Burning Bridges: A Renegade Fiction Anthology

by Benjamin Sobieck

  When we were a safe distance away I said, “You okay?”

  He coughed out smoke, nodding, staring wide-eyed as fire ate away at his four-wheeled status symbol. “I… I’m okay. Thank you. You saved my life!”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “It was the news on the radio! I heard it, and I guess I just panicked or something. Next thing I knew, I was out of control. You saved my life.”

  I wondered what the hell he could have heard on the radio that freaked him out that much, but didn’t comment. “Naw. Look, the fire’s nowhere near the cab. You’d have been all right.”

  And the morning was split asunder by the deafening roar of the Escalade’s gas tank exploding.

  The boom shook the freeway under my feet and fire shot into the sky and bits of burning metal scattered.

  We both stared in amazement, temporarily deaf in the wake of the explosion, as bits of fire and debris fell out of the sky.

  I became conscious again of horns honking and people yelling angrily. “Come on, already!” someone screamed. “Get out of my way!”

  I said to the guy, “You should probably get out of the road.” He nodded dumbly, and I said, “Okay. I gotta go. Running late for work.”

  Ambulance and police sirens wailed in the distance. Already, the cars in front of me had edged around in the break-down lane and were skirting past the metal skeleton of the Escalade. The other three lanes were blocked in pretty solid.

  The guy, still sitting on the pavement, waved at me weakly, and I honked at him as I drove by.

  For a nice stretch, the freeway was nearly empty and I let it unwind at eighty miles an hour. 8:35. I had ten minutes to get to work, and I calculated it would take exactly that long from this point, unless I put on the gas.

  I flipped on the radio again, hoping to get some info on what might lie ahead on the freeway, but they were still talking that nonsense about flying saucers and the Army mobilizing and what-not.

  I turned the radio off and concentrated on the road ahead. Going eighty, I had no business messing with the radio.

  And a good thing I focused on my driving; right as I turned my attention back to the road, where it should have been, a man dashed out in front of my car, waving his hands, and I slammed on the brakes and skidded into the next lane, missing him by inches.

  I looked at him, my mouth hanging open, and he said, “Jesus, thank God you stopped!”

  I said, “Are you out of your mind? I almost ran you over!”

  “It’s this woman in my taxi! She’s pregnant, and she’s gonna have her baby!”

  “What?”

  “She’s gonna have her baby, damnit! Right in my taxi! You gotta help me, I don’t know nothin’ about delivering no baby!”

  I looked over to the side of the freeway and saw his taxi pulled over. The back door was open and a pair of legs stuck out.

  I said, “Listen, I don’t know any more than you do about delivering a baby, man.”

  “Please, you gotta help! I can’t do this alone, and we’ll never make it to the hospital in time! We heard the news on the radio and she just freaked, starting going into delivery!” He clutched my arm through the window. “She’s gonna drop this thing any second now!”

  I grimaced and glanced at my watch. I had eight minutes.

  Damnit.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let me pull over.”

  ***

  A fine sheen of sweat glistened on the woman’s forehead and she was doing her best to breathe steadily, just like they teach you in all the childbirth classes.

  Her water had broken.

  I leaned into the taxi and introduced myself and she let out the most creative string of expletives I’d ever heard.

  “Okay, then,” I said. “We’ll just see about this baby, right?”

  I braced myself and peered under her skirt.

  I sort of blacked out after that, to be honest.

  I remember nothing about it now except for vague images. The woman screaming, the top of a smooth blank head, the taxi driver saying oh lord oh lord over and over again. The woman breathing like a bellows, sweat in my eyes, and then a little pinched red face pushing out and wailing like a banshee.

  I pulled the baby out just as sirens screeched behind me and tires squealed and paramedics rushed up.

  “What’s the situation here?” one said, and I handed the baby off to him.

  “The kid’s hers, the taxi’s his, and I gotta go.”

  I started back toward my car, and the paramedic said, “Hey, wait a minute!”

  I turned around and glared at him impatiently. “Yes?” I said. “Yes, yes?”

