  

   “Lara, c’m here,” Captain Blake instructed her. 

   She did without a moment’s protest.

   Martin opened his pack and removed a soft linen towel.  He placed the towel on Enrique’s wound, took Lara’s hand, and placed it on top.  “Apply this amount of pressure,” he said showing her with his touch.  Enrique groaned slightly.  “If he tries to move, or push you away, gently push him back on the other shoulder and increase the pressure.  Don’t lift the towel to check for saturation or even for your own curiosity, it’ll do more harm than good.  Do you understand?” 

   Lara nodded.

   The previous five minutes were hazy for Enrique.  It was a kaleidoscope of disconnected pictures skipping in his memory like a scratched vinyl record.  He remembered Captain Blake and Martin carrying him inside and setting him on an uncomfortable bench, a broom (or something like that), and the distant outline of Annie Walker as she disappeared down a hallway.  

   Nobody noticed her, Enrique thought.  Where was she going?

   “I know this place…” Enrique thought he heard her say.  “I know this place,” she had said again.  But nobody seemed to hear her except Enrique.

   His pain returned in a violent jolt, and the image of Annie Walker disappearing into the quiet dark of William H. Brown Junior High faded away like that last reel of a movie.

Babs - A Short

    It was on a Tuesday when Babs came into the lives of Harry and Tom.  There was a mystery to Babs, sure, something fabled and storied, but there was also a crassness.  She walked with a swagger she knew she had and would never lose.  And even before she sat down, Harry and Tom wondered if they had all met some place before.

    They figured Babs could have been anywhere between forty and sixty years old.  Her hair was cut short, bleached blonde, and spiked.  She wore jeans that hugged her hips and thighs in the most unpleasant way, and her shirt was cropped low around the neck and chest.  She wore enough makeup to blanket a small child, but her skin was still tired and weary.  Her hands were cracked and old, the way paper-mache looks when left out to dry.  Babs was eager to believe she was still 22, but as her days waned, it was becoming harder and harder to accept the lie.

    Harry and Tom were sitting on the couch with full glasses of whiskey and a half-smoked joint set between them.

    The door pushed open.  “Hello, boys!” Babs called from the entryway.

    “H’lo,” they muttered.

    “What a fine evening it is!”  Babs was carrying two overstuffed duffels.  She dropped the bags on the floor and took a seat in a nearby chair.  “It’s Friday and I ain’t got no work tomorrow.  I got a half a pack of smokes, and I’m looking for love, lust, luck, or a bit of all three.  You boys feeling me?”  Babs removed a compact mirror and a tube of lipstick from her back pocket.

    Harry was the first to speak.  “I’m sorry, do we know you?”

    “My name’s Babs.”  She applied a thick coat of red.

    “So we don’t know you,” said Tom, irritated.

    “I gave you my name,” she said.  “Seems like you know me now, yeah?”  Babs smacked her weathered lips together.  “And what fine names do you fine boys have?”

    They were just drunk enough to answer.  “Tom.”  “Harry.”

    “And what are you two doing in on a night such as this?”

    “Wait,” said Tom.  “…Who are you?”

    “I’m Babs,” she said plainly. “I’m Carlin’s mom.”

    They looked at her with unknowing expressions.  The joint continued to burn.

    “Carlin’s your next-door neighbor, dear,” she said.  “And, technically, I’m not his mom.  I’m his foster mom.  Well, I was his foster mom.”  Babs was rambling.  “That’s the thing about being a foster mom: once the kid moves out, do you continue to be their foster mom?  Or has your tenure in that department come to an end?  Ain’t that something to ponder?”

    “Do you do this often, Babs?” Harry asked.

    “Walk in on two strangers?”

    “Yes.”

    “Only when I’m looking for something.”  Babs pulled a pack of Virginia Slims from her front pocket and tapped one out.  “You mind if I smoke?” 

    “I’d prefer if you didn’t,” said Tom, still irritated.

    Babs stuck the cigarette in her mouth anyway and lit it.  The Slim was so slim it burned away after a few unappealing drags.  She lit another one and the room filled with smoke.  “So what’s your boys’ story?  You two lovers?  Brothers?  Friends with bennies?”

    “None of the above,” said Harry.  “This is Tom’s place.  I’m from out of town.”

    “Whereabouts?”

    “Baltimore.”

    “I lived in Baltimore once.”

    “Is that right?” Harry asked with a tone that bordered on condescension. 

