by Will Mosley
As sleep began to lull him off, and his questions were temporarily paused, Tatem's eyes sprang open. He frantically jumped up, threw the sheets back in an effort to get away from the bed as if it were infested with mites, and stood beside it. The sheets were a crumpled mess, but they had not been when he laid down. And he did not make the bed up when he left for work Monday morning – nor had he ever – but it was made when he laid down no more than ten minutes ago. It was made yesterday, and the day before that, and all last week. He, Billy, Joe, Guillermo and Jacob were in the mine all day and were accounted for. Who made the bed up?
On Tuesday, Tatem met up with Jacob and Guillermo in the parking lot, but refused to participate in mindless banter with the two men since last night's rest gave him an unnatural mental clarity.
Jacob and Guillermo continued in conversation, discussing the sexy blonde who was kicked off of the television show Dancing With the Stars, as though Tatem was not there. As he over heard their discussion, Tatem realized that he hated television. Before he came to work at Hunt Mining – however long ago that was – he hadn't watched a meaningful minute of television since he was eight years-old. Why, now, did he love it?
A strange thought occurred: he had had many jobs, and though he couldn't remember most of them, no company ever provided housing. He turned back to his trailer with its plain white sheet metal siding and its clean, corporate feel, and asked aloud, “Why do I live here?”
“What?” Guillermo asked. Only his name was Spanish. He was a third generation American and talked with no mark of an accent, but plenty of American bravado.
“Why do I, or you, or you, live here?” He pointed to Guillermo and Jacob.
“Oh my god, Tatem, drop it already.” Jacob said, then looked back to Guillermo and laughed. “This guy and his questions.”
“No, really guys. Does everyone live where they work?”
“I dunno.” Guillermo shrugged. “Some do, I guess.”
Tatem stared at the trailer a little longer, then turned back to Guillermo. “Where's your home town?”
“You're starting to sound like the other two guys, now. Joe's gonna fire you for talking about'em so much.”
“You really think so?” Tatem asked and pondered the Guillermo's answer. “Well, maybe they were onto something.”
“Yeah, on to unemployment insurance! Is that what you want? To be fired? Got anymore questions, Einstein?” Jacob asked. A cold gust suddenly blew across the gravel lot and all three men shrugged their shoulders and turned away from it.
“Not for you, Jacoben. It seems you've got all the answers.” Tatem scowled.
Jacob recoiled, narrowed his gaze and turned into the cold to face Tatem. “Jacoben?” He asked. Tatem only looked at him. “Jacoben?” Jacob repeated in wonderment. “How come you call me that?”
“If it's pisses you off, sorry. Jacob, then.”
“No, no. Jacoben is fine. But no one calls me that. Hell, no one has called me that since – since childhood. Only mom and dad called me Jacoben. How did you know that?” Tatem shrugged and focused on keeping the cold at bay.
Guillermo continued to talk, but Jacob's mind was somewhere else entirely.
Half way through their coffee, the blue Dodge Charger pulled up into the gravel lot. Joe and Billy each carried a duffel bag over to the group of men.
“Morning, fellows.” Joe said. All five men exchanged greetings, then he asked, “You guys ready to get to it?”
“Yeah,” Guillermo said. Jacob nodded.
“Not yet, Joe. I was wondering about something.” Tatem said.
“Oh God! Here we go.” Guillermo rolled his head and eyes away from the group.
“Oh yeah? Shoot.” Joe said.
Tatem motioned to the slight bulge just underneath Joe's thick Carhartt coat. “What's that for?”
Joe looked at the bulge and placed his hand over it as if this were a new revelation. “Oh, this? Protection.”
“Protection? From what?” Tatem asked.
Joe looked behind him, then up into the woods. “Bears.”
“Come on, Joe. Bears? I've never seen a bear around here. Aren't they hibernating or something?”
“Well, they do come out occasionally. I wouldn't want any of us getting mauled by a hungry bear on the off chance that they do show up. Preparation my friend.” Joe patted his sidearm lovingly.