  The baby kicked and struggled in the arms of the paramedic. He said, “Well, damn. You just delivered this baby like a pro! Are you a doctor?”

  “No, I’m a data entry clerk. And I’m really running late, so…”

  I gestured toward my car. He only stared at me, so I said, “Late, see? I’m running late and I have to go. Okay?”

  He nodded, mouth hanging open, and I got in my car and peeled out.

  It would take a miracle if I made it on time now. 8:41.

  Traffic still hadn’t caught up to me, and there were only a few cars on the freeway. I swerved around them, changing lanes and occasionally hitting ninety miles an hour.

  The clock ticked 8:42.

  My exit was next. I thumped my fingers on the steering wheel.

  8:43.

  Two minutes. It was possible.

  And then my heart nearly stopped and I slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt.

  An enormous silver thing blocked every lane.

  I heard screeching tires behind me and in the other lanes, a few metallic crunches as cars smashed into each other. The car behind me nudged my bumper and I was jolted forward and snapped back by my seatbelt.

  But I didn’t bother to look behind me. Directly in front, the silver thing pulsed and hummed, and I realized I was looking at a ship, a huge silver ship that took up the entire freeway.

  An actual, honest-to-God flying saucer.

  Landing gear like long black spider legs dug holes into the pavement, and the ship whined and throbbed.

  “No way,” I said.

  As I stared, the smooth blank façade of the ship’s hull opened up, and a narrow slide descended from it. Bright white light glared from inside.

  A shadow came out of the white glare, glided slowly down the slide. Its feet touched the pavement. It looked sort of like a human, but not quite.

  It was about six feet tall, thin as a cord, with a huge bald head and narrow snake eyes and blue skin. It appeared to be naked, but there was nothing to indicate whether it was male or female.

  There was no honking of horns this time, no yelling or cursing. I glanced around at the other commuters and saw they all looked as stunned as me.

  The thing spoke, and for a moment I was amazed at how well I could hear it, as if it had an amplifier in its throat. But then I realized: its voice was in my head. It was communicating, probably with all of us, telepathically.

  It said, “Humans. Your day of reckoning has arrived. We are your new masters. From this day forward, you will live only to serve us.”

  The screaming started then, first as a general murmur of confusion, then an uproar of panic. All around me, people were getting out of their vehicles and running.

  The thing said, “Your governments and puny weapons cannot save you, nor your primitive gods. Submission is your only choice.”

  I looked at my watch. It was 8:44.

  Black, vile rage gripped me. Damnit anyway! I was so close, so damn close, I could have made it. I could have made it, if not for this… this alien.

  I looked at it, so serene and sinister, its huge silver spaceship behind it.

  I popped my trunk. I stepped out of the car and went around to the back. My spare tire was there, some emergency gear, and a crowbar.

  I picked up the crowbar.

  “You inferior life-f
orms,” the alien was saying, “might have escaped our notice, if not for your stupid minds. Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

  It paid no attention to me as I stepped right up to it. I hefted the crowbar in my hand and said, “Hey!”

  It faced me, and I was pleased to see a look of mild surprise in its snake eyes. “Human,” its voice reverberated in my head. “It is useless to—”

  I smashed the crowbar against its skull. “I’m running late, you sonofabitch!” I said. It dropped to one knee, raised its spindly hands to defend itself.

  “What are you?” I said, smashing it again. “A Martian? Are you from Mars? Don’t they have jobs on Mars?” I swung the crowbar and iron connected against its jaw. I heard a satisfying snap of bone. “Don’t they understand on Mars that it’s important to get—”

  Smash.

  “To work—”

  Smash.

  “On time?”

  I slammed the crowbar one last time on its head. The alien had ceased moving and lay in a crumpled blue heap on the slide. Breathing hard, I glared down at it.

  Then I nodded and made my way back to my car. I tossed the crowbar on the passenger seat, slammed my door shut, and looked back up in time to see the slide retracting back into the ship, the dead blue alien carried on it.

