You Killed Wesley Payne

by Sean Beaudoin

  The Rad Panthers were holed up in an apartment across the hallway. Lex had been staking it out for weeks. The Rads had sent a series of letters to the Times. The kind with the words cut out from the style section and then glued to notebook paper in a way that no one with an ounce of criminal talent had done since the Lindbergh baby. The letters, barely comprehensible “power to the people” rants, threatened to start blowing up schools and police stations across Manhattan. That is, unless their leader, Seldridge Mallet, was immediately released from custody. Cole didn’t really care if they blew up schools. They’d just build more. Or police stations. One less copper was one less copper. Lex especially didn’t care at all if Seldridge Mallet rotted in jail. He was a guy born for the podium, born to rail against the status quo with his Lenin goatee and cute turns of phrase. He talked about the way people treated each other. The way things could be better. Free lunches. Free elections. Equal rights. Problem was, once the downtrodden Mallets of the world got a little power, they became carpetbaggers just like all the rest. The pretty talk became garlands on a dead Christmas tree. They made deals, shook hands, skimmed contributions. They became the pigs they were supposed to replace. All Mallets were equal, it’s just that some Mallets were more equal than others.

  Lex hated politics. And slogans.

  There were jobs to do.

  And there were the men who did those jobs.

  Smoothly and professionally.

  That was it.

  Lex was here to get paid and get out. And what he’d been paid for was to grab the little kidnapped debutante the Rads had been doing God knows what to since they’d plucked her off the streets uptown, in full daylight, two weeks ago. Lex needed to hightail her back to Park Avenue, where her extremely wealthy father was falling all over himself to pay Lex off with a Samsonite full of Krugerrands. And now, two weeks and endless neck stubble later, his patience was about to be rewarded. If he happened to foil a bomb plot in the meantime, so be it. He wasn’t losing any sleep over anything but the industrialist’s daughter, a rude little minx named Seraphina Willeford. Lex looked at her yearbook photo one last time. She stared at the camera with bee-stung lips and gray eyes like icebergs bobbing in the North Atlantic. She had eyes that men would crash their hulls into and sink, again and again, and be happy to do it. Eighteen, with a thousand-dollar handbag and a knowing smirk. Lex figured she’d probably been in on her own abduction, was hoping to fleece Daddy for enough folding green to spend sophomore year sunning herself in Biarritz.

  Either way, the hippie was the key.

  Lex had caught him skulking on the fire escape, dragged him into the stakeout room for questioning, and squeezed him hard. The hippie confessed right away that he and the Willeford girl were classmates. The Rads had run out of dope, or their usual connection had burned them, and now they were looking for a new delivery boy. And guess who that new delivery boy was going to be? Lex would knock, offer his wares, and then use the hippie as a shield while he gorilla’d into their midst. He had everything he needed: a very big gun, a very bad headache, and a very heavy set of onions dangling in his immaculately ironed slacks.

  Lexington Cole smiled, as he always did when a solid plan finally came together. He lit a cigarette, the smell of stewardess perfume lingering on the back of his hand. His close-cropped steel-blue hair glistened in the morning light. His body, wiry like wound cable, almost flexed back in on itself. Twin .44 autos hung reassuringly in the holsters under his arms. The hippie began to weep.

  All in all, it had been a good morning.

  To be continued…

  Other Lexington Cole titles you may enjoy, from Fade Publishing! Find them at quality booksellers everywhere!

  The Junkie with Two Bad Habits

  The Luger That Said I Love You

  And Her Burning Rage Lit the Way

  The Blues Ruse and the Bloody Shoes

  Not for All the Feldspar in Belgrade

  The Hollow-Pointed Cerebellum

  Never Trust a Taxidermist

  Daddy Met a Lady, Mommy Died Alone

  A Contentment in Harlem

  Hide, Cannibal, Hide!

  These Two Hands Born to Smack

  The Judas Fruit

  Ask the Zebra, Answer the Stripes

  The Fat Man Warbles at Midnight

  A Spinnaker to Starboard, a Shiv to the Ribs

  And Whose Corpse Shall Claim Dominion?

