Variance - Book 1, Issue #4

Los Angeles, CA

Day 3 of The Rise

     The production of Camels to Africa was six weeks past picture-lock, ten million over budget, and the picture’s star, Lila Craven, had locked herself in her dressing room for the third consecutive day.  This was the twenty-eighth incident of the kind in her career and her agent, Rachel Greenberg, had had enough.

     Lila hadn’t done a picture in over four years and, while she was once a promising young star, a nervous breakdown mixed with Quaaludes and tequila resulted in a court-ordered stint at rehab.  Or, as the Hollywood-types spun it: “Lila is taking a much-needed break from the stresses and tribulations of her acting schedule.”  

     This “much-needed break” lasted thirty months and cost the actress a small fortune.  

     Rachel had pulled every string and called in every favor she had left in order to get Lila Camels to Africa.  When Lila read the script she told Rachel it sounded “trite and far-fetched.”

     “It’s Lawrence of Arabia, but with a woman!” Rachel cried in response.  “It’s fucking Lila of Arabia and you are doing this picture if I have to drag you on set and deliver you to Ernie myself.”

     Ernie was Ernie Roland, the director of the picture.  He was hot off his Oscar win for No Sunshine in Brussels and wanted to direct an epic drama with a gritty actress who had the talent and the town’s respect.  What he got was Lila Craven.  She lacked tremendously in the respect department, and her level of talent was undoubtedly in question.  The New York Times called her portrayal of Mona Lisa in Leonardo’s Game “contrived and a total bore,” and The Boston Herald referred to her performance in Kites of Brooklyn as “a true test for a young actress; one that barely gets a passing grade.”

     And now Lila was on set for one of the biggest productions in studio history, and she was refusing to come out of her trailer.

     “Fuck Ernie!  Fuck all of them!” Lila screamed from her bathroom.

     Rachel was sitting outside on one of the lumpy couch cushions furiously sending emails from her Blackberry.  “You don’t mean that,” she said without looking up.  “Ernie’s a great director, he just gets passionate sometimes.”

     The accordion-style door to the bathroom slid open and Lila stood there, mascara running down her puffy, red cheeks.  “I’m passionate!” she cried.  “I defy you to find someone more passionate than me!”

     “Lila, listen,” Rachel said, finally setting down her Blackberry.  She got to her feet and guided Lila out of the bathroom.  “We’re almost there.  We only have one more scene and then you wrap.  Please, I’m begging you, for your career…fuck, for my career, please clean yourself up and get back on set.  I’ll talk to Ernie in the meantime, but please, please, please, just do this for me.” 

     “Jesus, fuck,” Lila said pulling away.  “Fine, I’ll do it!”

     Rachel squealed.  “Yay!  Okay, wipe that mascara off your face and meet me at makeup in ten.”         She snatched up her Blackberry and left, clicking away at those little keys as she did.

     “Click.  Click.  Click,” said the Blackberry.

     Lila went back into the bathroom and looked in the mirror.  She had purple sacks under her bloodshot eyes and there were thick trails of mascara breaking off into several roots near her jawline.  She grabbed a towel from the rack and wiped her face but only managed to rub the mascara deeper into her swollen cheeks.

     “Ugh!” Lila grunted.

     She rubbed harder, but the color only deepened, embedding into her pores.  She looked at herself again, more than ready to have another tantrum, when she was struck with a crippling headache.  It was unlike anything she had ever felt before.  Her nose crinkled and her jaw clenched, but then the pain promptly vanished.

     The incandescent light above the sink accentuated the crow’s feet dotting her eyes and she suddenly looked thirty years older, like the shell of the young temptress she once was.  Her skin was frail and bedraggled.  As far as actresses went, Lila Craven looked like a monster.  

     But Lila didn’t groan or scream.  She didn’t cry out in a wretched “woe is me” howl.  She looked thoughtfully at her features, even taking a moment to touch her swollen cheeks with the tips of her fingers.

     And then she smiled.  It was a wicked, impish smile.

     Lila blinked and heard her lids click against the moisture in her eyes.  When she opened them she noticed a faint discoloration, something slight, just around the iris.  But when she blinked again, the discoloration vanished

     How peculiar?  She thought.  How very, very peculiar?

     The smile morphed into a grin...

* * *

     Lila arrived at makeup just how she had been in the bathroom:  the mascara was smeared across her face, her lipstick was a splotch away from “clown mouth,” and her hair was a frazzled mess.

     “What the fuck happened to you?” Rachel asked taking a clump of Lila’s hair in her hand.  She held a few strands close to her face, inspecting it as if she had lice.  “Lila, what’s the matter?”

     Lila said nothing.  She only giggled a schoolgirl’s giggle and plopped down in the chair.

     “Are you high or something?” Rachel asked.  “Lila, I thought we had this handled.  You were clean.  Fuck!  You are clean.  Jesus, what did you take?”

     Giggle.  Giggle.

     “Lila!”  Rachel slapped Lila’s cheek, smearing mascara across her palm.  “What.  Did.  You.  Take?”

     Giggle.  Giggle.

     “For fuck’s sake!” Rachel pulled out her Blackberry.

     “Click.  Click.  Click,” the Blackberry said to Lila, and she squealed with delight.

     “What the hell’s wrong with her,” Ernie Roland asked venturing over to the two.

     “Nothing, she’s fine,” Rachel said frantically typing away.

     “Click.  Click.  Click.”  More laughter.

     “Oh, holy fucking Christ!  Shitting shit!  She’s stoned as balls, isn’t she?”

     “No, of course not.”

     “Don’t lie to me, Greenberg,” he cautioned.

     “I’m not lying.  She’s fine.”

     Ernie looked over the wavering Miss Craven.  Her eyes never met his.  They danced around the soundstage with child-like amazement.  He grabbed Rachel’s arm, pulling her away from Lila.  “Picture’s up in five.  If she’s not ready, I’m shutting this down!”  He stormed away without looking back. 

     Lila was staring at the recently-built set.  There were half a dozen straw huts depicting a small village.  The huts were scattered across a thin layer of white sand, and a background had been painted on a nylon screen to make it look like a sprawling desert lay beyond the horizon.

     The other crew members were milling about the “village”, all of them shooting Lila the same look of contempt.

     “Where’s fucking makeup?  Makeup!”  Rachel typed away at those clunky keys and left in search of the makeup girl.  Lila was left alone, fiddling with her hair as she stared at the set that seemed so real.  She hopped off the makeup chair and sauntered toward the back of the set.  Behind the nylon screen that portrayed the expansive desert Lila found a varying array of art supplies: stacks of oil paints, dirty rags, brushes, thinner, extra nylon, and old bits of wood frame.  And while the rest of the cast and crew were busy blocking the next scene, Lila was busy emptying the thinner and oils over every surface in sight.  She splashed them on the set’s trusses, giggling every time they slopped on the floor.

     “Where’s Lila?” Rachel was yelling from the other side of the set.  “Lila!” 

     Lila held a finger to her lips as if willing herself quiet.  She nearly giggled, but gulped the laughter back with a giant swallow of toxic air.