    Babs finished her second cigarette and lit another.  She inhaled so hard that the third cigarette burned off in one drag.  She picked a piece of tobacco or ash from her tongue and wiped it on the front of her jeans.  Her wheels were spinning, but there was little truth behind those thoughts.  “By Camden Yards,” she said finally.  “Up on Lombard.”

    “How ‘bout that.”  Harry was scratching his chin and staring at Babs the way a judge might stare at a witness.

    “And what do you do, Harry?”

    “I sit in the dark and write things.”

    “Mmmm.”  Babs inched closer.  “I like that.”  She set a hand on Harry’s thigh and gave him a playful slap.  “And what about you Tom?”

    “I do all sorts of things.”

    “Like what?”

    “All sorts.”

    “You ever deliver mail?”

    “Sure, I’ve done that.”

    “You ever worked as a butcher?”

    “Yeah, done that, too.”

    “What about a distiller?  You ever work as a distiller?”

    “Sure.  Been doing that for years.”

    Babs set a hand on Tom’s thigh, but didn’t slap it.  Tom squirmed and drank his whiskey down.

    “You boys mind if I have some of that J?”

    Tom shook his head and handed it to her.  

    Babs took a long, deliberate drag then let the smoke escape from her mouth in a fine and sexy billow.  “Time is a funny thing, ain’t it, boys?”  She took another pull off the joint.

    Harry shrugged.  “I supposed.”

    “I remember when Carlin was just a boy—I don’t know, maybe seven or eight—and he used to run around with this stuffed polar bear.  I’d gotten it for him when he was three and he’d take it everywhere.  He’d cry if we ever left the house without it.  The thing was becoming something of a nuisance.  It was always getting dirty and stained, turning rattier and rattier.  So, on his seventh birthday, I took it away and replaced it with a new one.”  Babs took another drag and her body shivered.  “Damn, that’s a good joint!” she declared.  “I usually only meet guys who get that dried sage or dried thyme.”  Babs took a final drag and finished the joint.  She stubbed out the roach on Tom’s desk and wiped the ash on the floor.  

    Tom no longer cared.  

    “Anyway, Carlin finds the new stuffed polar bear in his room and just starts to cry.  And all these kids are around—I mean, they’re all there to celebrate his seventh birthday—and he can’t stop crying.  And then—in front of everyone—he just rips the bear up.  I didn’t think it was possible for a seven year old to have that much strength, but he tore up that thing right on the spot.  Fabric and stuffing are flying everywhere and all the other kids start crying and I’m just standing there with this birthday cake with these trick candles burning down and wax getting everywhere.  Ruined the whole damned cake!”

    The room fell silent.  Babs took the pack of Virginia Slims from her pocket and popped out another cigarette.  She thought about lighting it, but, instead, set it on Tom’s desk.  “I don’t know,” Babs said.  She hunched over and zipped open one of the duffels.  

    Harry sipped on his drink but hardly tasted a thing.  

    Babs pulled a stuffed white polar bear from her bag.  The thing was stained and worn by age, and was missing one eye, but, otherwise, seemed to be in reasonable shape.  “I’d thrown this in the garbage the morning of his birthday, but fished it out after the party.  I barely had a chance to clean the coffee grounds off before he begged for it back.”  She bit the skin on the edge of her thumb.  “And then, I suppose, everything was fine after that,” she said solemnly.

    A gust of wind rattled the windows.

    “Hell,” Babs sighed.  “My mind sure does wander.”

    Harry leaned forward and asked, “So what is it you do, Babs?”

    She smiled a smile that wasn’t real and said, “I return stuffed animals.  Even if their owners no longer want them.”  Babs rolled the Slim back and forth on the desk.  She was looking at it with a fondness cigarettes didn’t deserve.  Especially Slims.  “Well, I think I’ve wasted enough of your boys’ time.  I’d better be off.”

    “You don’t have to,” Harry said.

    “Yeah,” said Tom, no longer irritated.  “You can stay.”

    Babs smiled.  This time it was real.  “That’s sweet of you, boys.  But it’s my time to get going.”  She gathered up her bags.  When she stood she barely wavered.  Babs didn’t look drunk or stoned or lost; she just looked like Babs.  “It was nice to meet you boys.”

    “Pleasure,” they said.

    “See you on the other side, yeah?”

    The boys nodded, but didn’t know why.

    “Will you make sure that bear gets in the right hands?”

    The boys nodded again, only this time knowingly.

