Death and Taxes

by Galen Surlak-Ramsey

  “Home then?” Nick asked.

  “Home,” she replied as they both climbed into the cab. She turned the key in the ignition and gave thanks as the engine roared to life. “But first,” she said with a grin, “we’re stopping for drinks.”

  * * *

  Jack lay face down, admiring the concrete floor. His head hurt. His ears rang. And with nothing to see or hear, he decided to take a nap until he felt better or a meal wandered into view.

  He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep when he woke up, but then again, the concept of time always eluded him. He rolled over, sat up, and saw Danita standing in the doorway.

  She had a strange expression, one that Jack had never seen on her before. He asked her if she was computing a score from a game of Eats and when the next game would take place.

  Danita explained everything she had seen. Or tried to at least. She droned on for hours, trying to find the right words for what it was like to see Ryan disappear in a flash.

  Despite Danita’s enthusiasm, Jack didn’t really care. Nor could he understand why Ryan’s sudden disappearance perplexed her. As far as he was concerned, either something was there, or it wasn’t. In this case, it wasn’t. And so while she rattled on, he had fun exploring and re-exploring the room they were in.

  A week later, Jack and Danita were still talking in the generator room when he suggested that they start looking for Colmera Springs since he couldn’t remember what he had done with it.

  Danita agreed, and the two searched for the missing town, but everywhere they looked, they only found hard metal walls and locked doors.

  One week turned into two, then spawned a third. Doors that were locked stayed locked. Rooms that didn’t have any friends or meals stayed empty. Neither spoke of the whereabouts of Clarice and Nick, what had happened to Ryan, or anything to do with the mysterious black sphere that hung suspended in the air. With nowhere to go and no one to eat, Jack and Danita ended up going to sleep. Jack was content that sooner or later, someone would show.

  They always did.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  A month had passed, maybe two. Clarice wasn’t sure, and she didn’t care either. Immediately after Clarice and Nick escaped, there had been the consumption of a number of alcoholic beverages for days on end and a small sailboat purchase. At some point, there had also been a tiny spat at a local drinking establishment when someone grabbed her ass, and Nick floored the offender with a single punch. Then there were a lot of colorful lights and not-so-cheerful men in uniforms. The not-so-cheerful men became even less cheerful when they realized a few of their buddies several states over wanted to talk to Clarice in regard to a missing person case. The man with the robes and gavel, however, had been pleasant enough.

  Clarice sat in a room that was painted in a calming hue of blue. Or at least, she was told it was. The Ativan pills were probably more responsible for the shift in her mood than anything else. To each of her sides, arranged in a circle, sat a number of other people, all of whom had been introduced to her at some point, but she could never remember their names. None, save for the drama queen across from her that is.

  Her name was Jenny, and she annoyed Clarice to no end. If the former secretary were to ever go on a homicidal rampage, she was sure Jenny would spark it off. Jenny whined about everything, from her home life, to the improperly fitted sheets on the bed, to the way soft ice cream shouldn’t be called ice cream. And now, she was whining about Clarice.

  “How come she never has to talk?” Jenny asked in her usual shrill voice. She scowled in Clarice’s direction. “She’s been here almost as long as me, and you never make her talk.”

  “Now Jenny, you know we aren’t going down this road again,” the group leader said. He seemed nice enough, but the way he always fidgeted with his clothes and short, spiked hair continually distracted Clarice.

  “It’s not fair,” Jenny repeated. Tears welled, and her cheeks and ears turned red. “I’m here trying to be good and to be happy, and she gets a free ride. It makes me mad.”

  “Tell her that directly, then. Remember, we talk to people, not through people.”

  Jenny turned and stared directly at Clarice. “It makes me mad you don’t have to say anything.”

  Clarice rolled her eyes and smirked, both of which were intentionally exaggerated to provoke the group member further. If she was going to have to suffer another rant, Clarice figured she might as well at least have some fun with it.