     “Lila!  Lila!”  Others were calling for her now. 

     Lila started for the back exit.  She passed an HMI light on her way and tipped it over with a simple flick of the fingers.  The light toppled over so casually, so easily, it was as though Lila Craven had the strength of a body builder.

     The light crashed against the oil-soaked rags, igniting them into a smoldering inferno.  

     Lila’s eyes lit up as a brilliant orange glow streaked up the massive nylon background, the desert scenery disappearing into a fury of flame and ash.  It was not long for the rest of the set to catch fire.  The huts were set ablaze after the trusses tipped, igniting the straw with a kiss of its flame.

     Lila pushed open the back exit, stepped out, and calmly closed the door.  She took a vacant security guard’s chair and wedged it beneath the handle.

     As smoke filled the set, she could hear the others still inside pushing against the exit, but the door would not give.  Their pounding came next, followed by layers of screams that Lila could not stop giggling at.

     Later, the LAFD would estimate the soundstage had gone up in less than three minutes.  All forty-seven people inside would perish.  And Stage 6 would never be used again.

     They found Lila sitting on one of the golf carts they had used to shuttle cast around.  She was making gratuitous engine sounds and turning the wheel as if she were running the Indy 500.  Smoke was pouring out of stage vents in a black stream so dense it looked like God had twisted a Sharpie across the sky.

     “Lila Craven?” one of the firefighters asked.

     She looked up at him with those child-like eyes, batting her lashes and smiling that innocent (but hideous) smile.

     “Are you Lila Craven?”

     “‘Click.  Click.  Click,’ said the Blackberry!”  Lila wailed.  She threw back her head and howled a fit of laughter that echoed off the studio walls.

     The world was covered in a layer of maniacal gasoline, and Sarah Morse, Russ Buckner, and Lila Craven had all just struck a match.

Sugar - A Short

     Billy Buttle remembered seeing Mike Tyson.  In the haze and the fog that was that weekend, it was hard to be sure of anything.  But he was sure he had seen Mike Tyson.  Tyson had been sitting at a nickel slot machine, making the whole scene far too strange for a Saturday—even in Las Vegas.  A few guests were snapping pictures of his inexplicable physique and a few others more were asking for autographs.  Tyson smiled and waved and played his part, and Billy Buttle passed him by wordlessly.

     Billy and his friend, Jerry Saint, had been tasked with procuring more beer.  It was always an unfortunate burden when one drew the short stick after the booze ran out.  It had already been a long weekend and they had run out early (as they so often did when they found themselves in a shoddy motel room just off the Strip).  Maid service hadn’t come for three days and dozens of fallen soldiers overflowed in the garbage cans, tub, and bathroom sink.  They were running out of places to discard them.  Another thirty rack of twelve ouncers would do.  It would have to.  Buying beer in Vegas is never a welcome assignment, but the prospect of having no more booze was an even worse destiny.

After too many five a.m. stays on the casino floor they hadn’t done much for luck at the tables.  Between the four of them (them being Billy, Jerry, Troy Prim, and Adam Anderson) they were down three grand.  But who counts in Vegas, right?

     There was a camera flash from a nearby guest trying to get a long shot of Tyson, and Billy felt his eyes sparkle.  It was exceptionally bright.  Too bright for 10:00 p.m, Billy thought.  But when they got outside, he realized it was barely noon.  He didn’t have his sunglasses and was already six nips deep, so the sun was blaring its ugly blare.

     “Did we eat breakfast?” Billy asked.

     Jerry thought for a moment and said, “We haven’t eaten since Thursday.”

     “My stomach hurts.”

     “Mine too.”

     The only restaurant on the way to the liquor store was a Hooters, so they stopped and ordered eighteen dollars worth of wings to get their stomachs from eating its own acids.  They ate them down in silence and left without so much as a glance toward any of the girls.  They were in Vegas and already on stimulus overload, so a few short shorts and tight tanks didn’t provide much in the way of intrigue.

     The liquor store was just up the way; some rundown place that saw the noxious and unkempt seven days a week, pulling down bottle after bottle of forties, smelling of stale tobacco and musty disgust while the flies swarmed their vile beards and yellowing fingernails.  Some of them were tweakers, twitching at the mention of crystal while sucking down six dollar cans of Monster. 

     Billy and Jerry grabbed a case of Banquet from the back and headed to the register to pay.  There was a line of mediocrity ahead of them, all complaining about the prices or making snide, unimpressive remarks like, “Welcome to Vegas” or “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”  Each of them had the same glazed look in their eyes, the kind that 7:00 a.m. Blackjack tables only know.

     There was a man standing behind Billy.  He had a dark complexion and exceptionally thin lips.  He wore a Bridgestone Tires hat and had a small scar above his left eye.  The scar was far from intimidating, the kind that had been caused by a fall off a swing or tip off the slide.  There was an aimlessness to him, this boyish charm.  But there was also something dangerous.  He tipped his head to Billy and Billy tipped his head to him.  Billy didn’t know why, but it seemed like the right thing to do.

     In the man’s left hand was a six-pack of Lone Star tucked beneath a pack of menthols.  Billy could smell the menthol still on the man’s breath and it made him regret the Hooter’s wings. 

     “You lookin’ fer somethin’?” the man asked.

     “Huh?” Billy grunted.

     “I said, ‘you lookin’ fer somethin’?”

     “No.”

     “Looks like you are.”

     “I’m not.”

     The man was breathing heavily, and the perfume of menthol was becoming unbearable.  Billy turned back around, paid for the beer with whatever cash he had left, and was out the door without ever glancing back.

     “What was that guy saying?” Jerry asked when they were outside.

     “Nothing.”

     “Sounded like something.”

     “It wasn’t.”

     “Guy offering something?”

     “Did you want something?”

     “Maybe.”

     “Jesus, Jerry, you want to go back inside and ask?”

     “Hey, yo, hold up!” a voice came from behind them.  

     Billy was the first to turn around.  He saw the Menthol Man bounding toward them, the 6-pack of Lone Star dangling between his fingers.  His pants were far too baggy, and he was holding them up with his free hand as he made his way across the parking lot.

     The afternoon had grown hot and the asphalt was starting to sizzle beneath their feet.         Water mirages rippled in the distance.  The sky was cloudless and daunting.  Sweat dripped down Billy’s neck and jawline.  He didn’t want to waste one second longer in the Vegas heat.  

     Jerry stepped toward the Menthol Man with a cool confidence Billy had never seen in him before.  “What’dya got?” he asked.

     “What’dya need?” asked the Menthol Man.

     The exchange was happening as if the two were old friends.

     Jerry seemed unsure what to say next, but finally asked, “Blow?”

     “You want blow?”

     “Yeah.”

     “You wanna dance with the white lady tonight?” the Menthol Man snarled, then he threw back his head and laughed.

     “Come on, Jerry, let’s get outta here.”  Billy tugged at Jerry’s t-shirt, but he remained unmoving, staring at the Menthol Man, waiting for him to flinch.

     “Hold up, hold up, hold up,” said the Menthol Man.  “I got what you need, just not on me.”