    “Good.”  Babs turned with her bags and left.  She didn’t bother to look back and they were glad that she didn’t.

    On the desk sat the stained polar bear and the fresh Virginia Slim.  Tom took the cigarette in his mouth and lit it.  Harry drank the last of his drink.  And the polar bear stared at them glumly.

Variance - Book 1, Issue #15

Chicago, IL

Four months after The Rise

   It wasn’t until the survivors reached the shore of Lake Michigan that Chicago’s skyline finally came into view.  Fog had rolled in, making the skyline look skeletal and morose.  There was no more bustling energy, no vibrancy.  There was only a cluster of buildings that had been forsaken by the world of tomorrow—The World of the Variants.

   The survivors no longer walked in cliques.  Instead, they trudged along single-file like some melancholy game of Follow-The-Leader.  Martin was in the back, Annie a few feet in front of him.  He watched her ponytail bounce back and forth with hypnotic rhythm.  She hadn’t said a word since they left the Variant’s body in Park Ridge.

   They arrived at Lower Wacker Drive a touch after 6:00 p.m.  Lower Wacker: built in 1926 at the cost of eight million dollars and named after chairman of the Chicago Plan Commission, Charles H. Wacker.  The design was meant to alleviate traffic congestion at River Street and Rush Street and the double-decked roadway design was an architectural revolution at the time.  Now, however, Lower Wacker was nothing more than an underground graveyard without the appropriate headstones. 

   As they made their way past the decaying bodies—some still in their cars, some in the street, others hanging over the concrete barrier—Martin handed Annie a handkerchief to cover her mouth and nose.  It was hard to tell through the eternal gridlock, but Martin thought there were anywhere between five hundred and six hundred souls who perished down on Wacker.  It was a traffic jam of the foulest things he had ever seen. 

   “Fucking stinks!” Lara said stuffing her nose into the crux of her elbow.

   “What do you expect?”  Captain Blake shook out his handkerchief and cupped it around his nose.

   Enrique didn’t use a handkerchief.  He stepped through the lawn of bodies with a solemn respect.  He never looked into their eyes, regarding each of them in his own right.  It was this sort of quiet reverence his mother taught him when he was a child.  A quiet reminder as to the gentle soul Enrique really was.

   “Ain’t there no other way we can go?” Lara asked.

   “This is the best way,” Martin said.  “Lower Wacker takes us directly under the city all the way to Lake Street.  From there we should be able to make it to the United Center undetected.”

   “Undetected?” Lara questioned with her usual skepticism.

   “Sun’s going down soon.  If we can’t make it to the United Center by then, at least Lower Wicker will give us some sort of camouflage.”

   “And if the Variants are down here waiting for us?” Lara asked.

   “Then we’re already dead,” said Enrique.  He was staring down at the body of a pregnant woman.  She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old.  Her skin was pallid and looked like freshly cut leather, drawn taut. 

    “Let’s just keep moving,” Martin said.

   Nobody moved.

   “I said ‘move out!’” he shouted with an anger Annie hadn’t expected.

   “Come on,” Captain Blake told the others.  “You heard the Doc.”  He climbed over a battered blue Cadillac leading the way for them to follow.

   They traversed their way over the first cluster of automobiles, silence their only companion.  Sunlight spilled through the north end of Lower Wacker.  It was a soft, dying sunlight that meant only one thing: nightfall was upon them.  The Variants would be coming soon…

   “Heeeeeellllllppppppp…” came a small voice from behind them.  

   Annie was the first to turn around.  “Did you hear that?”

   “Heeeeeellllllppppppppppp…” the voice waned.

   “I sure as shit did,” Lara said, unholstering her .357.

   “Hello?” Enrique called down the tunnel.

   “Are you nuts?” Captain Blake stepped forward and slapped the back of Enrique’s head.

   “Oww! Watch it, yo!” Enrique cried.

   Annie pulled herself onto the hood of an F-150 and climbed onto the cabin.  She peered through the crippling darkness and saw, no more than a hundred yards back, the outline of a young girl.  “I see somebody!”

   “Annie, wait!” Martin called.  But it was no use.  Annie’s motherly instincts kicked in and she was going back for the girl.  Martin slid past the F-150 and followed after her.

   “It’s all right,” she called to the girl.  “We’re here, everything’s okay.”

   The girl was wearing a dingy white blouse and khaki capris.  Her hair was greasy and black as if it had been dunked into a bucket of tar, then glossed in a layer of canola oil.  