  “Oh, great,” someone muttered. “Not again.”

  Jenny took the bait and shrieked. “See? She knows she doesn’t have to talk and that’s not fair.”

  Much to everyone’s amazement, Clarice opened her mouth and words followed. “I’ve already said my piece,” she said. “No one wants to believe me, so that’s that.”

  “You have to make her talk!” Jenny yelled. “I bet she’s not even taking her meds!”

  “Jenny,” the leader said, cutting in. “If you don’t calm down, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Team isn’t for throwing accusations around at each other. You know that.”

  Jenny wiggled back in her seat, arms crossed, and let out a discontented sigh. She made fat little fists in her lap, squeezing them periodically, but said no more.

  A knock on the room’s sole door hushed the whispers that were forming. A moment later an orderly stepped in, looked directly at Clarice, and waved her over. “It’ll just be a little bit,” he said.

  Clarice followed without a word.

  The two proceeded down a sterile, white hall, the orderly’s shoes clomping loudly along the way. At some point, he glanced back at her and pointed to her forearm. “I like your tattoo.”

  “Thanks,” she said, unsure how to respond.

  “What did you use?”

  “A Bic, fine point,” Clarice replied, admiring her handiwork. “Point eight millimeters, I believe.”

  “Where did you get the needle?”

  “I didn’t use one,” she said. “You guys seem to keep them away from us. So I just drew it on. It’ll wash off.”

  “Does that say W-W-A-B-D?”

  Clarice nodded.

  “What does it mean?”

  Clarice only smiled.

  “Is that your first?”

  Clarice shook her head. “Last year I got a Jolly Roger inked on my lower back.”

  “Nice,” he said. He then knocked on the office door they had just arrived at and ushered Clarice inside. Once the doctor on the other side had acknowledged their presence, and Clarice took a seat, the orderly left.

  Clarice waited for her new shrink to get off the phone. His nameplate suggested that he was Dr. O. A. Levonston. According to the myriad of books on his three bookshelves, he specialized in schizophrenia. Anything else she might be able to discern from his belongings was cleverly hidden away in cardboard boxes.

  “Excuse the clutter,” Dr. Levonston said as he hung up the phone. “I haven’t quite moved in yet. Clarice, is it? May I call you that?”

  “You may.”

  “Good,” he replied, picking up a large plastic binder. “I’ve been looking through your chart, and I’d like to go over some parts of it with you.”

  Clarice sighed, and just like every interview and session she had had before with countless other psychiatrists and therapists, it degenerated into him explaining everything to her as if she were a baby.

  Her mind wandered from his lecture and reverted to the subject on infants. All of the babies Clarice had met were small and usually pink. Some tended to be fussy, but they almost always had cute going for them, which made up for a lot of the fuss. Cute, that is, as long as they weren’t in meltdown mode.

  The more she thought about them, the more she realized that babies had the uncanny ability to stop any conversation. She had seen them use a wide range of assets to accomplish such a task, from pinch-me cheeks to mischievous grins. On rare occasions or critical times, she even saw infants call in the inopportune, poopy diaper, which by
Clarice’s judgment, had a 98% success rate of halting any grownup activity when applied properly.

  Clarice wished she had a baby at this very moment. She would even take one complete with a poopy diaper to escape the current conversation. Sadly, no baby was in sight, soiled or otherwise.

  “How do you feel about being here today?” Dr. Levonston asked, cutting into her train of thought.

  “It’s not so bad,” she lied.

  “Is that so?” the psychiatrist said, arching an eyebrow. “According to your notes, you’ve been combative since you’ve been here.”

  “Past tense,” she said, settling back in the chair.

  “You can tell me if you don’t like it here,” he said, apparently trying to be as soothing as possible in a sterile lab coat and sharply angled eyeglasses. “You can tell me the truth. We’re only here to help.”