  The End of Everything Is G

  A Dirge, a Dirigible, and a Dirty Lie

  The Butcher Buys a Loaf

  In the Court of the Granite Mandarin

  The Torture Mechanic

  One Small Step for Man, One Giant Step for Pan

  The Gypsy Who Could Only Sort of Dance

  Harvard Admissions Program

  Danielle Steel Creative Writing Scholarship Application

  Story #1, “The Leaves Always Scream the Loudest”

  By Dalton Rev

  It was twelve o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon and the darkness was absolute. Ash felt his way across the bedroom floor until he found the bottle of brandy that Counselor Dan kept under the bed. He popped it open and took a long swig, coughing half back up. His throat burned and he felt queasy. So he forced down another gulp. Counselor Dan wouldn’t mind. Mostly because Counselor Dan and Counselor Sue and all the rest of the adults had disappeared a week ago.

  Along with the electricity.

  And the sun.

  There was a scream and then a crash. One floor below, the remaining campers scratched and tore and rooted around. “Mom!” they yelled, over and over. “Mom mom mom mom mom!” Pubescent baritones mixed with late bloomers’ pinched sopranos, both dwarfed by the turbinelike rage of the Band of Girls. Within the cacophony, Ash recognized the voice of Merril, a redheaded kid from Montpelier. Merril’s parents had paid $1,400 for a Teen Reconnect Weekend Package that ended just as Ash’s You Will One Day Be a Parent Too support group began. They’d smirked at one another knowingly, forced to deal with teen/parent power issues through elaborate role play and fat-free snacks.

  Ash’s parents had signed him up for an entire summer’s worth of classes. They also gave Counselor Dan power of attorney before flying to the Caymans on a snorkel and mojito junket. Merril, who just a few days ago had seemed totally normal, was now down there hooting like a demented toad, his voice rising in agonized fifths. It sounded like he’d completely lost his shite and totally didn’t care anymore. Actually, no one really cared anymore. Especially now that most of them had stripped naked. And used the mud in the yard for body paint. And torn the furniture apart to make clubs and spears. And tied the fat kid caught hoarding Ring Dings to the desk in the lobby, the same fat kid who kept moaning and crying and begging to be released, or at least given some water.

  Ash finished the brandy as banging resumed against Counselor Dan’s door. At first it was just a few fists, and then a frenzied dozen. Voices cursed and railed, fingers grappling for purchase, chanting in unison.

  “Ash Ash Ash Ash Ash!”

  They slammed themselves against the heavy oak door Ash had blocked with a pair of dressers and then nailed the dressers in place using seven of the nine arms from an enormous teak statue of Shiva that had once dominated the lobby. But even that wouldn’t hold much longer.

  “Ash!” Bam. “Ash!” Bam. “Ash!”

  It had been a week since the darkness fell.

  “Kill!” Bam. “Kill!” Bam. “Kill!”

  Or never lifted.

  It had been seven full days since the entire camp had woken to an absolutely black morning, since the students and staff and faculty had been forced to admit that the sun had simply failed to rise.

  And maybe never would again.

  The Winding Hills Family Healing Retreat sat in a remote clearing in the lush Champlain Valley. Ash had spent most of the summer in Teen Yurt #6 with a bunch of other stiffs who were in for the long haul, not the weekenders whose parents actually stayed and participated. Counselor Dan was
perpetually barefoot. Much of his counsel came through displays of juggling and pointed mime. Counselor Todd did yoga at dawn, grunting and expelling curdled seitan breath in a desperate bid to achieve Kundalini. Counselor Sue weighed in at over two bills, permanently sunburned in sour-smelling batik, the neckline of which allowed her unfettered and gigantic mams to blink freely in the dappled morning light.

  Ash’s parents had agreed to Winding Hills after he’d been nailed for graffiti. Actually, tagging the proscenium of the Lutheran church in the center of town. Ash got the full book, the judge sentencing him to an entire summer. The judge was also the pastor at the church. What Ash had spray-painted, for reasons he still didn’t quite understand, in huge red block-letters, was JESUS SAVES SOULS AND REDEEMS THEM FOR VALUABLE CASH PRIZES. The judge was not amused. Neither were Ash’s parents.

