by Brian Parker
“Open your eyes, you stupid fucking Duster,” the man’s voice said harshly.
Duster? What the hell?
Mike stopped struggling against the person whom he’d assumed was the corporal trying to take his weapon. He opened his eyes and reality came flooding back to him in a bright flash.
He was in the old neon sign factory, in Easytown, not some strange planet trying to ambush and murder a colony of human beings simply because they charged too much for minerals. A man knelt in front of him, shining a light into his face, but he couldn’t see anything.
“Cut it out,” he groaned hoarsely.
The light disappeared and he felt hands grip him under his armpits, hauling him to his feet with the slight sound of servos. If it hadn’t been so quiet in the factory, Mike would have never heard it.
He stood unsteadily on his feet, wavering weakly. “Any water?”
“It’s raining outside, Mike,” the man replied gruffly.
“Always raining,” Mike said.
A bottle of liquid was thrust into his hand. “Drink this slowly,” the newcomer ordered. “It’s a watered-down meal replacement. You’ve been missing for six days; just a couple days shy of dead from dehydration.”
Mike took a sip; it tasted like shit and he’d have preferred simple water, but he was grateful nonetheless. He hadn’t planned on being under as long as he’d been.
“Thank you,” he managed to say. He felt a trickle of snot beginning to run from his nose and he wiped the back of his hand across his nostril. “Ow!” he screeched, and then stopped.
“Where’s my huffer?” Mike asked, staring at the blood on his hand that he’d thought was snot.
“It’s gone, kid,” the man said.
As Mike’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see the guy was white, about average height for an adult, and wore a trench coat to keep the rain at bay and… Was that a fedora?
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked.
The man stared hard at him for a moment and then punched him in the face. Mike dropped like a rock in his weakened state. His hands were roughly handcuffed in front of him.
“Who are you?” he screamed, the trickle of blood now a river that flowed out of his nose.
“You’re Mike Soriano, right?” the man asked, ignoring his question.
“Yeah…”
“Your mother sent me to find you before you killed yourself. Almost succeeded by the looks of you.”
Mike rubbed at his nose awkwardly with his hands in cuffs—no, plastic strips. “Who are you, man?”
“Detective Forrest,” he answered. “Come on. We’ve got places to go.”
He hauled Mike to his feet by the flex cuffs. “Where are you taking me?”
“Home, kid,” the detective replied, pulling him along toward the old back entrance that used to be sealed against the elements.
“What if I don’t want to go home?” Mike asked, attempting to plant his feet against the concrete floor.
The detective turned toward him menacingly. “You’re going home. I don’t care what the fuck you do after I hand you over to your mother.”
“You can’t force me to go home, I’m eighteen!”
The man moved so fast that Mike didn’t see the punch. His nose, already raw from the extended use of the huffer and the previous hit, exploded in pain and blood. His legs turned to jelly and he collapsed like a cleaner droid without power.
“Let’s get something straight, asshole,” his captor hissed from somewhere above him. “I’m in charge here. You’re seventeen, not eighteen, so your mother is within her legal rights to have me bring you back.”
The detective hauled him back to his feet, pulling him close so that the spit from his lips landed on Mike’s cheeks. “You’re a Duster. Nobody gives a shit about you except your mother—and I don’t know why she bothers. After she forks over my final fee, that’s probably going to stop, so, don’t press your luck.”
“Fee? Wait, you’re not a cop?”
“Nope,” the man said, grinning. “Not anymore.”
ABOUT BRIAN PARKER
A veteran of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, Brian Parker was born and raised as an Army brat. He’s currently an Active Duty Army soldier who enjoys hiking, obstacle course racing, writing and Texas Longhorns football. He’s an unashamed Star Wars fan, but prefers to disregard the entire Episode I and II debacle.
Brian is both traditionally and self-published with an ever-growing collection of works across multiple genres, including sci-fi, post-apocalyptic, horror, paranormal thriller, military fiction, self-publishing how-to and even a children’s picture book—Zombie in the Basement, which he wrote to help children overcome the perceived stigma of being different than others.
He is also the founder of Muddy Boots Press, an independent publishing company that focuses on quality genre fiction over mass-produced books.
LINKS
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Brian-Parker/e/B00DFD98YI
Facebook: www.facebook.com/BrianParkerAuthor
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Hindsight is 20/20
By Valerie Lioudis
My mother’s flair for the dramatic was legendary in our little corner of Easytown. We came from a long line of prostitutes, but my mother, never one to follow the crowd, even when that crowd is your own lineage, had managed to make a living using something other than her body. She set up shop as a psychic, and while others came and went, she managed to make her small, hole-in-the-wall shop a place every tourist had to see before they went back home to their mundane lives.
“Darling, you will never meet the man of your dreams hanging around your hometown.” Her accent was a phony as the 50 dollar chakra stones she was peddling to every shmuck who walked through the beaded curtains. “He is waiting for you somewhere out in the wilderness.”
“But I hate the woods,” whined the leggy blonde holding my mother’s hands.
