Now, after having written close to four hundred thousand words in 2013 alone, I find that the real challenge lies in crafting a well-told tale in a short amount of space. It’s about confinement, containment, and control over your story. You’re building a toolshed instead of a mansion. While every word of every novel matters, being able to create and convey a powerful scene, an overwhelming feeling, or a heart-wrenching moment inside a few sentences takes precision and, for the author, a maddening sense of perfectionism.
“The Man with Two Legs” began as a ridiculous title and nothing more. I had no plot in mind, and almost scrapped it completely, but I couldn’t let go of the underlying potential. Why was it significant that this man had two legs? There was a story there. I had roughly four false starts, ranging from time travel to a southern Louisiana murder mystery, before I found what I was looking for. What began as a simple story about being “different” turned into an allegory that touches on freedom versus security, societal oppression, and the “crutches” we all live with on a daily basis. Whether you’re happy inside the walls or outside them and on your own, it’s a beautiful thing to have a say in the matter.
I write a little bit of everything—a little bit of literary, a little bit of science fiction—but mostly I hang around in the mystery and suspense-thriller genres. You can learn more about me and my other works at my site (http://www.ernielindsey.com) and please feel free to drop me a line!
Lastly, you wouldn’t be reading this without the kind consideration of Brian Spangler. Thanks go out to Brian, Susan May, and David Gatewood for the invitation to participate. It’s an honor to be a part of this collection.
The children were watching cartoons when I left. Over breakfast I’d told them I’d see them at lunchtime. They’d been keen to come with me, but I had a lot to get done and I didn’t want them slowing me down. I didn’t kiss them or say goodbye, as it would only draw attention to my going and result in me fielding another round of complaints. Instead I tiptoed toward the door, with Graeme close behind me. He was trying to tell me something irrelevant about the state of our lawn, which annoyed me, as it didn’t feature on my current list of priorities. “Talk to me later,” I hissed at him, and felt only relief after I’d pulled the door closed on his irritated face.
I needed to see my dad, but the word “escape” kept springing to mind, as though I were a prisoner, held captive by two small children and an exhausted G.P.
I had no idea.
I drove toward the highway, spending the first fifteen minutes listening to Elmo and friends before it clicked that I was really alone, then I turned the radio on instead. I spent another ten minutes twisting the dial, unable to find a station. Now and then I heard snatches of words, distant and disconnected, surfacing briefly before being swallowed up by static. A mixture of English and other tongues. No music at all. I tried to think back, see if I could remember a signal problem here, but usually we’d had the kids’ CDs on. In the end I gave up and settled for silence.
Dad had worried me for a while now. He and Mum had moved two hours north of the city three years ago, to grow wine and plant trees. Dad’s dream of retirement. It was clear that Mum had been reluctant at first, but she’d said Dad had worked hard all his life to look after us, and he deserved this. After two years of them struggling to get their place up and running, Mum had a heart attack while out in the vineyard.
“If we had been closer to the city?” Dad asked when we were at the hospital.
And the doctor had shrugged. “Maybe.”
A wicked truth thrown like a flame from a stranger’s mouth, and my father’s body sagged against the wall as his dreams withered. His plan had never included being alone.
Now Dad hadn’t picked up the phone in over a week. I was exasperated with him as I drove, but I always loved heading out here. The quiet roads made it easier to breathe. The sandy verges were punctuated by dull green bushes and the occasional grasstree, long leaves exploding from the tops like fireworks. But there was nothing really to focus on except my own thoughts. And they were the same as always when I made the long drive this way. I needed to persuade Dad to move back closer to us. Even though I couldn’t imagine him cosseted in the suburbs, I needed to be able to keep an eye on him, and I couldn’t keep driving out here, not with so many other commitments of my own, never mind shuttling the kids to and from school and extracurricular activities and…
Me, me, me.
Eventually I reached the old steel gate that marked the entrance to the property. Dad kept it carefully closed and bolted, and I always found it tedious having to leap out of the car twice to open and close it. A dirt track wound up to the summit of a small hill, and as the car crested the top I took back all my thoughts of persuading Dad to move. How could I fail to appreciate the view from this singular summit? On the horizon was a tiny matchbox city, the tallest towers shrunk by distance so that my outstretched fingertips would surely tip them over like toy blocks. I thought briefly of the children over there somewhere, wondering if Graeme had persuaded them to get dressed yet. Then I turned to face the house.
Usually Dad heard the car approaching and had already emerged onto the wide veranda by the time I parked. Not today. Not even Jefferson, his old dog, had bounded across to see me. I walked around to the back of the house, and looked in through one of the small windows of the garage, to find that his car was gone. What should I do now? I hesitated, surveying the spindly rows of vines that Mum and Dad had spent hours nurturing, persuading them to cling to their thin wooden posts with the same tender care with which I had eased toys into my babies’ chubby fists. The leaves flapped gently in the breeze, and I was heartened that the place still looked so tidy and tended.
