by Lisa Mangum
George stared at me for a full minute before saying anything. “Now what?”
The Purple Unicorn answered. “Now, I go let those people in.” He set the unconscious form of his idol on the floor. “I let those people in, and we hold out as long as we can. Hopefully, until the sun goes down.”
“We could also not do that,” George said in a panic.
As solemn as I had ever seen him, the Purple Unicorn evaluated George. “It is our choices that make us who we are. I choose to do this.”
Sighing, George nodded, and we followed. When the Purple Unicorn lifted the bay door, the humans desperately scrambled for the opening, only to be dragged back by the zombies. George and I helped pull as many through as we could, but eventually, the Purple Unicorn was forced to close the door. Sensing the life within, the horde shoved fingers and arms through the gap and tried to pry it open. The Purple Unicorn bore down on the sliding door and held it closed, stomping on zombie hands and fingers with his cloven hooves.
However, I’d seen every zombie movie ever made. It was only a matter of time until the living were overwhelmed.
I backed to the far wall and slid down until I could rest my head on my knees. I was unsure how long I sat like that, but eventually, I looked up, pulled out my phone, and rubbed the tears from my eyes. I contemplated the text message for a long moment. In the end, I sent only the simple truth: “I love you, Papi.”
George slid down the wall next to me, his arms scratched and bruised. I saw a bite. I wondered how long it would take him to turn. “Hey, chica,” he said, “it’ll all be okay.”
“Yeah, Mr. Ray of Sunshine? In what way will it be okay?” When he didn’t respond, I asked, “How are those people we rescued?”
He shrugged. “Battered, terrified, and in shock.” He adopted a cheesy British accent. “No one expects the zombie apocalypse!”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s ‘No one expects the Spanish Inquisition,’ you dork.”
“Psssh. I wish. The Spanish Inquisition would take longer than sundown to kill us.” He glanced at his wound, uncertain. That was sobering. As much as I wished he could be anywhere else at that moment, it was good to have a friend.
After a pause, George asked, “Why weren’t the Protagonists transformed by their costumes?”
It took me a moment to reorient. “I dunno. Does it matter?”
He shrugged. “Maybe if we knew, we could figure out how to stop the horn.”
Focusing on the yellow again, I thought about it. “Maybe the costumes weren’t what they imagined themselves to be,” I guessed. “Or maybe Walter Sams didn’t imagine them to be superpowered when he blew the horn.”
George turned to me. “Do you think you could reverse it? Unimagine all this?”
“I’m not sure it works like that.”
“How do we know? Do you think Sams ever tried?”
“Well, no.” I didn’t want to try, because I didn’t want to fail. “Why don’t you do it?”
“Because,” George said, “I don’t have the focus. I can’t see the world that clearly. You are the girl with the artist’s eyes.” When I scoffed, he continued. “No, seriously. The Purple Unicorn had that part right. You see the world, all of it. You come alive when you have the brush in your hand. C’mon, chica, I’ve seen it. You can do beautiful, delicate things with your watercolors. Things I wouldn’t even imagine were possible. You’re wasted as a barista and at the art supply store.” It was an old argument.
Looking away, I asked, “What does it matter now?”
“What matters,” George said with renewed confidence, “is how you paint. It’s not just the light and bright and happy. That’s the ideal, the world that Sams has built for himself and, by extension, the rest of us. You also paint the dark, the shades of gray you love so much. No one understood that when you mixed black into the other colors when we were kids, it was on purpose. It’s what this reality is missing, and what only you seem to be able to see.”
I gestured to the door. “There’s plenty of dark out there.”
George shook his head. “That’s the dark and gritty of horror novels and comic books. It’s not the gray of life,” he insisted.
I paused, thinking. “And if I do this,” I said, “and we survive, then what?”
“Then you do what makes you come alive. You quit one of your jobs, cut back on your expenses, and paint.”
“And if I fail?”
He looked at me significantly. “You can still fail doing what you don’t want to do, you know?”