  “You’re lucky,” Ash’s dad had pronounced. “You could have been sentenced to military school.”

  “We’re cashing in our air miles,” Ash’s mom said. “We’ll see you in September.”

  So Ash attended classes, took nature walks, participated in yoga marathons, and made embroidered buckskin pouches. There were pamphlets, videos, talent shows, trust exercises, anklets, and parchment cookbooks. There were psalms, Vedas, and Upanishads. There were Tae and Quan and Do.

  At least until the darkness fell.

  Or never lifted.

  A week ago, on a morning that marked Winding Hill’s thirtieth anniversary of rehabilitation and spiritual renewal, the entire camp had woken to find the sun had simply failed to rise.

  At first, it just seemed odd. Despite an internal distress alluded to by percussive, bean-curdish flatulence, Counselor Dan and the staff laughed it off, gathering all the kids and parents around the fire in the lobby, eating apples and playing board games by candlelight.

  “Could it be an eclipse? Anyone have an almanac?”

  “A big forest fire would do it. Do you smell smoke?”

  “Some guy in a uniform will drive up in a Jeep and explain, right?”

  Ash had the feeling, even from the very beginning, that no one was coming. He didn’t know what was going on, but it had the feel of permanence. He’d told as much to Lucy, a weekender he’d been flirting with during sandal-making class. Ash took her by the hand and led her into the pantry, whispering.

  “I think we should try to get out of here.”

  “We?”

  “Yeah. You and me.”

  “And go where?”

  “Anywhere. Just not… here.”

  Lucy had huge dark eyes and short hair. Her skin was brown and smooth. She was elaborately and pinkly lipsticked. Ash had an overwhelming desire to kiss her.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said, letting go.

  The following morning, still pitch-black at eleven, the camaraderie, the feeling of a snow day off from school, began to wear away.

  “Is it daytime?” Counselor Bruce asked.

  “I don’t know,” Counselor Gina answered. “I can’t see my feet.”

  “Bet you can smell them, though,” someone said.

  A pot of cold oatmeal was passed around, to a general grumbling among the parents.

  “I want to talk to someone about getting my deposit back!”

  There were scattered “Hear! Hear!”s that gave the lobby a parliamentary feel. Counselor Dan tried to calm and assuage. There was talk of gift certificates.

  “I hate to say it, but my money’s on nuclear winter.”

  “If this doesn’t stink like an alien invasion, I don’t know what does.”

  As if in confirmation, a metallic whine rolled over the hills. It was a mortgage broker from Houston who’d brought his three daughters for sessions on Understanding Dad’s Needs Through Interpretative Dance.

  “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon!”

  The starter of his Explorer ground mercilessly. None of the car engines would turn over.

  “Stop, Daddy!” his daughters begged. “Please stop!”

  The smell of ozone filled the air. Everyone had long since given up on the cars. And everything else electronic or mechanical.

  By day three, the speculation ceased. Families began to pair off, speaking in whispers. Deals were made, plans discussed, handshakes clenched, teens ignored. The shy, ill equipped, and ally free retreated to dark corners. The world was a dark corner.

  On day four, the adults ran into the woods.

  “Are they going for help?”

  “Does this mean they forfeit their granola ration?”

  Soon the drumming started. Angry rhythms thrummed throughout the valley. There were hoots and wails, keening voices acting as counterpoint.

  “What is that?”

  “It sounds like, what’s that word? Feral.”

  Every hour or so, someone’s daughter would skulk outside and yell from the front steps.

  “Mommy, can you hear me?”

  “Dad? Daddy, are you coming back?”

  “Counselor Tom? Are you listening, Counselor Tom?”

  There was no response. The black tree line was barely discernable, without the slightest hint of the moon. The drumming continued day and night, until it stopped. For good.

  On day five, all the females got together, forming an alliance called the Band of Girls. They donned large towels like robes. Baptisms were performed in the hot tub at regular intervals. Their male acolytes prayed and fasted on the porch. Lucy was one of their leaders. It was then that Ash found a hammer and nails, snuck upstairs with a few provisions, and heavily reinforced the door.