  The hull closed and the spaceship hummed and vibrated. Heat radiated off its surface, and it rose a few feet in the air. The spider legs folded, disappearing into the ship.

  And then it raced off into the sky, became a little silver speck of nothing, and was lost in the glare of the morning sun.

  I looked at the dashboard clock.

  8:52.

  I pounded on the steering wheel, screaming, “Oh, you alien bastard! You scrawny blue asshole!”

  Slamming the car in gear, I tore off toward my exit.

  ***

  And made it to the office at 8:55.

  Ten minutes late.

  The boss was already at my desk, looking stern. She had a paper in her hand.

  “Read and sign,” she said.

  What else could I do? I was late. She had me dead to rights.

  So I read, and I signed.

  The End

  Heath Lowrance is the author of the cult novel THE BASTARD HAND, a short story collection called DIG TEN GRAVES, and all sorts of other things that are bad for you. He currently lives near Detroit, Michigan.

  Horse Clock

  ~ K.A. Laity

  At one time, there was another horse on the clock, but it fell in love with the chime and they ran off together, so the clock no longer keeps time. The horse that remains behind conceals his broken heart and keeps the ball ready in case anyone wants to play. Sekhmet awaits the desert breezes and the return of the rain.

  “How does it begin?” The big hand asked the little hand.

  “With laughter,” said the little hand, “But it always ends in tears.”

  “A true to life story then?”

  “Life never makes for a good story,” the little hand cautioned, slipping backwards from the six to the five. “It’s messy, circular and seldom makes much sense.”

  “Is that why Sekhmet left the desert?” The big hand whispered so the lion-headed goddess might not hear him.

  The goddess, however, had keen hearing. A bee’s wings ten miles away vibrated audibly in her ears. The hands’ words might as well have been trumpeted. “I left the desert because the people of Ra stopped worshipping me.”

  The big hand trembled at the goddess’ address, too abashed to make a peep. The little hand sought for a respectful tone with which to address the fearsome deity.

  “When did you become a postcard?” The little hand had pondered the question for so long in her mind that a giddiness vibrated her metallic shape at the thought of learning the truth.

  The goddess pondered so long that the hands began to think she would disdain to answer. The gentle sound of Schubert from the flat next door filled the space of time. Just when the little hand had begun to think about telling the big hand that perhaps the goddess slumbered, the answer came.

  “1937: I remember it now.” The lion-headed deity spoke in sonorous tones that evoked the dusty vistas of the red desert. “I remember someone remarking upon the year, because of the new flying car—the Arrowbile.”

  “That was some time ago,” the little hand offered cautiously.

  “After an eternity,” Sekhmet said, nodding her golden head ever so slightly, “one does not notice the smallness of time.”

  The little hand felt emboldened by the gracious mien of the goddess. “Red Lady, can you tell us how you became a postcard?”

  The goddess growled softly in her throat. The hands quailed, fearful that her ire had been stirred. But her anger belonged to the past. “Their names were Gaddis and Seif. They took my picture. I was at that time in a statue in the Temple of Phtah in Karnak. I had been there centuries.”

  The hands exchanged a glance. “Why were you there, oh Great Lady of Terror?” the little hand asked at last.

  The goddess of the red desert closed her eyes. Was it sorrow or only fatigue? No, perhaps memories overwhelmed her: the smell of the sand, the warmth of Ra’s rays and the cool depths of the stone temple walls where she had stood so long. “The last of my born acolytes had made offerings to me there. Where else would a goddess go?”

  “Oh, Powerful One! When did your last petitioner pray to you?”

  “They pray to me even now,” the goddess retorted, tapping her staff of papyrus once for emphasis on the mantelpiece below them all.

  The little hand considered this. The big hand, timid so far, risked a question. “When did your last born acolyte pass away?” He pronounced the words haltingly, conscious of each one’s weight.