     “Where is it?”
     “Chill, white boy, chill.  You got any cash?”

     “Not on us.”

     “Sounds like we at an impasse.”

     “Then what are you wasting our time for?”

     “Cause I can get what you need.  Just need ten minutes.  Hell, might even be five if yer lucky.  When can you get the cash?”

     Jerry looked at Billy and Billy shrugged.  “Five minutes,” Jerry told him.

     The Menthol Man grinned at Billy.  “Ahhh, I see how it is,” he said.  “You got yer financial backer here callin’ all the shots, don’t ya?”

     Billy said nothing.  He squirmed in his shoes and wiped the sweat from his brow, the case of Banquet weighing heavy in his hands.

     “Here’s what’s gonna happen: you two are gonna round up the cash, I’m gonna get some of that powder, and we’re gonna meet up at The Bridge.”

     “The Bridge?” Billy asked.

     “You don’t know The Bridge, motherfucker?  Jesus.  The Bridge between New York, New York and MGM.  We meet there.  You get me?”

     “We get you,” said Jerry.  “How much?”

     “Three hundy.”

     “That’s a lot.”

     “It’s good shit.”

     “Three hundred dollars worth?”

     “Satisfaction guaranteed.”  The Menthol Man smiled his horrible smile and tore one of the Lone Stars off its plastic carrier.  He cracked the can and took a sip that looked so luxurious in the desert’s heat.  “You guys think you can handle all that?”

     “We can handle it,” said Jerry.

     “Splendid.  Fifteen minutes.”

     “At The Bridge.”

     “Well done.”  The Menthol Man took down the Lone Star with one, long drag, crumpled the can with his fist, and cast it off with the rest of the parking lot’s ruins.  “Well done,” he said again, and then he headed off, disappearing down the road with his now-five-pack in tow.

     “What was that?” Billy asked when the Menthol Man was out of earshot.

     “Billy, we’re in Vegas, and Vegas demands drugs.”  And then Jerry was off, heading back toward their hotel with the peppiest of steps.  Billy followed after him, lumbering along with the case of Banquet that had already turned warm.

     By the time they got back to the hotel Billy’s arms felt like glue and Jerry was sweating from a potent combination of adrenaline and wind sprints.  Troy and Adam minded Billy and Jerry no attention as they tossed the 30-rack on the squeaky mattress and began rifling through the nightstand for whatever cash they could scrounge.  

     “How much is there?” Billy asked.

     “Three hundred.”

     “Are you sure?”

     Jerry stuffed the cash in his pocket.  “Of course I’m sure,” he insisted.  “Let’s just go.”

     “What do you need me for?”

     “So I don’t get fucking stabbed!”

     Billy paused.  “That checks out.”

     Billy and Jerry left for the MGM as the other two dunces broke into the case of Banquet.

     The casino was abuzz with drunk degenerates and obsessive gamblers.  The dealers watched them over with the same glaring disinterest, their eyes glazed from twelve hour shifts and red bull.  The pit bosses roamed the floor with an intensity only found in dobermans and crack addicts.  And the waitresses moved about them all, muttering questions like “Care for a drink?” or “What’ll ya have?”  Everything was always the same in Vegas, but the monotony had a funny way of changing.

     Billy and Jerry raced through the crowd of misfits, their eyes scanning every half second for signs to The Bridge.  They had never been to the MGM before, and directions had never been either’s keen sense.  But then Billy saw it, glimmering above the Pai Gow table like a beacon of narcotics.  They split past the penny slots and Plinko and raced up the stairs to The Bridge.

     The Bridge was bustling with tourists, decked out in short khaki shorts and pastel colored polos.  All of them seemed to have a camera clutched in their hands, and all of them seemed to be taking a picture of the same drab Statue of Liberty affixed atop New York, New York.

     “I don’t see him.”  Jerry was already looking for the Menthol Man, his head darting back and forth like a dog gathering the scent.

     “Hey, idiots,” they heard the Menthol Man’s voice from behind them.

     They turned and, standing next to a family of Asian tourists, was the Menthol Man.  He was grinning at them the way he had at the liquor store.  It was a decaying, rotten grin that made them feel queasy.

     “I see you made it,” said the Menthol Man.

     “You got the stuff?” asked Jerry.  He was trying to sound tough, but his words came out stiff and rigid.

     The Menthol Man smiled again.  “Yeah, I got it.”

     “Let’s see it.”

     The Menthol Man eyed the Asian tourists.  “It’s not safe here, man.”  He grinned again.       “We just gotta make the exchange, okay?  Just be cool.”

     “Fine.”

     “Yeah?”

     “Yeah.”

     “Cool, man, that’s cool.”

     Jerry reached into his pocket, but the Menthol Man stopped him.  “Easy, man, easy.  You know how many cameras they got around this place?  I said ‘be cool,’ and you are pretty fuckin’ far from cool, you feel me?”

     Jerry nodded and swallowed hard.

     “Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he said, like the Menthol Man always said.  He pointed at Jerry.  “You’re gonna walk down to the far end of The Bridge, real far off, almost to the end.”  And then he pointed at Billy.  “And you’re gonna go down about halfway less than that.  I’m gonna stay here.  Then when we’re all in position, I’m gonna walk toward the two of you.  When I reach the first guy, I’ll hand him the stuff.”

     “The coke,” said Jerry.

     “Shhh, quiet down, motherfucker,” hissed the Menthol Man.  He went on, dropping his voice only slightly.  “I hand the first guy the stuff and then when I reach the second guy,” he pointed at Jerry again, “he hands me the money.  Then we all go on our merry way, drugs and money in hand.  You still feel me?”

     “Yeah,” they said.

     “Good.  Now off you go.”

     They headed off together.  When Billy reached The Bridge’s halfway point he realized he was sweating again.  

     Today was turning out to be a most unpleasant day, he thought.

     Jerry waited nervously at the end of The Bridge, chewing on his thumbnail and feeling the day’s heat setting in.

     When Billy saw the Menthol Man heading toward him he began to walk.  The Menthol Man took a plastic baggie from his pants pocket and crinkled the package up in his left hand.  Billy caught only a glimpse of the bag, but it appeared quite large—far too large for just three hundred dollars worth. 

     The Menthol Man neared and Billy stuck out his hand.  He felt the weight of the baggie as the Menthol Man stuffed it in his palm.  He gave Billy one last leering glare and then the Menthol Man was gone from Billy Buttle’s life forever.

     Jerry Saint would see the Menthol Man seconds later, and he would see him wearing that same leering smile that made Billy Buttle shudder.  Jerry transferred the money to his right hand and squeezed the bills so hard he heard the brittle wad crack and crinkle in his palm.  The Menthol Man held out his hand and Jerry slipped the roll of money into it.

     And then Jerry Saint began to run.

     He caught up with Billy seconds later.  “Come on!” he shouted.

     Billy still had a firm grasp on the baggie, and when Jerry yelled, he nearly popped the plastic.  “What’s going on?”

     “I just shorted him a hundred and twenty clams!” Jerry cried.  He cackled, his eyes wild with mischief, and he sprinted off without ever checking to see if Billy followed.