“Why does that sound familiar?” I asked.
“When I asked your Papi if I should try engineering, if I was smart enough to make it through the schooling or if I should be an electrician like my dad, he told me much the same thing.”
Smiling, I said, “My Papi’s a remarkable man.” Putting my hands on my knees, I levered myself to my feet. “Eh, Purple Unicorn.” He looked back at me, the strain of holding the door closed evident on his face. “I need to borrow your horn.”
“Why?” he asked.
I tried to force a smile. “Please, what can it hurt?” He hesitated, but eventually nodded and bent his head. I crossed to him and reached to take the horn. It came free with an ease that surprised me, as if the horn was eager for the feel of my hand.
I studied it, delving into the colors, the lines, and the textures of its surface with my unique vision. I saw the horn’s ancientness, and, for the briefest of moments, I understood the scope and purpose of its power. A twinge in the back of my mind, like the entirety of a migraine condensed into an instant, forced my gaze away. Swallowing, I closed my eyes and turned my face to the ceiling to plead for the intervention of any benevolent force willing to help.
I pictured my city, Olympia. Not just the Olympia that was on postcards and the tourism website, but the Olympia with homeless residents and dirty sidewalks. The reflection of a sunrise in windows covered with fingerprints, the faint smell of sewage in the morning mist.
I pictured the Comic-Con, with its teaming mass of passionate humanity, the failing air-conditioning, and the sense of confinement the crowds lent to even the largest rooms. I remembered the sore feet, aching shoulders, and the thrill of being in the same room as some of my heroes. I tasted sweat that wasn’t mine; I felt the bruises of accidental elbows to the face. I remembered the tarnished pictures of my very first Con: Papi squatting next to my stroller that was decorated with cardboard wings fashioned to look like an X-Wing fighter.
I pictured George, not as the idealized man he was now, but as George the engineering student. I added roughness to his edges, bags underneath pale amber eyes from sleepless nights spent studying. The pain of failed tests, his doubts if the struggle was worth it, the heartbreak he felt when his fiancée had cheated on him. Within that cocoon of pain was both the pride of being the first in his family to earn an advanced degree and the jealousy that fact garnered from his cousins. The courage to push forward into grad school regardless.
Last of all, I imagined myself. Still Papi’s little geeky princess despite how much I’ve grown. An adult with an art degree and two jobs. Working in an art supply store for the discount—and to be close to the people who actually practice what I dreamed of doing, but was too afraid to pursue. Barely sleeping and lying awake next to a man I didn’t love because I had grown comfortable with the relationship and because living with someone helped pay the rent. I looked into myself, saw the dark alongside the light and accepted myself for not only who I was, but who I yearned to be.
Who, I resolved, I would be. Just because the world could be painted in gray didn’t mean it should be accepted that way. Sometimes, it was necessary to reach through the gray and touch the ideal. Otherwise, all you’d ever see is black and white.
In my mind, I painted the world in shades of gray and in color, using both to impart meaning. Lifting the horn to my lips, I took the deepest breath of my life. I made a choice and blew through the horn in an effort to rem
ake my world.
This time, the shift in reality didn’t come with blackness and pain. My eyes lost focus until all that remained was a shifting haze of colors. My body prickled, as if every inch of my skin had fallen asleep simultaneously. The horn grew immense, gaining a psychic weight that drew in my will with the inexorable force of a black hole. The energy folded and built upon itself, my soul vibrating in time with each surge.
In the moment of resonance, It became aware of me.
The bond was tenuous and tentative, like the brush of fingertips across eyelids, but I knew that was for my protection. Its ancientness and otherworldliness were entirely beyond my comprehension and would crush the relative insubstantiality of my existence.
It, in return, comprehended my entire being in an instant.
There is a price to will shaping. There were no words, no thoughts, but rather simple understanding.
What price?
Memory. Destiny. Vitality.
All of these things?
As much as is necessary.
There was no sense of time. I could have paused for a moment or a lifetime. I will pay.