   And then there was the smile.  That decrepit, ghastly smile of a girl who was no longer a girl.  A girl who had been left to navigate the wastelands of the world without hope of returning to the innocence she once had.  But a Variant like this little girl couldn’t help but smile at the trap she had set.

   “Annie, stop!” Martin yelled. 

   But Annie had already met the girl, and now she could see the cracked, yellow teeth leering back at her.  

   “God…” was all she could muster before the girl leapt at her.  

   The girl’s mouth foamed as she threw punches into Annie’s chest and abdomen.  Annie screamed and felt a chunk of flesh tear away from her collarbone.  The girl grabbed a tire iron under a nearby car and raised it up, ready to strike, when her eye exploded out the back of her skull.

   Annie looked back and saw Martin jump down from a nearby Toyota, his Desert Eagle leaving a trail of smoke as he did.

   “Come on,” he said helping her to her feet.

   There was a thundering of footsteps farther down Lower Wacker and Martin watched as a band of Variants emerged from the darkness.  200 large, at least.  The sun bounced off a nearby building and illuminated them for a brief moment.  The Variants cringed at the star’s burning light, but didn’t waver.

   They’re adapting, Martin thought.  Christ almighty, they’re adapting.

   “Go back,” Martin said and gave Annie a little push over the Toyota.  

   The Variants gave chase, their feet pounding over the paralyzed automobiles with thundering effect.  The herd trampled over the windshields and sunroofs and emitted a rumbling battle cry like something out of a 50s war film.  The ringing echoed off the tunnel walls and Annie suddenly felt entombed.  

   The survivors’ bullets came next, whizzing past Annie and Martin.  Lara, Captain Blake, and Enrique were dropping Variants, but not nearly fast enough.  The ones in front fell back and were immediately trampled by the other ravenous warriors.

   “Keep moving!”  Martin ordered and didn’t stop to wait for the others.

   Enrique was the first to turn and follow.  Lara and Captain Blake unloaded a few more rounds then scampered after them.

   Lara turned back every so often, dropping the frontline of Variants.  She would turn and run, turn and run, like some modern dance she had created for this new age.  

   She and Captain Blake passed an abandoned garbage truck.  The driver in the front was dead, a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the temple.  The name “Earl” was stitched on his navy blue jumpsuit and the glass on the driver’s side door had been blown out.  Whether it was from the bullet or the Variants trying to break their way in, it didn’t really matter.  Either way, old Earl got off easy.  

   Well done, Earl.  Godspeed.  We should all be so lucky.

   Captain Blake and Lara took cover behind the truck’s massive wheels.  Lara reached under the truck’s frame and fired off a single shot.  She howled with pleasure as the bullet split through a small opening between a Jeep and a battered Lincoln and lodged in the brain of a front-running Variant.  The race was over for that poor bastard.

   Captain Blake flipped open the top of his bag and reached inside.  Lara’s eyes filled with mischievous wonderment when he produced two exquisite looking grenades.  The webbed green exterior was like a beautiful sculpture and they shared a smile as Captain Blake pulled each of their pins.

   “Fire in the hole!” he called and Lara howled like a wolf at the moon.

   Captain Blake stuffed the two grenades under the garbage truck’s wheels and he and Lara took off, their legs kicking wildly at the pavement beneath them.

   “Get down!” Martin called.

   He, Annie, and Enrique dropped next to an empty city bus, wrapping their arms around each other in a faux group hug.

   Captain Blake and Lara, now thirty yards away, leapt into the cab of a brand new Dodge Ram.  Damn thing didn’t even have its license plates yet.  Crying shame for that missing owner.

   The Variants trampled over a small red Kia—its frame giving way to their tremendous weight—and rounded the garbage truck.  The leader of the Variants was smiling when the grenades went off.  The explosion ripped the skin from his face and his teeth exploded out the side of his mouth.

   The truck flipped onto its side crushing the lead of Variants.  The explosion propelled another pack of Variants over the side of Lower Wacker only to be swallowed up by the depths of the Chicago River. 

   When the dust and smoke settled, the dump truck and a few automobiles rotated in such a way that Lower Wacker was completely blocked.  The scream of the surviving Variants was still audible, but their threat was no longer real.  They were trapped in a tunnel of death, with only the entrance as a way out.

   “Hot hell that was good shit!” Lara said hopping out of the truck.

   When they reached the others, they noticed a foolish looking smile on Enrique’s face.

   “What are ya grinnin’ at ya goof?” Lara asked.