     But Billy did follow.  He was so close on Jerry’s heals he nearly toppled over him.  He wanted to look back for the Menthol Man, but found he was too frightened.

     The two burst through The Bridge doors, down the MGM steps, through that same crowd of mediocrity, and out the casino’s exit.  They didn’t slow down until they reached their hotel parking lot.  The heat didn’t matter anymore, nor did the sweat, or the money, or the lack of booze.  They had their drugs and were safely away from the Menthol Man.

     Maybe things were looking up, Billy thought.

     Troy and Adam were halfway through the case by the time they walked in the door.  They mumbled something incoherent as Jerry and Billy walked in, but were suddenly front and center when Billy drew the plastic baggie from his pocket.  The thing didn’t look real.  It was a massive ball of white, something they had only seen in movies.  

     We just shorted a drug dealer a hundred and twenty large for three grand worth of nose candy, Billy thought.

     Adam pulled the mirror off the bathroom wall and Billy spilled its contents on the far end.  The powder spilled across the mirror like perfect grains of sand, fragile and delicate.  Troy offered his American Express and they cut up the lines with the same methodical tendencies Vegas always seems to see.

     The lines were eight, two a piece, and they were all right with that.  But more lines would come, and that was the insatiable destiny they all craved, but would hardly admit.

“We’ll just do a bit and save the rest for later,” everybody in Vegas always said.  But there would never be a bit, for later never came in the city of sin.

     Jerry was the first to go.  He took down his line with a twenty Troy provided.  He threw back his head and his nostrils flared and contracted.  “God damn it,” he cried.

     “Is it good?” Billy asked.

     He looked at them with blinking, watery eyes.  “I don’t know.”

     “Here, give me,” Troy said.  He took his line in one fell swoop and threw back his head as Jerry had.  

     “Anything?” Billy asked.

     “I don’t know,” he said, just as Jerry had.

     “God damn it.”  Adam snatched up the twenty and took in his line.  He, too, looked puzzled.

     “What about you?” Billy asked.

     Adam shrugged.

     Billy did his line and felt nothing.

     “What the fuck is going on?” Jerry screamed.  He measured off a line, three times as big as the first.  He sucked it down and looked at Billy with unchanged eyes.  “I don’t feel anything!” he cried.  “Why don’t I feel anything?”  His words were rife with panic.  

     Billy measured off another line, this one the biggest yet.  It looked like a newborn’s leg.  He dragged down the line and felt a burning sensation rip through his nose.  His eyes began to perspire and scream.  His ears felt warm and tingly.  “Jesus Christ,” Billy screamed.  “What the fuck?”
     Jerry shoved his face in the mound of cocaine that suddenly didn’t seem like cocaine.         He sucked in a breath and raised his head like a robot.  He was dismayed, a consumer that had been had.  “I don’t feel anything!  Does anybody feel anything?  Jesus Christ, please tell me if anybody is feeling anything!”  Jerry could barely control the sound of his voice.  His words were hollow, but threatening.  “What did this guy give us?  Did he give us Ajax or somethin’?  Fuck!”

     “Oh shit!” Troy muttered.

     “Is it bleach?” Billy wailed.

     “Oh shit!” Troy kept saying.

     “Holy shit, is it bleach?”

     “Oh shit!”

     “Is it bleach, dude, is it bleach?”
     “I don’t fucking know!”  Jerry was incensed, his eyes wild and fiery.  “I don’t know what the fuck this is!”

     These knuckleheads were on the edge of insanity, shouting over each other like deranged lunatics, scratching at their loses and screaming for satisfaction.  But satisfaction was not to be had.

     “Jesus, is my heart gonna explode?”  Troy was scratching at his chest.  “Holy shit, I’m too fucking young to die.  I can’t fucking die.  Where did you get this shit?”

     “From this guy,” said Billy.

     “From this guy?”  Troy’s breathing became heavy and labored.  “What guy?”

     “I don’t know, just some guy.”

     “Holy shit!  I am gonna fucking die!  Oh shit!”

     “I wanna go home!” Billy cried.

     “Guys, what’s that?” they heard Adam ask.  He was pointing down at the bag, the same listless expression on his face.

     Inside the bag was a yellow piece of paper, its corner protruding from the ball of “drugs.”  They could make out writing on the paper; it was branded, crafted writing.  

     Billy reached inside the bag and pulled out the yellow piece of paper.  When he had it in his hand he realized it was small, no more than the size of two quarters stacked next to one another.  At first he thought he’d find some message, some witty little quip from the Menthol Man like “Got you fuckers” or “Fuck you, bitches.”  But when he opened his palm he saw the indistinguishable letters: S-P-L-E-N-D-A staring up at him.  Those blue blocks resting against the yellow backdrop nearly sent him to the floor.  The package had been ripped open, but the tag left on as a final fuck you from the universe that was Karma.  Unknowingly, No-Calorie-Sweetener had given them a half-chub on The Bridge, but now it was suddenly whittled away.  They had half an ounce of sugar running down their sinuses and they looked at each other with the same dazed, hopeless expression.

     “It can’t be,” Jerry mumbled.  “It just can’t be.”  And he took another line.

Variance - Book 1, Issue #3

Waco, Texas

Day 2 of The Rise

     Martha Lindgren was a math teacher.  Certainly not a spectacular math teacher, but a decent one in her own right.  She taught at Texas Christian Academy for thirty-four years, taught solely tenth graders, and taught solely advanced algebra.  She never had a complaint filed against her, never a disruptive student she couldn’t handle, and had been nominated (but never won) Teacher of the Year in her district three times.

     On the last day before Christmas break, Martha Lindgren retired.  She said she wanted to travel, to finally get out of Waco.  While they were well aware she had not crossed the state line in over a decade, her colleagues took up a “Martha Fund” in order to chip in a little something extra for her trip to Italy.  She and her husband, Hank, were going to fly into Tuscany, drive along the coast of the Mediterranean, hop a boat to Sardegna, find some crummy prop plane to take them over to Rome, and finish up in Emilia-Romagna where they would dine on fresh plates of lasagna and drink countless bottles of Lambrusco.  They made no reservations, and hadn’t decided on how long to stay.  They were just going.  

     And they deserved it.

     Earlier that month, Martha had made arrangements to meet with the local travel agent, Russ Buckner, before their trip.  Russ wanted to go over a few restaurants where they could dine, give them a list of sights to see, and suggest a couple of hotels where they could lay down their troubles for the night.

     But there would be no reservations.  

     “Oh no!  No reservations at all!”  Martha had told him during their first meeting.  “I won’t hear of it.”

     No reservations at all?  Russ played the thought over and over in his head.  How strange.

     Martha’s meeting with Russ was at a half past two that day.  She was running a tad bit late because she couldn’t find the right shoes to wear.  And even though she was the ripe age of sixty-eight she still had the fashion consciousness of a fifteen year old on her first day of school.

     “Jus-hro-n-su-choo-n-go!” Hank shouted from the den.  He had on the Rangers game and was hard to hear over the color commentary. 