  Sekhmet rewarded his efforts with a beneficent smile. “Oh, centuries—I forget how many. But I remember her last offering, a bowl of red beer, the pomegranate juice sharp and fruity, the colour rich as blood. Though she had grown quite old, she got down on her knees and begged my help as she beat her chest.”

  “What did she ask for, great Lady of Pestilence?”

  Sekhmet barked with laughter. An unusual sound to come from her lion’s head, but the mirth reminded them of the fact of her human body and its languorous form. “What do my acolytes usually ask for? Sometimes healing, true—I can heal, the storytellers so often forget.” The magnificent one shook her head. “No, she wanted blood. Death to her enemies.”

  The hands paled, but the little one couldn’t help asking, “Did you give her this sacred gift, oh Eye of Ra?”

  The goddess smiled. The teeth of a lion—sharp canines, bright points perfect for tearing flesh—glinted in the afternoon light. She held aloft her staff of papyrus. It had become a pale green as she spoke. “I gave her blood indeed.”

  The hands remained silent, but held their breath, waiting.

  Sekhmet stretched her arms wide and spoke words the hands could not comprehend. Her robes, once a dim grey in the black and white photo, had taken on a pinkish hue. The disk upon her head began to shine with the pale light of a midwinter dawn. “I manifested before her, as she cowed, shaking on her knees. It shall be, I promised. I lifted her up and placed a kiss of blood upon her brow.”

  “And then?” The little hand whispered, breathless.

  “I faced the west and I walked out into the desert.” A warm scirocco wafted across the sitting room and a fire arose in the coals that no one had lit that day: indeed, it was an electric fireplace. The Lady of the Tombs spoke. “I walked across the sands and I sought out her enemies. I knew them from the thoughts in her head, I knew them from the kiss of blood.”

  The two hands met at the six and held one another tightly.

  “I ripped the first one limb from limb,” the Eye of Ra said with grim satisfaction. “I drank his blood, but it did not slake my thirst. I followed the others who ran shrieking to the river, but they could not escape me.”

  The sun disk upon her head glowed now with the desert
sun’s heat.

  “The small ones I devoured. The few who were left sought refuge on the bridge the ancients had built. They thought I could not cross water. They imagined themselves safe from my wrath.”

  The two hands gasped.

  The Mighty One of Enchantments brandished her staff, the papyrus once more a lush green, dewy with life. “I called forth the awesome fire of Ra’s light. The flames surrounded them on the bridge, herding them into the centre until their shrieks formed a threnody of suffering.”

  “Did you pity them in the end?” The hand could only murmur.

  “I did not.” The blood red robes of the destroyer flapped in the wind, which had grown stronger and carried with a fine abrasion of sand. “I burned them until their bones lay blackened and the bridge beneath them fell into the river and the crocodiles gnawed the smoky shards.”

  “She who burns eternally,” the little hand said, her voice heavy with awe.

  Sekhmet roared. Her white teeth gleamed and red red mouth gaped. She had grown too large for postcard and stepped into the middle of the carpet, her feet smoking on the worn red threads. “Preserved beyond death, I take the throne of Silence.”

  And she walked through the wall and disappeared from view.

  The postcard, empty now, fell from the mantelpiece and into the fire. In a trice, nothing remained but ashes. The coal fire died. The room became silent but for the faint sound of Schubert’s etudes.

  The little hand cried. “We will never see her again.”

  “But we will know she is out there,” the big hand soothed. “And we have heard her secret name.”

  The other horse, his heart aching yet, held the ball ready, trusting that love would one day return. Far in the distance another clock chimed.

  The End

  K. A. Laity: All-purpose writer, Fulbrighter, uberskiver, medievalist, humourist, flâneuse, techno-shamanka, JANE QUIET scripter, social media maven, Pirate Pub Captain, currently anchored in Galway, Ireland https://www.kalaity.com

 

  Disciple

  ~ Mark Cooper

  The room was just what he was expecting – white, pristine and so perfectly sterile. Just what you would think would be inside the monolithic headquarters of the Ashcroft Foundation. He found the light painful – it felt like it was burning something into his mind. Or burning something out of it.