“Are you going to let that stop you from finding your ultimate happiness? The best things in life take a bit of sacrifice to achieve.”
Lately, she had been laying it on a bit thicker than usual. If eyes could do a full loop, mine would have, and my grandmother snickered as she saw my disgust. Ever the showman, my mother was unfazed by our outburst, continuing to convince the girl that spirits from the other realm were insistent on her trudging out into a forest somewhere to fall madly in love with a stranger. Suckers were born every day. The session was almost over, and we were given the three finger hand signal to start the wrap up ritual.
Gran lit the sage and walked around the table where the two were seated, chanting nonsensical words that she made up as she went along. Every step was part of the crescendo of activity that would pull the mark into a frenzy of belief. My job was to discreetly turn on the hologram that projected above them in the middle of the crystal ball sitting dead center on the table. Each session needed a bit of personalization to seem legit, so while I found it repugnant, I had to eavesdrop just enough to pop a few details into the program before I pressed play.
The blonde let out a gasp as she saw what she would believe was one of her ancestors directing her to follow the advice of the woman seated in front of her, but it was really just a recording of one of my mother’s numerous friends from the neighborhood. For most of them, this was the first chance to make some money in an upright position, so they went all out to make sure they could be hired again if the need to update the video presented itself. All types were needed, matronly grandmothers, children who passed well before their time, even handsome strangers for the ancestors to provide a vague vision.
A few more buttons pushed, and the scene wrapped up. “Come, darling,” her hand extended to the woman, leading her out of our shop and back to the busy street from which she came. “Off to your happily ever after.”
“Are you sure that if I follow your instructions I will be rewarded with true love?”
“Of course, darling.” That last bit was drawn o
ut for emphasis. “But it isn’t my instructions. Your destiny waits for no one, and your family is just trying to give you the happiness they missed out on in their own lives.”
“Hrumpf.” Gran couldn’t contain her displeasure.
“Do you two have to do that every time we have a client?” my mother scolded us as she headed back into the parlor, her fake accent mysteriously absent from her voice.
“Oh please, Gwen. You know we try our best, but it is so ridiculous.” Gran refused to call my mother by her stage name. Gwen isn’t a very believable name for a fortune teller in the bayou, so mom adopted the name Evangeline LeBlanc. It worked, and every year more flocked to Evangeline hoping to find the secret to love, wealth or happiness, and she was more than willing to put on a show for the right price.
“Try harder. I haven’t spent the last twenty years building a reputation to have it ruined because you two can’t pretend to care for the few minutes I need you. This ridiculous little show keeps you both off your backs, and there are others that would be happy to take over for you if you can’t keep it together.”
Gran let out her signature grunt, and huffed out of the room. We all knew while there was work available for an aging hooker, Gran had been out of the game too long, and wouldn’t be able to compete with the new sex bots. Not to say that Gran was old. She’d only turned 52 this year, and was aging miraculously well. “Good genes,” she would tell you. Someone should bottle those good genes and sell them to the women chasing their youth.
Mom was a product of Gran and a client. Precautions were taken in the district to keep that kind of thing from happening, but every once in a while a bad decision is made on the part of the working girl, and she ends up with the decision of whether she is willing to keep a baby knowing the dad will never be around. Gran was just sixteen at the time, and it was no surprise to anyone in her family that she hadn’t followed all the steps needed to protect herself.
It was a sad reality that no matter how many regulations and safety protocols the powers that be tried to put in place to stop underage girls from getting in the game there would always be the siren’s call of the money. With youth, so many times comes an inability to see consequences. Plus, Gran and her mother before her were most likely born from a night of paid pleasure. It was a family rite of passage.
Mom might be a piece of work, but she was breaking a few of our destructive family traditions. I may have been born to a sixteen year old girl as well, but that time the girl was in love. My father was the son of the madam that ran the house my Gran worked in. The two kids grew up together occupying themselves on the streets around the whorehouse. He was a year older, which made him infinitely wiser in my mother’s eyes.
It had been his idea to set up the psychic shop. The thought of the love of his life selling her body to anyone who was able to afford the fee made him lose his mind. They had always talked about running away to become famous performers together. From an early age the two of them had played characters on the street accepting “donations” for the shows that they put on. Once she was pregnant, he’d accepted that running away wasn’t a realistic option. But he was determined to make an honest life for them in Easytown. By the time I was born, they were speaking to spirits and saving to buy the tech needed to enhance the experience.
The first few years were like a fairy tale come to life. Two street kids playing house, spending their days telling tourists that all of their dreams would come true if they just jumped through a few hoops and paid the fortune teller. The stories became more elaborate, and the hoops became more interesting, and with that came bigger fees. My early childhood was filled with love and laughter as my father and mother lived out a life they had only dreamed of where they were free to do as they pleased. Their life was their own, and for two kids with whores for moms, that was a godsend. The money flowed, and others began to notice. Yet again, youth had prevented them from seeing consequences.