     “What?” Martha called from upstairs.

     “Just throw on some shoes and go!”  He yelled, louder this time.

     Martha rolled her eyes.  “There are specific shoes that go with specific outfits, Hank!  But I suppose a fashion maven like you already knew that!” 

     “Russ Buckner don’t care what yer wearing!” he barked.

     “I don’t give a holy hell ‘bout Russ Buckner!” 

     “Ahhh!” Hank scoffed.

     “Ahhh yourself!” she shouted back, nose deep in her closet.

     They didn’t speak for a few seconds.

     “I love you!” he called up to her.

     “I love ya more, ya old grouch!”

     It took a few minutes more of extensive digging before Martha found the cream-colored Penny Loafers she was so desperately searching for.  The shoes were nothing fancy, but against her lemon-colored sundress she found it to be a near perfect match.  Russ Buckner—though unsaid—would have thought otherwise.

     “Back in an hour,” she told Hank as she took a step into the den.

     He looked her up and down then returned his attention to the Ranger game, “You look nice.”

     “Thank you,” she said taking a modest courtesy.  Martha slung her purse over her shoulder and left.  

     He didn’t watch her go.

* * *

     Martha arrived at Russ Buckner’s office at a quarter to three.  She hated when people were late and hated even more when she was the culprit.  “I’m so sorry I’m late,” Martha said as she entered Russ’s office. 

     Russ was sitting at his desk eating with a newspaper laid out in front of him.  Next to the paper was a Styrofoam container that housed two chili cheese dogs.  Russ Buckner was short and squat.  He had a round body, shaped much like a pear or a strawberry.  The kids would often joke that if Russ fell onto his side you could roll him down the street the way they did with Violet Beaurgard in “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.”  His hair was blonde and thinning and he wrapped it around his head in an unpleasant combover.  He had thin spectacles propped on the edge of his nose, which he promptly took off when Martha entered his office.  “It’s quite all right, Martha, I was just finishing up the paper,” he said greeting her with a firm handshake.  “Did you read about what happened in Kansas last night?”

     “No, what?” Martha asked.

     “Mother of two shot and killed her kids and her husband during dinner.  Cops can’t figure out what possessed her or what set her off.  Damndest thing I ever read about.”

     “Oh dear…”  Martha brought her fingers to her lips and muttered, “How terrible…”

     “Husband must notta liked her cass’role,” Russ quipped.

     “Oh, Russ, you’re awful,” Martha said playfully slapping his arm.

     “I know, I know, I shouldn’t joke.  Please, have a seat.”

     Russ’s office was decorated in a predictably crass fashion.  There were trophies of nearly every animal imaginable plastered against the sheetrock.  Bucks, elk, bear, pheasant.  There was even a stuffed armadillo in the corner nearest the bathroom.  There was a Miller Lite neon beer sign propped on a faux leather sitting chair.  And, while the sign was unlit, that did little to diminish its gaudiness.  His desk was piled with papers so high they always seemed on the verge of spilling over.  But they never did.

     Martha took a seat across from Russ.  He shifted a few of his precarious papers out of courtesy, but its effect was minimal.  

     “So, I just wanted to give you this packet.”  He handed her a thick, green folder.  “In it you’ll find a bunch of places to stop along your route.  Now, I know you were specific about no reservations, but I figured it might be wise to have a little research handy while you’re bombing down those Italian roads.”  

     Martha opened the folder and flipped through it with the same casual disinterest she had displayed when he pressured her about all those precious reservations.  She figured it was because he got some sort of commission if they did, but she didn’t mind.  Russ was a good guy, and an even better friend to her, Hank, and the community.  But this was her trip, and for the first time in her life, she was going to do things exactly how she wanted them done.

     “Well thank you, Russ, I really app—“ But she stopped short of finishing when she saw Russ’s head twitched slightly.  It was neither vivid nor pronounced, it was just there.  At first, she didn’t think she had seen it correctly, and then his head twitched again.  His brow furrowed in an expression of pain, and his right eye blinked at twice the speed of his left.  After a few seconds, his smile returned and he stared back at her as if nothing had happened.

     “Are you all right?”

     “‘Course I am,” he said.  “Why?”

     “Russ…you were twitching,” she said in a low whisper.  

     “I was what?” he asked, almost incredulously.

     “You were twitching, like you were having a stroke or a seizure or something.”

     “That’s impossible.”

     “I could call Dr. Northman, if you’d like.”

     Russ waved her off with a hand of “nonsense” and insisted she keep perusing the packet.  

     And that packet in her lap was almost enough to distract her from Russ’s third tick.  He clenched his fists, turning his knuckles white, and squeeze his eyes shut.  When he finally opened them the forest green of his irises was still there, but Russ Buckner was not.  He blinked and, when he did, Martha saw a sharp red circle surrounding those green eyes that now seemed so horrible.  They pierced Martha with such a viciousness she felt like she were about to tip over in her chair.  Russ Buckner had an emotionless grin stretched ear to ear.  

     “Will you excuse me for a moment?” Russ’s hollow voice asked.

     Martha didn’t answer, but Russ pushed back his chair anyway and stood up.  His body was stiff and rigid; the muscles in his body seemed suddenly new and unused.  He moved into the bathroom behind his desk and shut the door.

     Martha considered leaving.  She had Russ’s “research,” what more did she need?  But what if he was having a stroke?  Or a seizure?  Or something much worse?  She glanced at the exit, but then stood and rounded Russ’s desk.

     “Russ?”

     There was no answer.

     “Russ?” she tried again.

     Martha inched closer to the bathroom door, her fingers trembling as she reached for its handle.           “Russ, are you all right?”  She turned the handle only to discover the door was locked.  She took a step back, but found her hands were still trembling.

     “Russ, I’m going to call an ambulance.”

     She heard a soft whimpering coming from the other side of the door.  It was low at first, but soon amplified into a wailing drone.

     “Russ?”  Martha leaned forward and pressed her ear against the clunky plywood door.  “Russ, can you hear me?”

     And Russ could hear her.  He could hear her very, very well.

     Even through the flimsy plywood door, Martha Lindgren didn’t hear the cocking of the .45 semi-automatic Russ kept above his medicine cabinet.  Nor could she hear the low chuckle rumbling from Russ’s lungs.  But she did hear the sound of the hammer dropping on the gun.

     The bullet exploded from the barrel at approximately eight hundred feet per second.  If Russ fired the gun from seven feet, how many seconds would it take to travel from the gun into Martha’s skull?  

Anybody?  Anybody?  Nobody in class knows?  Nobody has any idea?  How very disappointing!

     Martha was dead before she hit the floor, and that’s as much detail as the police would provide.

     But it was not the end for Russ Buckner that day.  After he killed Martha, he exited the bathroom, finished his chilidogs as Martha Lindgren’s blood pooled under his loafers, and left.  The mailman, Wally Beerman, saw Russ lock up his office before Russ turned on him and fired a single shot into his head.  Wally’s eyes rolled back and he dropped to the ground in a crumpled mess.