I knocked on the door, not quite knowing why I was doing so. If Dad was home he would be out here by now. I had a moment of panic at the thought of him lying somewhere inside, perhaps needing my help while I meandered around. That spurred me into a brisk return to my vehicle, and a hunt through the glove compartment for my spare key.
Once I was inside I went through the house, calling out “Dad! Dad, where are you?” At the sight of each empty room my relief intensified. It was obvious he wasn’t here, and it was only to be thorough that I decided to check the cellar. I was cursing myself as I went—why hadn’t I called ahead? I was so used to him being home, but of course he would have to do the occasional grocery run at least. Perhaps he’d even made a few friends out here. I was happy at that thought, even if it would make it harder to get him to move back to the city.
The cellar keys were hanging next to the door. The cellar was one reason Dad had fallen in love with this place. Wine was Dad’s hobby. He didn’t produce enough to do more than a few boutique local sales, but the cellar was filled with rows and rows of the bottled fruits of his labor. He always gave me at least a dozen when I saw him. I hadn’t been to the bottle shop in quite some time.
I unlocked the door and switched on the light, beginning to count the steps as I went down—a habit ingrained since childhood. Now it was a game I played with my children, and it was so instinctual to me that at the same time I was wondering what I would do next, not really expecting to find Dad down here, part of my brain was idly rolling out numbers. Seven… eight… nine…
I was oblivious to the final seconds of a countdown taking place somewhere, a few lives redirecting the course of countless others. But somewhere there must have been.
Three
Two
One
From nowhere, I felt a huge pressure in my head. It built and built, and both hands flew up to my skull as though if I held it I could stop it from exploding. And then the feeling suddenly changed, and spears of pain shot through both ears, along with a strong sucking sensation. And then I must have passed out.
I woke up with a staggering headache, to find I was lying on the floor on my back, in darkness. My body ached, and I was dripping wet. I thought I could taste blood, but that sense was overpowered by the cloying stench
of wine. I moved a hand out to push myself into a sitting position, and felt my palm being bitten. I snatched it away and felt the skin with the fingers of my other hand, finding a number of slivers of glass embedded there. I pulled out those large enough to find easily, and realized that all over my body my skin was stinging. I reached out gingerly to find the floor was covered with liquid and tiny pieces of glass. Slowly, I pushed the shards to one side as best I could, in order to clear a path toward the steps. Then I made to get to my feet, but found my legs were too wobbly. I stopped for a moment to try to think, but the dark was making me paranoid. My ears were ringing, and yet I could hear breathing too—and I couldn’t be sure it was mine. Panic began to rise at the thought that I might not be alone down here. I moved awkwardly on my hands and knees, trying to make sure an area was clear before I gave weight to a movement, but wincing more than once when my knees struck something painful and sharp. At the bottom of the stairs I found a piece of cloth, and then it was easier to brush aside the glass and check it had gone before heading up on all fours. The debris lessened as I made my way up.
There were thirteen steps in the cellar—I had counted this numerous times—yet this time I had reached fifteen by the time I felt the door. I reached up and patted the wall until I found the rail, and it took all my strength to pull myself up. I had a horrible moment when the door wouldn’t give and I thought I was trapped, but after another push it opened, and I staggered out into the daylight of my dad’s hallway, collapsing in relief when I found myself back in familiar surroundings.
I lay on the carpet for a moment, breathing heavily, never more grateful for the daylight. When I eventually looked down I saw I was covered head to toe with red wine. I sat up, noting the stains I was leaving on the light brown carpet, wondering vaguely what my scrupulous father would think of that.
I had been in survival mode while escaping the cellar. Only now did I wonder what the hell had just happened. I felt for my phone in my pocket, knowing it was tough to get a signal out here but praying anyway.
The screen was black. It wouldn’t even turn on.
I crawled across to the wall and leaned my back against it, trying to gather my thoughts as I sat there. At first it seemed as though nothing here had been affected, but then I felt a breeze shiver against my skin, and looked up to see that the windows up here had blown, and that Dad’s curtains were swaying gently in the wind. After what seemed like a long time I pulled myself up again and moved along, leaning on the wall. I returned to the cellar door and tried the light switch again, but it seemed the bulb had blown. Only from the light that snuck in past the open doorway could I make out the dim, empty rows of wine racks, and the carpet of glinting, red-stained glass.
Poor Dad, I thought. All that work of his bleeding out on the floor.
Next I went to the window. In the distance, the dollhouse city stood immutable. I made my way around the whole house looking for anything else amiss. At the back, the vine leaves shuddered against their poles, and I saw that the windows of my car had shattered too. I had a flash of fear that I might have left my car keys in the cellar, and quickly felt in my pocket, grateful to find them there. I went out, sat in the car, and turned the ignition.
The car was dead.
In that moment, I had never felt so alone.
I thought of the long driveway leading away from the house. I knew how far it was just to get to that annoying gate, so I can’t explain what I did next, except to say that my head was obviously affected—my ears were still ringing, and all rational thought was lost amid a growing fog of panic.