   “Just glad we’re all still alive,” he said.

   Captain Blake and Lara had let them live to see another day.  Which, they supposed, was both a blessing and a curse.

Variance - Book 1, Issue #14

Park Ridge, IL

Four months after The Rise

   The survivors lingered around the Variant’s body longer than any of them had wanted.  Annie was the only one who didn’t.  She rested against the splintered picket fence hugging her legs against her chest.  Tear tracks were visible along her dust-stained face.

   Martin knelt next to the Variant’s body and opened one of its eyelids.  The pupil was small and black and the iris was a supple green.  There was, however, a thin, discolored red ring around the pupil.  Martin released the eyelid and opened his pack, producing a syringe and a tubular vial.  He stuck the needle in the Variant’s neck, just below the jaw, and extracted a small sample of blood.  Martin held the vial to the sky.  Against the late morning sun, the blood seemed to shimmer, the vial almost glowing.  When Martin pulled it away the blood transformed back into the dark, rich matter so often seen when someone pricks their finger or skins their knee.

   Out of the light, the blood looked completely normal.

   But why shouldn’t it?  Annie thought.

   Because it’s a Variant, the other side of her brain countered.  It’s a rotten Variant that doesn’t deserve the same blood as a human.  It deserves black in its veins.  Dirty black blood.  As black as oil.  Black to accompany its black beating heart.  Black like the--

   “Did you say something?” Martin asked.  

   Annie looked up, startled.  Had she said something?  No, no, surely not.  “No,” she said.  “I didn’t say anything.”

   Martin nodded, but kept his unsure eyes on her.  “Let’s get going, we’ve been here too long.”

   Without a word of protest, the others gathered up their packs and headed east along Birchwood Avenue.  They would be to Chicago in a matter of hours and the sun would not wait for them.

The Man & The Voice - A Conversation

A phone rings.  A man answers.

“Hello?”

“In the time that it took you to mow your lawn today I fucked your wife,” a voice says.

“What?”

“In the time that it took you to mow your lawn today I fucked your wife.”

“Who is this?”

“It’s the man who fucked your wife,” the voice says, irritated.

“What?”

“Did you not hear me?”

“I heard you.”

“So how—
“—I’m not married,” interrupts the man.

A pause.

“What?” asks the voice.

“I’m not married,” the man says again.

“Is this 310-422-1882?”

“Yeah.”

“Is this Roger Donnell?”

“Yes.”

“And do you live at 5843 North Gregory Ave?”

“No.”

“What?”

“I said ‘I don’t live there.’”

“You don’t?”

“I live at 5843 South Gregory Ave.  Not North.”

“Oh…” says the voice.

“Yeah…”

Another pause.

“And you’re not married?”

“I’m not.  You got the wrong Roger Donnell.”

“What are the odds?” the voice asks.

“Gotta be up there.”

“Yeah…”  The voice coughs and asks, “Do you know the Roger Donnell who does live at 5843 Gregory Ave?”

“No.  Sorry.”

The voice coughs again.  “I fucked his wife, you know.”

“Yeah,” says the man.  “You told me.”

Another pause.

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’m gonna go, man.”

“Cool.”

“Keep livin’ the dream.”

“Done!” the voice declares.
The voice hangs up.  The man goes and mows his lawn.

Variance - Book 1, Issue #13

Potawatomi Woods, Wheeling, IL

Day 18 of The Rise

   It would not be the commotion that would startle Annie Walker awake.  She had fallen asleep an hour before sundown.  The rest of the hut was still milling about, but exhaustion finally took her.  There were no dreams to speak of, no night terrors, just darkness.  The darkness, though, was interrupted when she felt a hot, putrid breath tickling the side of her face.  She opened her eyes, curious of the source.

   When her eyes adjusted, she saw the demonic gaze of Crowley staring down at her.  His fingers were caked in blood, with continuing splotches on his neck and chest.  There was no longer any warmth in his eyes.  He looked as though somebody had replaced his heart with a couple of double A batteries.

   “Crowley?” she said.  But the Crowley she had met on that Humvee was no longer there.

   The sound of her voice set him off like a branded horse.  He yanked at her arms and lifted her from the cot in one swift motion.

   She let out a shrill scream and he slammed the back of her head against the wall.  The room spun and a steady stream of blood ran down the back of her neck.  The haze from her eyes lifted and she saw, behind Crowley, two dozen dead bodies scattered throughout the hut.  Some victims had limbs that were torn clean off.  Others were missing throats, chins, and eyeballs.   Near the door, Annie saw Crowley’s daughter, Lauren, lying amongst the corpses.  Her eyes were closed and her hands were resting on her chest.  Death came quickly for her.