     Russ crossed the street to where Mrs. Howard was sitting with her dog, Buddy.  He fired one shot into her chest and another into her stomach.

     He let the dog live.

     By now there was panic in the street and people were screaming at Russ to stop.  He walked past them with the same mechanical glaze he had shown the late Mrs. Lindgren only minutes previous.

Paul Itna, high school football coach at Texas Christian Academy, stepped out of the Floyd’s barbershop.  He still had a towel wrapped around his neck and fresh shaving cream lathered on the left side of his face.  “Russ, what the hell you doing?” Paul Itna cried.

     Russ fired a shot that entered Paul Itna’s left cheek and exited the back of his neck.  The blood mixed with the shaving cream and ran into the street like a spilled strawberry milkshake. 

Floyd, the barber, tried to run for cover but Russ fired two shots, one into Floyd’s back, just above the kidney, and the other into his head.  The glasses Floyd was wearing spun off of his face and he fell forward onto the sidewalk.

     Russ would kill Jolie Daniels, Kyle Nelson, and Luther Gladden before his gun was empty.  

     When police arrived to the scene Russ was sitting outside Floyd’s having a smoke.  His expressionless face juxtaposed against the spinning barber pole was all that was needed to cover their arms in rich layers of gooseflesh.

     “Russ?” one of the policeman asked.

     But Russ said nothing.  He inhaled and exhaled.  Inhaled and exhaled.
     Russ Buckner smiled.
     And the wheel turned.

Variance - Book 1, Issue #2

Coffeyville, Kansas

Seven months earlier

Day 1 of The Rise

     Sarah Morse returned her children’s overdue books to the public library at a quarter past five in the afternoon.  Nancy Smith, the librarian for the better part of three decades, had already locked up, but, upon seeing Sarah, offered up a polite smile and reopened the doors.  Nancy waved off the overdue fee (a measly sixty cents), news Sarah returned with a wide smile

     (smile) 

     and a shake of the hand.

     Sarah was home by 5:45.  After she hung her coat and dropped her shoes, she filled a copper pot with water and set it to boil.  Dinner was a traditional she loved, and she did it well.  The vegetables came next.  The market was stocked with fresh carrots, celery, zucchini, cucumbers and green beans.  She cut them into a quarter inch dice and placed them in a Pyrex bowl, smiling

     (a smile)

as she went.  As she readied the garlic, her attention was displaced when her two children came bounding into the kitchen.  Josh, the older of the two, was eleven and spoke with a slight stutter.  The stutter was more pronounced in his younger years, a trait he countered by barely speaking.  Sarah and her husband, Bruce, took Josh to a speech counselor, where he had gone every Tuesday and Thursday for ninety minutes a session.  The appointments were tedious and tiresome, but they helped significantly.  Josh still found a stutter slip off his tongue from time to time, but the occasions were grossly diminished.

     Sam—or “Samantha” as her kindergarten teacher called her—was the youngest.  She was short and sweet with a tangled mess of red hair and freckles peppering her face like disconnected raindrops.  She was the spitting image of Peppermint Patty from the old Peanuts comic strips.  She followed her brother around wherever he went, and they could often be seen walking up Main Street hand in hand.  Josh had enacted this particular policy after Sam wandered into the street and was nearly hit by a passing vehicle.  He ran to the edge of the sidewalk, snatched her hand into his, and pulled her back to safety.  The car, as Josh recalled, passed by without so much as a glance.  This incident, however, was something they had kept from their mother ever since.  Rightly so.

     “Mommy, what’s for dinner?” Sam asked tugging at Sarah’s jeans.

     “Pasta,” she said.

     “Didn’t we have that last night?” she asked.

     “No, sweetie, we had chicken last night.”

     Sam put a finger to her lips and scrunched her eyebrows, thinking long and hard.  Then, satisfied with her mother’s response, climbed into her chair at the kitchen table and placed a napkin in her lap.

Sarah, in the midst of slicing the garlic, heard Josh rifling through the fridge.  She looked and saw his white Nikes in the gap between the floor and the refrigerator door.  “Don’t eat anything,” she told him.  “Dinner’s in five.”

     Josh closed the refrigerator and took the seat across from his sister.  They both had full glasses of milk already poured.  He leaned  forward and took a sip, placing his lips at the edge of the glass and slurping up the topmost layer.  

     She mimicked him.  

     He pulled his head back abruptly.  

     She mimicked him again.  

     They engaged in a brief game of “Mirror Image” before Josh made Sam laugh with his classic “Bulging Eyes” routine and milk shot out her nose.  This made Josh, too, burst into a fit of laughter and the two giggled until they heard the sharp, splendid sizzling sound as Sarah slid the vegetables into the hot skillet.  She gave them a quick stir, then went to the pantry to grab the pasta.

     The three of them heard the front door open, then close, then footsteps.  Seconds later Bruce Morse entered the kitchen dressed smartly in a grey suit and simple black tie.  He set his briefcase down on the table, but pulled it back when he caught Sarah’s glare.  He smiled his boyish smile—that smile she had fallen in love with twelve years earlier—and then kissed her on the cheek.  “Hello, my love,” he said, rubbing the small of her back.  “Smells good.”  

     Bruce walked across the kitchen, kissed his children, then went to the fridge and retrieved a beer.  Pabst Blue Ribbon was all he drank, but the mere smell of it when he cracked a fresh can appalled Sarah.  In spite of her belief the beer had always turned rancid, she restocked him with a fresh six pack nearly every week.

     Love.

     (A smile.  (A splendid, splendid smile))

     Food was on the table by 6:45.  

     As they ate, Sarah looked out the window above the sink and saw the sun had fallen behind the other houses lining her block.  The effect produced a soft, orange glow in their neighborhood.

     (Another smile)

     What a lovely evening, she thought.

     And it had been.

     “Do we have any cheese?” Josh asked, his mouth full of zucchini.

     “Josh, don’t eat with your mouth full,” Bruce told him.

     “Lemme check.”  Sarah pulled herself away from the table and went to the fridge.  When she inspected the shelves she found the fridge was cheese free.  “Doesn’t look like it,” she said, and sat back down.

     They ate in silence for the next few minutes before Sarah asked the table, “Do we have any cheese?”

     Bruce blinked and he heard his jaw click.  “I’m sorry?” he asked, not sure if he had heard her correctly.

     “Do we have any cheese?” Sarah asked again.

     “You just checked, sweetheart.” 

     There wasn’t a glint of recognition on her face.  

     “We don’t have any,” he finally said.  He looked at his children who shared the same quizzical expression.  “Sarah…” he said quietly.  “Sarah, is everything…?”  But his words trailed away.

There was a bizarre (smile) on her face; artificial, yet profound and troubling.  He couldn’t look away.  And, while he wasn’t sure, he thought he saw a small, red flicker in his wife’s eye.  The kind of red you see in photographs, though this was far less pronounced, and seemed to only circle the eye—like a faint ring—rather than embody it.  But then, as soon as she blinked, he saw her warm, hazel eyes staring back at him.  

     No more red—if there ever was any, he told himself.

     “Oh,” she finally muttered, and went back to her plate of food with that strange (smile) still coloring her face.