  “I know,” she lied, once again. She had long ago figured out that telling the truth only got her fitted with another straight jacket. Since she didn’t relish the idea of spending the rest of her life in such attire, she knew she had to play the game. And play it well. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” she said, hoping she wasn’t laying it on too thick. “I want to get better.”

  Dr. Levonston tapped his pen on his desk and leaned back in his chair. “Are you now saying your boss wasn’t eaten by zombies?”

  “Bitten,” she corrected, chomping her teeth for added effect. “Not eaten. There’s a difference.”

  The doctor smiled. “Bitten, then.”

  “I’m sure there’s a rational explanation for everything,” she said.

  “Then perhaps you can tell me why you concocted a fanciful story with the walking dead, secret labs, and mysterious black holes?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Chemical imbalance maybe. But whatever it is, I’m willing to work at it until we figure it out.”

  As much as she loved watching the staff work on her, Clarice had her escape to plan, her murder to fake, and her fiancé to find. More importantly, however, Clarice knew that none of that was going to happen while they watched her like a hawk. She needed to make them think she was compliant, that she was weak.

  Clarice mentally patted herself on the back as her psychiatrist began to talk about medication changes and long term treatment goals that would end in her “speedy” release. Not that any of that mattered. She’d be gone by the end of the week, and nothing could stop her. After all, if the walking dead, mad scientists, and an underground, malfunctioning lab couldn’t do her in, a two-bit mental institution didn’t stand a chance—especially not when two of the guards took naps and the janitorial staff left the service entrance unlocked.

  Anne would be proud.

  Thank you for reading!

  If you’re now a fan of Death & Taxes, leaving a review for it would be immensely appreciated and more help than you could know.

  It’ll also motivate me to continue Toby’s story not to mention get the prequels out sooner! You do want to know what happened before with Clarice and Nick, don’t you?

  CLICK HERE TO LEAVE A REVIEW ON AMAZON

  Love Firefly? Doctor Who? Indiana Jones? Or just really, really fun adventures? Check out Apocalypse How?

  (Out September 22, 2019)

  I never thought I’d have a bounty on my head the size of the Milky Way.

  Of course, I never thought I’d be able to bend time, either.

  But hey, life is full of surprises.

  Don’t get me wrong, feeling like a goddess has its perks, but those perks come with a hefty price. My brain is tapioca. I’m stranded in the middle of dead space. Ratters are using me for target practice, and a giant, cybernetic monster named Oscar wants to use me for a chew toy.

  All this because I played superhero (or thief, according to some) and snatched a doomsday device from an intergalactic mobster.

  So if I don’t make it out of here alive, remember this:

  Above all else, I want a Viking funeral.

  Click HERE to grab your copy today!

  Chapter One

  I don’t know how everyone didn’t die of boredom a thousand years ago.

  I mean, back in the 5th century PHS (Pre HyperSpace), you only had a handful of channels to watch, and the farthest anyone had gone was the moon. To top it off, it took them three days to get there. I’d rather let a Ferrean dust worm gnaw my arm off than spend that long twiddling my thumbs in a cramped cockpit with nothing to do.

  And while I’m ranting about ancient history, I can’t even imagine being stuck on a tiny blue planet that at least one guide listed as being mostly harmless. I need to sail the Horsehead Nebula! I need to speed dive the event horizon of KT-124! I need to go spelunking at the Venetian poles!

  I know. I know. Billions of people have already done all that, but my true passion is finding lost alien technology and prehistoric civilizations that even time doesn’t remember. So, after a lot of research, a few hot tips, and calling in three solid you-owe-me’s, I got a hold of a good lead on what would hopefully be an ancient crash site on a backwater planet.

  How much would a find be worth? Anywhere from junk to untold riches, obviously, but I had hopes that the salvage there would get me enough to buy a brand-new Hermes ’64 Intruder. With its seven-point-eight cubic meter warp core and six-barreled displacement drive, I’d lap the galaxy faster than gossip laps a locker room. When I could do that, I’d put all other treasure hunters to shame.