“What about that?” Tatem pointed to the Sig Sauer pistol in the holster on Billy's hip. Billy looked at it with the same curious expression that Joe had done.
“Bears.” Billy said.
“Yep, bears.” Joe reiterated.
“Seriously? Would you mind if I see your gun, Joe?”
“Sure.” Joe unholstered the gun, released the magazine and pulled back on the slide to remove the chambered round in one clean motion. He handed the useless gun to Tatem. Guillermo and Jacob surrounded Tatem as he inspected the weapon.
“Nice,” Tatem said, and cocked the slide to double check for the removed round. He stood in the Weaver stance and aimed the gun at a far off tree. “Trijicon sights. What, no laser? You're a supervisor. You can afford the best.” Tatem joked.
“They don't make them for that model, yet. I'll have'em installed when they come out, though.”
A minute later, Tatem handed the gun back to Joe. Joe replaced the clip, chambered a round and put the gun back into it's holster. The process was clean and quick and practiced.
“So, what did you fellows watch last night?” Billy asked, and spit a spattering of brown saliva at his feet. Like two eager children, Guillermo and Jacob immediately began reciting the tale of Jack Bower and how he was single-handedly saving the world. “Yeah, I love that show.” Billy added.
“What about you, Tatem? What did you watch?” Joe asked and everyone's face turned to him.
“Well, I wasn't in the mood for television. I... I just thought about stuff for awhile and went to bed.”
“Oh? Like what?” Joe's eyes were unwavering as if he needed to know exactly what Tatem had been thinking about. Tatem felt that if he decided not to answer the question, Joe would persist in getting the information as if it had tangible value. Tatem tested his theory.
“Ah, it's nothing.” He shrugged. “Nothing of any importance.”
“Well, it's alright, Tatem. We're all friends here. You can tell us.”
“Joe, really. It's just nonsense.”
“Then, tell us. If it is nonsense, we'll just make fun of you because that's what we were chosen to do.” Joe said, and everyone laughed. It was now clear to Tatem that something was wrong. Why was the supervisor so interested in what he was thinking?
“Well, I was thinking about the TV remote –,”
“Okay, get ready to laugh guys,” Joe said.
“And, how I never used it before tonight. It even had dust on it. But besides that, I have no history of ever watching television. I don't like television to be honest. I like reading and there are no books in my trailer. I would have brought books with me. I know that.” Tatem said, gesturing with his hands as to convince himself of a truth that he once knew. “I just know that I would have brought books with me when I came here. Oh, and another thing, where did I come from?”
“Where did you come from?” Billy asked. Guillermo and Jacob bent over in laughter.
“Where did you come from?” Joe asked.
“Your mom's pussy, probably.” Guillermo said and fell into even deeper laughter, resting his arm on Jacob's shoulder.
“There's the sperm and egg theory. Though, that's just a theory, apparently, since you don't know where you came from.” Billy said, smiling.
“I promised you laughter, Tatem. My word is good here.” Joe said, holding his own laughter behind a crescent smile as he placed a hand on Tatem's shoulder. Tatem didn't smile, or laugh, or even address the laughter of the others. He simply stared into Joe's eyes.
“Tell you what, after work today, I'll answer your questions. Okay?”
“
Fine.” Tatem begrudgingly allowed.
“But, since everyone is in such a good mood, and I can expect at least an extra load outta you turds, what about a beer?”
“Hell, yeah!” Jacob exclaimed.
“Bring it on!” Guillermo said. Billy nodded in agreement.
“I'll be back.” Joe walked to Guillermo's trailer. He removed his keys, inserted one into the lock and went inside. A minute later, he appeared at the door like Moses with his two tablets, holding five beers up for everyone to see.
“Hey, hey!” Joe yelled from the porch. The guys all cheered, except Tatem who stood quietly as though shunned, and was shoved into agreement by Jacob.
Joe passed the beers out to the guys and even removed the cap for Tatem. “Here ya go, Tatem. Drink up! We've got a shit load of work ahead of us!”
The men walked to the mine elevator with their beers, still joking about the comment.