I was eight when the fairy tale ended. Mom had just picked me up from my lessons. Classes in one of the public schools were a joke, so my parents had saved to send me to one of the private schools just outside of the neighborhood. It was a hike, and they had to convince the headmaster that they were not going to bring the Easytown attitude to his school. They were told to blend in, or no amount of money would keep me in their program. My mother, the actress, took it as a challenge, and never broke character while at the school. I was taught to play a part too, but it didn’t take long before it was no longer an act.
“Hurry, Ophelia,” she would call softly, not wanting to attract attention. Neither of them liked to be apart for too long, so she was always in a hurry to get home.
I would skip behind, stopping every few minutes to examine the flowers and trees along the way. Once we were back in our own neighborhood those flowers and trees became scarce—if they existed at all. Nature was a privilege of the rich.
Even now, a decade later, her scream still haunts my dreams.
We rounded the corner on to our street. Blood pooled its way out of the front of our shop. My father’s lifeless arm lay pale in the puddle of deep crimson.
I stood frozen in place and time, watching my mother race toward the scene. Her flowing dress swept through the blood as she dove to my father’s side. I dared not move an inch, I may have been young, but I understood death and feared it like any child should. All I could see was my mother’s feet, covered in red, as she screamed from inside our shop, cradling my father’s lifeless body. The neighbors came down to gawk, but not one moved toward her. Their disconnect burned into my heart that day. I knew where we stood, and it wasn’t together.
Gran appeared like magic and scooped me up into her arms. “Shhhhhhhh, angel. Let’s get you away from here.” Her voice was calm and smooth. “Your momma wouldn’t want you to stay here and see this. We can’t help just yet. We don’t want to be in the way.”
I nodded, but wasn’t really agreeing to anything in particular. Shock had set in; that was the last time I felt grounded in the moment. Everything since then has been one motion after another. A dozen years of feeling unhinged from my own life. Gran had moved in right away to help Mom cope with the tragedy, and had somehow ended up staying on as an extra parent and business partner. She had to take quite a pay cut from her old job, and oddly enough was not thrilled about her new career, but she loved the two of us and knew we needed some glue to keep us together.
The psychic nonsense was just an act, but my mother continued to talk to my father as if he was still alive. His ghost followed us in everything we did, and I became obsessed with finding out who had killed my father and why. There weren’t many resources from the city to police the locals in our little section of town, and as long as no tourists got hurt, no one seemed to care that the people in Easytown were willing to off each other over the crumbs we were blessed to receive.
“Beau, she’s at it again,” my mother spoke in frustration to my father, but which one of us she was fed up with was anyone’s guess. “This was so much easier when you were here. It just flowed, but now…” She trailed off.
Gran, ever the stealthy ninja, placed her hand on my shoulder and I just about flew out of my own body. “Shhhhhh,” she hushed and pointed toward the back door, making a motion with two fingers together to her mouth. My mother never smoked, but Gran and I would occasionally blow off some steam smoking electronic cigars on the back steps.
Breathing in, the sweet vanilla crème flavoring flowed across my tongue into my lungs and back out through my nose. Each drag brought with it a small bit of a new manufactured chemical that worked as a temporary sedative. Just enough to take the edge off of real life for a small bit of time, and without the pesky health issues that cigars of the past fostered. Gran blew some mango vapor my way, and sighed as she leaned back.
“You know you’re going to be twenty soon?”
“Umm, yeah, Gran. I’m not stupid. I know how old I am.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you kn
ow it,” she snipped. “You’re the first one in our family to make it to twenty without their life taking a left turn. That doesn’t mean you have forever to figure out what you want to do, though.”
“I know. No pressure, right?” I leaned back mirroring her position. “What would you do if you were me?”
“Travel. I would have left this shithole years ago, and headed out into the world, but it doesn’t matter what I would do. You’re the one with their whole life in front of them.”
“Meh. That’s nonsense. You aren’t old. Go. Travel. No one is stopping you,” I pushed back.
“Maybe.” She took another deep drag and closed her eyes. “Only if you jump first.”
By the time we motivated ourselves to head back into the shop, Mom was hamming it up for another set of customers. They were the typical engaged couple who needed validation that they were meant to be. I really didn’t need too much information to load up the hologram. We had a few standard responses for the most common clientele, all I needed to do was add their names. Easy peasy. Gran jumped right in to her chanting, this time making her fake words sound like a long forgotten love song. If only they knew it was essentially her grocery list in made up sounds.
All of my mother’s frustration had faded since we managed to behave ourselves due to the chemical helper. She never approved of our occasional use, but she did approve of the attitude turnaround that it caused. “Come, my darlings,” she cooed as she pulled the couple out through the beads. “Now that you’re sure, you can move forward with all the confidence of the ages.”
“What if they aren’t meant to be together?” I questioned her as she floated back in.
“Who cares, Ophelia? They’re meant to be together today, and that is enough.”
The beads rattled noisily from behind my mother, who instinctively turned, in character, ready to greet the next customer. “Welcome to… Officers, what brings you to our establishment?” Her accent had trailed off again. The police never came into the shops in uniform for anything other than official business. Two very green, but nonetheless smartly dressed, police officers stood shoulder to shoulder in front of my mother.