I walked back into the house and rinsed a dishtowel under the sink, grateful to see the water was still running. Clinging to this indicator of normality, I toweled off the worst of the wine, not even considering the shower. Then I stuck my head under the faucet and gulped as much water as I could, some part of my brain knowing that was important, but not going so far as to remind me to also fill a bottle. Neither did I think to look for sunscreen and a hat, despite the fact that this was well-worn mothering advice I cajoled my kids with daily. Then I walked away from the house without looking back, meandering down that long driveway as though I was just off to check the mail.
I was delirious before I even found asphalt.
There was no strength left in my legs. I was just staggering, having an out-of-body experience, counting my steps and placing bets on whether I could reach the next number with a zero while still upright. My wine-saturated skin felt tight to the point of shriveling, and I knew I was burning up. The resulting smell was reminding me of a fancy chicken recipe I always made with tomatoes using Dad’s wine, and I was amused at the thought of making my own mouth water, trying to remember if I had ever heard of anyone eating their own body parts before.
At one point I realized I wasn’t sure if I had turned left or right out of Dad’s driveway. I glanced up and down the road to find it all appeared the same, and realized I had lost the option of retreat. As the heat seared away my strength I began to shiver, and I wondered how close I was to dying. I told myself I was being melodramatic. If I wasn’t back by lunchtime surely Graeme would be worried… but perhaps the kids would run him so ragged that he wouldn’t even notice. It might be getting dark by the time he tried to call me.
I didn’t think I would make it till then.
And then I had a thought that seemed to upend all the others. I remembered that crushing, sucking pain in my head. What if the same thing had happened to them, too?
An unbearable question, and no way to answer it.
I sank to the ground. Why had we not stuck together? The children always asked to come with me. The novelty was still exciting. I had only grown more reluctant after Mum died, wanting to protect them from Dad’s grief. Believing that I was doing them a favor by limiting their exposure to anything troubling. Forgetting that they might have lifted Dad’s spirits. Besides, there was always a mountain of stuff to do at home; if Graeme and I split the chores we could get so much more accomplished. Except our days out together—we had forgotten to accomplish that.
I had no energy left to get up again. As I lay in a heap, fear prowled through me, striking at every dead-end thought, leaving me in agony. I was incoherent by the time I heard the truck rumbling.
For the first time in what felt like hours, I tried to pull myself up. I thought it was my family come to rescue me.
But someone else had found me instead.
He stopped his truck and gave me water, then lifted me into the passenger seat. I was too weak to object to anything, least of all hands that took care of me, even if they were a stranger’s. The sun shone straight in my face as we drove along, making me keep my eyes closed. I tried to twist around, but there was no getting away from the glare. I needed to lean on something, but my head kept smacking against the door frame as we bounced around. I hadn’t the strength to stop it. It felt like we drove for hours, but I must have been mistaken as the sun was still strong when we finally pulled up.
This day was never going to end.
The sudden stillness after the bumping over rough ground had jolted me properly awake, and I pushed myself wearily to sit up.
I recognized the building, but it took me a moment to process my memories and begin to place it. Then I realized: it was the convent. I had always called it that, even though it had already been a tourist attraction by the time I first saw it, an elaborate structure two hundred kilometers from civilization that had been a spiritual retreat for over a century before it became a destination for day-trippers. I had been here once before. On that first visit I’d held one small hand in each of mine, listening to the little ones’ bored moans as we wandered around pretending to admire the stained glass, really only there because Graeme wanted to see the Spanish architecture and it was an excuse to get out of the city for the day. I remembered that Katie wanted an ice cream and I said no to her so many times that she ended up in tears and I was angry, and that it had all felt so extreme at the time. How
ridiculous it seemed now. How I wished I had just bought her the damn cone.
I became aware my Samaritan was watching me, and gathered the courage to look into his eyes.
I was relieved to see nothing there to make me afraid. He was tanned, with short blond hair and deep creases in his face. His gaze was direct and considered. I thought I was quite good at reading people: I would have said he was sizing me up.
“What happened to me?”
He didn’t answer straight away. Then, “I don’t know.”
“Why have you brought me out here?”
“I don’t think it’s safe in the city.”
I tried to visualize what was happening at home and felt that unbearable falling sensation again. “Do you have a phone?”
He reached in his pocket and held one up and for a moment I was filled with relief. Then he said, “I do, but it won’t work.”
“So why don’t you think it’s safe in the city?”
“Well, after all my windows shattered and I woke up with a headache, I drove that way to begin with. All I saw were cars and houses with shattered windows for a whole hour. Couldn’t find a living soul, didn’t even see a body. It began to freak me out, so I turned around. Then I found you.”
It only then registered that his windows were broken too. No wonder the sun had felt so strong.
“So you don’t have any idea what happened?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I think there’s been some kind of bomb.”
“In the city?”
“Yes.”
I thought about that. About Graeme and Katie and Jake. The tears came quickly and I bit back the urge to wail, looking down at my hands.
From the Indie Side Page 12