“Where did he come from?” Jacob whispered to Guillermo, and the guys laughed, but muffled the sound to avoid hurting Tatem's feelings further.
“You're a bunch of assholes, you know that Jacob?” Tatem said.
Joe put his arm around Tatem's shoulder. “Tatem, come on, man. Loosen up a little. You've got all these questions and shit, and you just need to relax. Take it easy, bud. Drink up. You'll feel better, I promise.”
“Isn't it against company policy to drink at work? I'm pretty sure it is.” Tatem snarled.
Joe tilted his face down and gave Tatem his best boyish, apologetic look under raised eyebrows. Confidences were kept in tree houses and held in pinky swears with that look. “Trust me, Tatem, okay?” He whispered. “We're all cool here.”
Tatem nodded, turned the beer up and took several large gulps. He hadn't had a beer in a day and the alcohol reached his system faster than he expected, causing mild dizziness.
“Everything will be as it was.” Joe said.
As it was? Tatem asked himself, quickly bringing the beer from his lips. Before his mind could send the message to his mouth to respond, that pathway was suddenly under construction, a queer easiness settled on him and a dreary fog coated his mind in placidity. Though, he could feel the reason for looking at Joe's gun slipping away from him, he fought with the easiness until his blinking became slower and simple movements seemed to take several moments complete. Now, he wanted nothing more in life than to complete his work as soon as possible so that he could get back to the trailer, back home, back to what was normal, and watch Ally McBeal. He loved Ally McBeal because she was so smart and sexy, and he liked smart and sexy women. And she was clever. God, he loved clever women! There was nothing more right, nothing more satisfying than Tuesdays with Ally McBeal, and he coyly smiled to himself. He didn't want anyone to see his smile because he felt stupid doing it. But he didn't care what they thought, dammit! An incomparable joy flowed through him and tonight would be glorious. He could feel his heart rate slowing and he didn't care. He could feel the warmness, maybe from the beer, maybe not, reaching deep within him removing those dastardly, bugging and worrisome questions from his mind, and he didn't care. He even noticed that Joe and Billy, though they held their bottles close to their chests, hadn't drunk one sip of the beer, and by the time they reached the elevator, Joe and Billy poured their beer onto the ground, but he just didn't care.
Chapter 3.
Tanner Garay's gaunt body allowed the cold to freeze him to the bone. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his camouflage jacket and searched for nooks of warmth to seize upon, but the cold was already there and chilled them, too. His quick paced, five mile walk from the Greyhound bus terminal was the only thing keeping his extremities from becoming frost bitten.
He pulled a small piece of torn notebook paper from his pocket and read its scribbled writing for the fifth time:
“295 Harbor Lane. 295 Harbor Lane.” He repeated. A shiver vibrated his voice as plumes of condensed breath vapor momentarily clouded his vision under the street lamp's glow.
The restlessness didn't help either. A human body always seemed to be most susceptible to weather extremes when under pressure or when nervous. However, Tanner pressed on, glowering at mailbox number 390 Harbor Lane for being so far from 295. It wouldn't be long now until, for the first time in what felt like ages, he would see his brother and possibly a new life. The prospect of betterment enthralled him and felt like a new emotion.
To expect open arms from Ken or his parents after the years apart seemed ridiculous, however, there was nowhere else to go. Maybe, deep down, his coming to Ken without expectation of shelter might force his brother to board him once he saw his condition. But that wasn't true, Tanner knew. He knew himself too well to consider forcing his way into someone's home, into their routine. If it came down to it, he'd sleep on the streets. That was nothing new.
The cold wind howled past his ears like ghost whispers and the street lights up ahead cast orange circles on the asphalt. He had reached mailbox 355 and then stopped because there was someone behind him.