     “How was school today, Josh?” Bruce asked, one eye still on his wife.

     Josh didn’t have a chance to respond when Sarah slid away from the table, stood, went to the fridge, and opened the door.

     “Sarah?” Bruce asked.

     “Hm?” she responded.

     “What are you doing?”  

     “I’m getting the cheese,” she said promptly

     By now Josh and Sam were turned in their chairs, watching their mother as she hunted for the non-existent cheese.

     “Honey?” Bruce said.

     “Hm?” she said again, still with that same chipper tone.

     Bruce left his dinner and went to his wife.  Sarah had always had clammy hands.  And warm.  Oh, God, how they were warm. But when Bruce touched the hands he thought were his wife’s, he nearly shuddered.  They felt like blocks of ice.  He let go of them, almost startled.  “Are you all right?” he asked.

     “Of course,” she said.  And then those beautiful hazel eyes (smiled) back at him.  “Would you excuse me?”

     “Where are you going?”

     “I forgot something.”

     “What did you forget?

     “I forgot something,” she said again.

     “All right.”  

     That strange (smile) spread across her lips again.  It was horrid and rotten, curled up as if two fine strings were yanking at the corners of her mouth.  Sarah turned robotically toward the foyer, her joints suddenly stiff and rigid.  

     Bruce watched as she walked through the foyer and disappeared into the living room.  A moment later he heard the garage door open, then close with an abrupt click. 

     “What’s wrong with Mommy, Daddy?” Sam asked.  

     Neither of the children were eating by now. 

     “Nothing, sweetie.  Just eat your food,” he told.  

     But she didn’t.

     They heard the door to the garage open again, then close that same abrupt click.  Bruce could see the outline of Sarah’s shadow as she made her way through the foyer back into the kitchen.  She was holding something, holding it with hands that seemed frighteningly powerful.  He squinted to make out the object, but her shadow was much too dark.  Bruce wouldn’t have to wait long, however, to see she was gripping his Nosler M48 hunting rifle.  The gun had been a gift from Sarah’s father three Christmases earlier.  Bruce had even gone hunting with the old man a dozen times since then.  But as the seasons passed, the trips became more infrequent, and the rifle had rested comfortably in the Morse family garage for quite some time.

     Sarah stepped into the light of the kitchen and her family stared back at her without a gram’s worth of understanding.  She pulled the rifle close to her chest as if it was a nursing baby.  Her eyes were unblinking and cold, lifeless even.

     “Sarah, honey, what are you doing?” Bruce asked.  

     It’s quite possible that ‘doing’ had been Bruce Morse’s last word.  It was hard to tell considering the groans and moans spewing from his bloody mouth.  Sarah pointed the rifle at her husband in between the “hon” and “ey,” cocked it when Bruce said “you,” and pulled the trigger an instant after that.

     The gun kicked back with such force Sarah’s arms flew up in the air, but her mechanical grip remained true to the gun.

     A shower of blood leapt out of Bruce’s back and splattered against the refrigerator door.  He slipped down it, a smearing of blood trailing him like some horrible streak of paint.  His final expression was that of shock and terror—and there was nothing more understandable than that.

     That wasn’t my wife, he thought.  And then the light left his eyes forever.

     “M-m-m-mom, w-w-w-what are y-y-y—“  But that was all the stuttering Joshua Morse could muster before Sarah turned the gun on him and fired another shot.

     The force of the bullet sent Josh hurtling backward as if yanked by some invisible chain.  The chair slid a full six inches before finally toppling over.  The bullet had passed through Josh’s skull, tearing bone from the side of his head.  When the coroner would arrive some hours later, he would remark that the boy’s face was nearly “unidentifiable.”

     Sam was different.  Apart from reacting to the earsplitting gunshots, she had remained quite still.  Her fork was still in her hand, though she wasn’t eating.  The whole thing unfurled before her like some horrid stage play.

     Sarah’s eyes hadn’t blinked since she left to retrieve the gun.  And they didn’t blink when they shifted to her daughter.  Sam stared at the barrel of the gun with this hollow sense of curiosity.  Her arms and head were still, but her feet dangled from her chair, rocking back and forth like a metronome. 

     The third shot got the attention of the neighbors.  A few had already wandered into the street trying to decipher where the shots had come from.  The third left no doubt: something had happened at the Morse house.

     Sam was dead before she hit the floor.

     Sarah leaned the rifle against the kitchen table and headed for the front door. 

     When she made it outside she locked the top and bottom locks, stuffed the keys in her pocket, and took a seat on the porch steps.

     Maggie Wallace, her neighbor from three doors down, approached Sarah with tentative concern.         “Sarah…is everything all right?”

     Sarah looked up at Maggie, the hazel in her eyes sparkling in the streetlight that hung over her yard.  Night had finally come.  That soft, orange glow was gone.  There was no more promising light.  The world had gone dark. 

     “Yes.”  Sarah said evenly.  “Everything’s perfect.”  She craned her neck and stared up at the sky.       The stars twinkled above her in a symphony of peace.  She closed her eyes, soaking in the night that had come on so suddenly.

     And then she smiled.

Variance - Book 1, Issue #1

Kitty Hawk, North Carolina

7 months after The Rise

     Had anyone seen the blonde woman and the boy walking together it would have been assumed they were mother and son.  But, such as the circumstances were, no set of eyes fell on the pair, and these assumptions never came to pass.  In truth, the blonde woman and the boy had been strangers whose fates collided by chance in a world that was no longer their own.  They had run for days through the ruins of Kentucky, Tennessee, and the Tar Heel state, stopping and resting only when absolutely necessary.  They had run with such urgency they took nothing but the clothes on their back.  They had run, and all the while, unbeknownst to them, they were followed.

     As the early evening drew to a close, quiet finally settled over the coastline of the Outer Banks.  The waves pulled back with the tide.  The sun stood across from the ocean, tiptoeing on the horizon, waiting to be swallowed.  The stars and the night poked through the purple sky.  Even in the dying sun there was ample light and surprising warmth.  The shoreline was exquisite, brandishing an array of homes, all perched on stilts overlooking the Atlantic, stenciled across an infinite canvas. 

     The blonde woman and the boy had taken refuge in a relatively pleasant three level home with two split balconies.  It was painted a pastel yellow that seemed to glow in the morning sun.  The home’s east wing rested on two massive stilts that dug into the soft sand on the beach below.  There was a rickety wooden staircase, its steps stained by water and age, that led down to the beach.  The steps were so fragile the woman couldn’t help but hold her breath when she saw the boy bounding down them, arms free, almost flailing.  Tonight, however, he was standing peacefully on the sun-bleached balcony, his face upturned, breathing in the sky.  

     “Come outside!” the boy’s voice called to the blonde woman.  

     “What is it?” the woman called back.  She stepped onto the balcony and found him staring beyond the ocean. 

     The boy smiled at her.  “Nice, isn’t it?”

     She looked out at the ocean, painted purple by the falling sun.  “Yes,” she agreed.  “It is.”