As I regained awareness, the world changed. The silence was broken by the distant cries of shock, confusion, and trauma. Zombies no longer clawed at the bay doors, the moans of the undead shifting into confused, but coherent, questions. The Purple Unicorn had once again become Walter Sams, absurd costume disheveled, face twisted with effort and remorse, sweat dripping from his hooked nose.
I spun to George. He was restored, delirious and grinning. “Damn, chica,” he said. “You did it.”
I had done something, enough for now. The shrill of police sirens grew closer as I collapsed to my knees, clutching the horn tightly to my core.
***
Conner Bright and the Case of the Purple Unicorn
Robert J. McCarter
The ringing of the phone is like a dentist’s drill to my sodden consciousness. I groan, realizing I hadn’t managed to get undressed when I tumbled into bed. Again. I feel for my cell phone on the nightstand, my hand connecting with a half-eaten microwave burrito before finding it.
“G’day, you got Bright,” I say, remembering even in my hungover state to use my B-movie quality Australian accent.
“Got a job for you, but you’ve got to get here quick.” The voice is feminine and a tad husky. Detective Trisha Sanchez. Why the hell is she calling me? After that jacked-up stakeout, I’m her least favorite private investigator in the Phoenix metro area.
“What kind of a job?” I say, my voice rough from too long in a noisy bar working as a bouncer and too many cheap beers afterward. I look around my shit hole of a bedroom. Dirty laundry, trash, the spring heat of the desert morning flowing in the open window. “And can they pay?”
An Australian accent is easy. Just elongate your vowels—“paay” instead of “pay”—and throw in the occasional “mate” and “g’day.” In the desert southwest, that and changing my name to Conner Bright, keeps my past at bay.
“They can. It’s a murder, Bright, so get your ass out here now. No booze or I’ll throw you in the drunk tank.”
“Aces. Happy to help.”
“Texting you the address now.” She hangs up.
After some mouthwash for breakfast, I stop by the old cookie tin that sits on the top of my little entertainment center. It’s got a shameful layer of dust on top and holds the ashes of my father inside. “Hey, Dad,” I say, without a trace of an Australian accent. “I’ve got a case. An important one.”
Sitting next to the tin is a DVD of Crocodile Dundee. My dad took me to that movie in 1986 when it came out. I was thirteen and loved it, but not as much as he did. When we exited, he’d said, “Now that’s a man, son. That’s a man.”
* * *
I get out of my 1976 El Camino, my cowboy boots crunching on the dry ground as I approach the murder scene. It’s a hot day, and since the El Camino doesn’t have air conditioning, I’m already sweating. I’m at a little ranch in the desert between Phoenix and Wickenburg, Arizona. This is a big deal. There’s lots of cowboys and lots of guns around here, but not that many murders in the sticks.
I get the usual assortment of looks as I duck under the yellow tape. Looks of surprise from folks that don’t know me, looks of recognition or disdain from those that do. The disdain belongs to Trisha Sanchez, the detective who called me in.
And the looks from the others, it’s what I expect. I’m tall and slim; at 6’5” and 170 pounds, some people call me scarecrow. I’ve got a bowie knife with an eleven-inch blade on my belt, a crocodile claw hanging around my neck, and a wide-brimmed bush hat on my head, all to go with my Australian accent.
“G’day, Detective,” I say, tipping my hat to Sanchez as she strides away from the murder scene. She’s in her late-thirties, short and wiry, wearing reflective sunglasses.
“Your client’s in the house,” she says, grabbing my arm and pulling me away. I resist a moment, watching Helen Montana, one of the medical examiners, leaning over the prone form of a gray-haired Mexican man that has a ragged hole in his chest.
“Where we goin’?” I ask.
“To see your client, Irene. She asked for someone to help her solve this murder.”
“And you called me?” Something isn’t right.
She pauses, her hand still locked around my bicep, her head jabbing back to the scene. “At this point we’re ruling it an accident. The victim, Edwardo Campos, has got a big hole in his chest, and we found a bull running loose with blood on his horn.”