   Next to her was Porter.  He had not been as lucky.  His right arm had been ripped from its socket and his jawbone was lying eighteen inches in front of him.  He looked like some ghastly painting that had not yet been finished.  

   Always Ready, Always There?  Sadly, no more, Mr. National Guard.

   Though it was missing three of its fingers, there was a CB radio still clutched in Porter’s left hand.

   “Crowley, what did you do?” 

   He grunted and slammed her against the wall again.  He let out a long, deep gasp of air and Annie felt the stink of it.  She tried to turn her head away, but he grabbed hold of her chin and snatched her back, gazing at her with curious eyes.  Crowley somehow seemed different now, almost inquisitive.  It was as if he had just been asked a riddle and couldn’t construct an answer.

   Two coins add up to twenty-five cents.  One of them is not a nickel.  What are these two coins?

   He tilted his head to the right, didn’t like what he saw, then tilted his head to the left.  His curiosity went on for days.  

   Two coins add up to twenty-five cents, damn it, and one of those coins is not a nickel.  What are these two coins?  WHAT ARE THESE TWO COINS, YOU SON OF A BITCH?

   “Crowley, listen, I don’t know what you did—“

   He hit her across the face, splitting her lower lip.  The blood was minimal, but it hurt like hell.  He hit her again, this time just for good measure.  

   Don’t interrupt me while I’m trying to solve you, his eyes screamed.  WHAT ARE THESE TWO COINS?

   In Annie’s back pocket she could feel the stiff cardboard of her son’s birthday card pressing against her buttocks.  She slid her hand behind her, hoping Crowley wouldn’t notice.  He didn’t.  His eyes were unblinking on hers.  She slipped the card out of her pocket.

   “What are you?” Crowley finally asked.  His words were staggered, but clear.  “What…Are…You?”

   She stared back at him uncomprehendingly.

   What am I?  She hadn’t the slightest idea what he meant.  He seemed repulsed by her, yet, strangely captivated. 

   “Air strike commencing in thirty seconds.  Porter, you get those people out of there?  Copy?”  The words echoed out of Porter’s CB radio with such a graveness Annie momentarily forgot about the birthday card in her hand.

   “Twenty-five seconds!  Porter, status?”

   Annie squeezed the card with her thumb against the base of her index finger and raised it up.  Crowley didn’t notice, his attention was fixed on her eyes.

   “What are you?” he demanded.  “What are you?  What are you?  What are you?”  Crowley was screaming.  He blinked and Annie saw two red rings form around his eyes.

   “Air strike in twenty seconds,” the voice boomed. 

   Annie swung the birthday card through the air.  The corner of it sliced through Crowley’s right eye producing a quick squishing sound.  

   SPPPPPLOSCH!  Crowley’s red-ringed eye screamed.

   He fell back, tripping over one of the bodies.  Though, he didn’t screamed.  He clutched his socket as the sclera dissolved into a mixture of blood and puss.  Crowley writhed on the ground, kicking his feet against one of the bodies, but, still, he didn’t scream.  

   “Ten seconds.”  The voice turned ominous.  “Porter, do you read me?”

   Annie jumped over Crowley, the birthday card dripping blood.  He reached for her, but the laces of her untied shoes slipped through his fingers.  

   “Five seconds!”

   She looked back in time to see Crowley getting to his feet.  What are the coins, for the love of God?  His eyes were desperate, longing for answers.  But Crowley made no move to run after her, he only stood there, stoic and calm.

   “Three, two…”

   Annie threw open the door and heard the jets fly over.  There was the quick surge of air as the missiles disengaged and shot through the night sky.  Then, the hut caved in around her like a dying star.  Its brittle beams thudded against the fragile sheetrock and her last thought was of Crowley.  She imagined the roof as it turned him into splatters of gore.  She thought of the way he looked at her with such child-like curiosity.  She thought of the frustration in his eyes. 

   A nickel and a dime, she thought as the darkness consumed her.  

   A nickel and a dime.

   When she would wake, four months later, Annie would be met by the panicked eyes of Enrique Valenzuela, Captain Richard Blake, Lara Holliday, and Martin Knight.

   The Variants would chase them into the clearing all wondering the same question.  What are you, Ms. Walker.  What. Are. You?