     “I wish we could see the sunset,” the boy remarked.  “East coast sunsets are so boring.”

     “We could climb up on the roof,” said the blonde woman.

     “Can we?” he asked eagerly.

     The woman laughed.  “Maybe when you’re older.”  She rubbed the top of his head, mussing his sandy blonde hair.  “Maybe when we’re both older…” and these words slipped away  with a terrible sadness. 

     The boy was young, but not exceedingly so.  He felt as if he’d just celebrated a birthday, but the days blended together like images in a dream—constant, but disconnected—and he was no longer sure when his special day had actually occurred.  He was sure, however, that he was fifteen years old.  That was not a fact that was not up for debate.  He had a small scar running from the corner of his eye to the crest of his cheek bone.  To the casual observer the scar was barely noticeable, but there was an abrasiveness to it that seemed fresh, unhealed.  The boy didn’t the scar.  It gave him age and character.  He liked that.

     The woman was quite striking, though she’d attained a fragile and lethargic energy over the past few months, as if she had worked eighteen-hour shifts every day for the last ten years.  There was also something wistful about her, broken and inconsolable. 

     The boy looked up at the blonde woman.  “What are you thinking about?”

     She sighed, but said nothing.

     The boy looked away and glanced down the beach.  A single blue crab stumbled out of the water like the local drunk leaving its watering hole.  It wandered sideways before a foamy wave slid beneath its claws and sucked it back into the ocean.  The boy didn’t know why, but it made him sad.

     The sun gave once last shimmering breath before the ocean turned an instant black, erasing the golden waves and purple shades of tide.   A cool breeze ran up along the balcony and the two shivered.  She held the boy close and he squeezed her arm, reciprocating her reaction.  

     “Come on,” she said, “it’s getting dark, we’d better get inside.”

     “Can we light a fire?” he asked.

     “Not tonight,” she told him.  “Come on, let’s go.”

     Without protest, the boy nodded and followed her inside.  He patiently watched as she locked the door and fastened the blinds, and they both wandered off to their beds where they would endure another sleepless night.

* * *

     A Volkswagon Golf sat in the parking lot of the local grocery store.  It was the only working working car in the lot, the rest had been abandoned over intervals unknown to the boy and the blonde woman.  The boy sat behind the wheel, tapping on the steering console with impatient fingers.  Through the Golf’s windshield he saw the blonde woman exit the store carrying a lone plastic bag filled with bottles of water, canned beans, canned tuna, canned spinach, and jars of preserves.  She motioned for him to slide over, and he did so willingly.

     When she got in she handed him the bag and he groaned almost instantly.  “Same?”

     “For now.”

     “How was it in there?” he asked, nodding toward the supermarket.  

     The blonde woman’s face darkened.  She looked back at the supermarket with gloomy, distraught eyes.  She shook her head and said, “Buckle up.”

     The boy strapped himself in and the car pulled away.

* * *

     The waves were much louder the next day.  They were hostile and relentless.  The boy watched from the beach as the white foam settled on the rocks and disappeared into the cracks.

     “What are you looking at?” the blonde woman’s voice called from behind him.  Her voice was loud and startling, but he didn’t flinch—he rarely did anymore. 

     “Watching the waves,” he said, not turning around.

     “Exciting.”  She sat down in the sand next to him.

     There was a long silence between them before the boy asked, “Where are we going after this?”

     She didn’t respond and, at first, the boy thought she had not heard him.  He went to repeat himself, but, before he could, she answered stiffly, “I don’t know.”  She tried to offer him a warm smile, but it only came across as odd and disconcerting.  “Don’t you like it here?” she asked.

     “It’s fine,” said the boy.  “It’s not home.”

     She hesitated, seeming to have the words to answer, but not necessarily the courage.  She opened her mouth to speak, but stopped when she heard the soft rumbling of a vehicle drawing near.

They got to their feet and squinted up the desolate road, but saw no vehicle.

     “What is that?” the boy asked.

     She put a finger to her lips and motioned for him to follow her.  They jogged toward the pastel-painted home, the boy staring up at the blonde woman as they went.  He felt she was doing her best not to look panicked, but her efforts were haphazard and shallow.

     “What’s wrong?” he asked.

     “Nothing’s wrong, let’s just get up to the house.”

     They were on the balcony before he had a chance to ask another question.  The rumbling grew louder, like a storm brewing in the distance.

     “I’m scared,” said the boy.

     She looked down, but gave him no comforting eyes.  And then she surprised him by saying, “I am, too.”  She looked back down the road as the water mirage on the concrete spilled away and seven Humvees sped over the hill, washing away the mirage with one quick brushstroke.

     “Who’s that?” the boy asked.

     “It’s them.”  She grabbed the boy’s hand and pulled him into the house.  “Go to your room and get your things,” she ordered.  And for the first time since arriving at the Outer Banks, he felt the stabbing pain of fear wretch at his heart.

     The boy asked no further questions and made no hesitation; he left quietly, sprinting up the stairs to the room he had called his for the past three days, and returned before he felt he had taken another breath.

     The woman fastened the backpack around the boy’s shoulders and absentmindedly fixed his hair, unsure what to do with her quivering hands.  He reached up and pulled her hands to her sides.

     “What’s happening?”

     She looked at him with defeated eyes and said, “I’m sorry.  I thought it was over…I thought we were away…But it looks like we’re going to have to start running again.”

     The Humvees roared up the driveway and screeched to a halt.

     The woman grabbed the boy’s hand and they headed out the back, down that rickety, water-stained staircase, and onto the beach.  

     They were four houses down the coastline before the ones in the Humvees had made their way inside the home that was no longer the blonde woman and the boy’s.

* * *

     The sky was a rich black by the time they lit the fire.  Darkness had always frightened the blonde woman, but the boy paid it little attention.  In the days that would follow, however, he would come to mind the darkness very much.

     The cove where they had made camp was small, but safe.  The rigid rock formations provided them enough camouflage and the slight overhang of cliff would protect them from any inclement weather (there would, however, be no rain in that night).   

     The blonde woman and the boy were propped up on their packs, staring up at the twinkling stars and the peaceful, wondrous space.  “Guess that one,” he said pointing up at the sky.

     “Orion’s belt?” the woman asked, not entirely sure of her response.

     “No,” the boy laughed, but it seemed disingenuous. 

     “You know that’s the only one I know!” the woman said.  She paused a moment, considering her words.  “Everything’s going to be okay; you know that, right?”  But there was uncertainty in her voice,  an uncertainty both could detect, but neither would admit.  “Go to sleep,” she said before he had a chance to respond.

     The boy pulled away and settled back onto his pack.  His eyes were already closed when he heard the blonde woman stand and walk down to the water.  She was alert, and he took solace in that.  He opened his eyes one last time and saw her wandering farther down the beach, ready to gather more firewood or, with any luck, snatch a couple blue crabs for breakfast.  He watched as the woman became a silhouette, then a shadow, then an outline, and then he saw only darkness.  

     When he would wake, some hours later, she would still be gone.

     It would be three days before he would discover the Variants had come in the night and taken her. 

     It would be another four until they came for him.