She starts to pull me forward again toward the one-story ranch house. It’s small with blue vinyl siding that was popular in the seventies. The blue has started to fade, and the house looks like it has seen better days.
“Then what the hell am I doin’ here?”
Sanchez smiles, showing her perfectly white teeth, looking something like a shark. “The kid says she saw it happen.”
I shrug.
“She says it was a man riding a purple unicorn that killed her great-uncle.”
* * *
I almost don’t go in. I almost march back to my El Camino until Sanchez says the magic words. “She’s got cash.” I think of the delinquent notices stacked on my little kitchen table. I think how I’d love not to buy the cheapest damn beer in the store.
It’s surprisingly neat inside the house. Not fancy, but everything’s put away, the wood floors swept, the old throw rugs shook out. The living room isn’t much—an old couch with a brown blanket thrown over it, a wooden rocking chair, and a shelf full of books. No TV, no stereo. It looks very much like what this house probably looked like a hundred years ago.
Sitting awkwardly in the rocking chair is a tall deputy with blond hair. He gives Sanchez a brief look of relief before scurrying out.
And then I see the girl. She’s got long black hair, big brown eyes, and is maybe eight years old. I almost leave again.
“Irene,” Sanchez says, “this is Conner Bright. He’s the private detective I was telling you about. He’s got a reputation for dealing with unusual cases.”
With that Sanchez leaves. I stand there awkwardly, my hands shoved into my jeans, wishing I hadn’t answered the phone this morning.
The girl’s wearing a purple shirt and has a stuffed unicorn on the couch next to her. On the table in front of her is a battered hardcover of The Last Unicorn.
Great. Of course she saw a purple unicorn. She’s obsessed with them.
“Where are you parents?” I ask.
She just shakes her head. Ah hell, she’s an orphan too.
I lower myself into the rocking chair, wishing the hard seat was padded. The room smells of must and wood polish. “You got any family?”
She shakes her head again, her hands sitting placidly in her lap.
“I’m sorry about what happened to your great-uncle out there.”
Her brow furrows and she stares at me a moment before saying, “Where you from?” Judging from her uncle and
her appearance, I expect her to have a Mexican accent, but she doesn’t. Not a trace.
“Australia,” I lie. But it’s a lie I tell everyone. “A little place called Scatterwood deep in the outback.”
“You don’t believe I saw a unicorn.” She says it straight up, her voice steady, her eyes clear.
I shake my head.
“I did,” she says, her voice too hard for someone so young. “And you have to prove it.” She pulls out a wad of hundred-dollar bills from her pocket and slaps them on the coffee table in front of her. I notice light red stains on her hands and I imagine them pressed against her dead great-uncle’s chest.
I know I should say no, but three thousand is a lot for me. A whole lot. I rub my suddenly sweating palms on my jeans. I’m dying for a drink. That would clear my head. Help me think this through.
“Well?” she asks.
I get up and start pacing. “Why don’t you tell me what you saw.”
* * *
The girl talks, I pace, my feet finding squeaky boards in the old floor. The money is in a jumbled pile on the coffee table in front of her. I want it even more than I want a drink.
“Been here for a few months,” she says. “Came after the accident …” Her face darkens, and she blinks several times. “We moved around a lot, Mama, Papa, and me. We picked grapes in California, pecans in Oregon.”
“Your parents were illegals?” I ask.
She nods. “But I was born here. After the accident, Uncle Ed came and got me. He was afraid they’d send me back to Mexico.”
“Tell me about your great-uncle,” I say.
She shrugs. “He raises cows, rides horses.”
I look at the wad of hundred-dollar bills and then back to her, doubting that was all he did.
“And last night?”
Irene pauses, her hands finally leaving her lap as she wraps them around her chest and shivers. “Uncle Ed was so happy. Said things would be changing today, like a birthday party but better. Said it would be good. We were reading when the animals started making noise. He took his gun and told me to stay.