  And if I got mega-trillions-jackpot lucky, I could even find something the Progenitors left behind. For those of you who slept through history class, they’re the guys fabled to have been the most advanced species ever to exist. They created worlds on a whim and popped in and out of any dimension they pleased.

  What I wouldn’t give to be the first to prove their existence. Becoming the most famous xenoarchaeologist in the Milky Way would be a nice touch, too, and I’m pretty sure I’d get my PhD on the spot, even if I haven’t technically finished my undergrad. Then I’d be able to introduce myself as Doctor Adams. Doctor Dakota Adams.

  Yeah, I like the sound of that. Sounds a ton better than Miss Adams, doesn’t it? I like it so much, in fact, if I ever get home with my skull intact, I’m going to order a nameplate the first chance I get.

  Chapter Two

  When I first landed on DD-3123—a small, lush planet on the outer rim—things got off to a slow start. I spent an entire day wandering around trying to find my local contact who promised he could guide me to the crash site.

  While wandering, I checked in with my live-stream channel, and I was depressed to discover my usual ten to twenty viewers had dwindled to two. Though I was grateful I still had a couple of names tuning into my show, I soon suspected they were bots.

  My search for my native guide eventually led me inside a festival filled with balloons, mud huts, and plenty of odd games ranging from wibblet ball (sort of a soccer-freeze-tag hybrid) to death stick (horseshoes meets hand grenades, not for the faint of heart).

  Eventually, I found the guy, whose name was Ryx, near the food vendors. He was snacking on a bag of palafels (think giant caterpillars, deep fried and dipped in honey) and listening to a traveling musical group with vocals strong enough to shatter steel. Once the show finished, we blazed a trail together to a large crater about ten kilometers away. The terrain was scrubby and flat, for the most part, until we reached the crater’s outer edge and needed to scale the ridgeline.

  After hiking most of the way up, I finished the climb with a short hop and swing of my ice axe to grab the top and pull myself up. Though it was easy, I was jealous of how fast Ryx scaled the terrain. His seven spindly arms were long enough to grab plenty of holds at once, and the suckers covering the palms of his hands were strong enough that he could sleep suspended from an overhang. That said, he was also two and a half meters tall, which meant he’d be smooshed in any cockpit. I’ve always said I’d take zipping through the galaxy in comfort over pretending to be a bat any day. His furry
body and arachnid face weren’t appealing either.

  Standing next to me, Ryx pointed into the giant crater. The meemar forest obscured everything inside its five-kilometer span with their bright orange leaves, but there was a dark blotch that he was drawing my eyes to close by.

  “Down there,” Ryx said. His natural language was a slew of squeaks, but the 3C-bug in my ear (fluent in over six million forms of communication) made the translation.

  “Awesome,” I said, plugging the location into my datapad. “I really can’t thank you enough for the help. Are you sure you won’t come with?”

  Ryx made a circular gesture with his left appendage, the equivalent of us humans shaking our head. “Haunted place. Dangerous. Rats went in earlier. Never came out. Beware the glow floor and the one with the red eye.”

  “Glowing floors and red eyes are bad, got it,” I said with a friendly pat on one of his shoulders.

  There was a grunt from behind, and Oran, a guy I’d hired to help, pulled himself up over the ridge to join us. Sweat and dirt caked his sunburnt forehead, and the shirt under his brown jacket was soaked so badly I was sure I could smell his reek three planets away. Stink aside, he also failed to dress for the occasion. He wore casual weekend attire consisting of tailored pants and a collared shirt, instead of something more suited to exploration like the khaki pants, loose shirt and wide-brimmed hat that I had on.

  “Almost there,” I said to encourage him. “Don’t have a coronary on me.”

  “Guess I’m not as young as I used to be,” he replied with a weary smile.

  I almost made a quip about him only being a few years older than I was, but decided to let him save face so he didn’t have to admit a girl was in better shape than he was. “Well, no time to dawdle,” I said, starting my way down the crater.