Ignoring the sensation that forced him to stop, he continued walking with his long strides that covered ground quickly. After ten steps, he stopped again and abruptly turned around. He stood motionless holding his breath, less vapor clouds obstruct the already black night. He waited and listened for the sound of crunching leaves under heavy feet, for the rustling of a jacket or the friction of a pair of pants. His eyes moved from shadow to shadow, searching the darkness for unusual shapes, patterns of landscape that looked peculiar, studying the draping of light and dark against the background of every item his gaze touched. And after ten seconds of muscle tightening frigidity, he realized that he did indeed hear breathing. “Dammit, not now. Not now.” He whispered. For the breathing that he heard was of the darkness itself.
The subtle outlines of houses and cars parked in driveways began to skew due to a thick, black haze that undulated over the landscape like slow water. He rubbed his eyes and the skewing stopped. Individual yard items – a small wind mill in one yard, a garden gnome in another – were noticeable. But after a moment of seeing these items in the clear dark, the skewing began again. This time the blackness did not just undulate in the background, it sought him as if it needed him, wanting to return to its host. It ebbed and oozed, pouring itself closer to him, swallowing the tangerine street light in whole gulps. Its silky sensuousness was irresistible and melted through the asphalt, creeping like some crude oil snake, until it was at his feet and covered his shoes, engulfing the tattered cuffs on his pants legs. It reached up higher and higher, taking more of him into it, letting him feel it, it needing to feel him, until it was on him completely and he was the blackness.
In the dark mass, he was instantly aware of himself; whether alive or dead was of no importance. Burning white light radiated from above him and his arms were heavy from their own weight, becoming a chore to lift. He swatted at the light and squinted through his fingers to visualize the threat. There was none except for the heavy, hot light. Though, only seconds ago it was dark outside, his eyes adjusted enough to see that it was the sun, but quickly his attention returned to eye level as if someone were forcing his head down, holding it there for him to notice something. Look here! It said. This is what you need to see! And he looked at the ground. For one blinding second he saw what was there and it made no sense: sand. It only lasted a second, but an inborn knowledge told him the sand was endless. It burned with irradiated sunlight, a virulent ocean of desert and there was no way out.
A moment later, the sand and Sun were gone, but it was real to the point that he could feel the coarseness of each individual grain as if he had scooped up handfuls and let it slide through his fingers. The thick blackness had now settled and the neighborhood could be viewed with as much light as the street lamps allowed. To his right was a mailbox with the number 295, and before him, a police car's bright blue lights intermittently flickered. Then, a flash light came on, further impeding his vision.
Chapter 4
Erica's bare feet grabbed hold of the linoleum, pulled her body from the chair and up into a full running stride in one awesome lurch. But even in the thin blackness, she saw him approach, his silhouette darker than the night. That tiny glint of light in his eye was now a spark from a white hot flame burning deep within him.
As her feet touched the carpet of the living room and as she adjusted her gait to attain the traction on this new terrain, wasting no steps, wanting to maximize her efficiency to the front door, he latched onto her lower leg with the strength of vice grips. Her forward momentum stopped and sent her body into a smattering of invisible dangers on the floor that she couldn't make out, and didn't care to. He laughed, laying on the floor at her feet as the result of his dive.
“Where do you think you're going?” The maniacal voice bellowed from behind, foreboding and deep. She didn't care to look at the man, or even answer him, she just wanted to escape. She grabbed the dark objects and threw them at the sound of his voice recklessly while kicking at the hand on her lower leg wrapped with the wrenched tightened skin beneath it. As the objects she hurled proved useless, Erica's hand touched the edge of something hard and square with jagged corners. It felt like a book and could slow Xoscha down if it connected in the right area. With it in hand, she looked toward her feet to concentrate her aim. But down there, all the way down there, she saw his moistened lips peeled back revealing teeth that glimmered like polished obsidian; his eyes, black and soulless, devoid of all sanity.
At the moment she had decided to escape, she knew that she could at least think the process through while on the move because, she was what she was. Some called her a prostitute, but she called herself a survivor. Years ago, her mother lost the desire to parent Erica and her two brothers. Losing all hope that she'd turn out to be anything, Erica turned to the freedom – and eventual slavery – of drugs. But surrender meant finality, and giving up so soon denied hope a chance to return. Even a prostitute had hope that her career choice was temporary.