  A sudden glow reflected off Counselor Dan’s window. Ash put his face against the cool glass, peering outside. The ancient oak in the front yard crackled like an enormous match. The lawn was illuminated, a ring of figures in robes holding hands and dancing around the tree like a giant maypole. Their robes fluttered in the breeze, a lurid nudity beneath. There seemed to be characters written on their bodies, red scrawls, flesh hieroglyphs. They set up a table in the middle of the circle, covering it with garlands and black leather carved from the lobby sofa, while chanting “ASH! ASH! ASH!”

  The Band of Girls carried a shrouded woman on their shoulders, tying her down to the table before gyrating around her. Fire tore into the upper branches of the tree, popping and squalling as greenery ignited. The entire compound was illuminated in an orange haze, as if giant Klieg lights had been trucked in for a movie opening. It pained Ash’s eyes after days of moldering in the dark.

  A cry went up as the shroud was pulled off the prostrate girl. It was Lucy. She wore a bikini made of braided vines. Sparks leaped off the tree and began to rain down onto the roof. The corner of the porch spat flames. The banging at Counselor Dan’s door increased. It sounded like they were using a ram. Ash opened his window, breathing shingle.

  “Lucy!” he yelled.

  The teens below fell silent, the dancing and chanting stopped. Merril stepped forward, wearing a crown of elk horns that had been mounted above the reception desk. He approached the table where Lucy was strapped, standing over her with a blade ripped from the lawn mower. He raised it in both hands, intoning something vaguely Latin.

  “Lucy!” Ash yelled again.

  She looked up at him and winked.

  Merril brought down the blade. Ash turned as Counselor Dan’s door finally gave way. Six hooded girls broke in, panting, holding torches made from bone. Ash stepped onto the throne he’d made of Counselor Dan’s books, most of them texts from various classes and symposiums. It was a literate mound, a thousand years of wisdom, numerology, kabbalah, I Ching, Samuel Johnson, Nietzsche, and the collected works of Shel Silverstein.

  “Kneel!” Ash commanded.

  There was a prolonged scream from outside. Fire licked at the windowpane. The girls looked at one another. Ash groped randomly for the heaviest volume, coming up with one about a girl who moves to a small Northwest town and falls in love with a vampire. He brandished it, the black and red cover glowing eerily in reflected fire
light.

  “KNEEL BEFORE ME!” Ash said again.

  The girls looked at the book. They looked at Ash.

  And then obeyed.

  Harvard Admissions Program.

  Danielle Steel Creative Writing Scholarship Application.

  Story #2, “The A to Z of Possible Gods”

  by Dalton Rev

  A. God exists, exactly like it says in the Bible. We’ll all be judged in heaven when we die, and a certain percentage of us will be cast down to hell.

  B. God exists, which is proven by the fact that I am here to write this sentence. God recognizes that my mere existence is the best possible way of honoring him. He will welcome me in heaven whether I go to church or not because I am generally a good person.

  C. God exists, but it turns out he’s the one Amazon River cannibals worship. We’ve been praying to the wrong guy all this time, and Uglathuthlu is seriously pissed about it.

  D. God exists, but he’s some math nerd and we are his battery-powered action figures. He watches us with scientific disinterest, recording everything we do in a giant celestial laptop.

  E. God exists, but we are so yesterday. He’s busy creating the rest of the universe. Once in a while, while fielding prayers from a brand-new planet full of cactus-shaped people, he remembers us fondly.

  F. God exists but is some sort of catalytic electrochemical stew not capable of thought, emotion, or profundity. The Stew has no investment whatsoever in our lives.

  G. God exists and is indeed a bearded man on a throne, but that man is cold, confused, and scared. He would very much like it if some cosmonaut flew up to heaven and told him what he’s supposed to be doing.

  H. God not only exists, he actively hates us. Everything that has happened throughout the course of human history is a cruel joke of his devising, particularly the Spanish Inquisition, ATM fees, and Fergie.

  I. God doesn’t exist. The universe is vast and unknowable. Everything within it is cold brute logic. The fact that there is life on Earth is mere mathematical happenstance. Eventually the sun will run out of hydrogen, and our planet will freeze. Nothing awaits us but eons of silence.