by Steve Wands
He landed on his back. Straight above, night pushed the last of day’s blue from the sky. It seemed like hours before Jeb felt that he could breathe again. He felt no pain on that first breath. He had survived. He could move his legs and arms. He could lift his head.
The world above was silent. He waited and listened, hearing only short bursts of wind. Then, a shallow raspy voice, like scratches on the rock. Jeb turned slowly, trying to make as little noise as he could.
There, Augustus lay broken upon the rocks. Blood spattered down, a darker but glistening gray, almost silver, against the stone. The African rambled. Gibberish. Jeb only caught bits of it.
“Do not leave … this … their land!”
“Augustus!”
He would not answer.
“Amen! … spirit … ancient spirit!”
Sharp stones jutted up through Augustus’ stomach and thighs. Jeb held his breath, certain now that even the slightest disturbance would kill the man.
“They have always been here,” Augustus said. His voice was now calm and clear. His wet eyes pierced the dark and found Jeb.
Jeb scrambled into a shadow, fearing that Augustus would attract the creatures. Augustus slipped in and out of consciousness, belting out guttural noises that meant nothing at all to Jeb but seemed to conform to the rules of some language. Oddly-accented English phrases escaped the African’s mouth now and then, though sounded unnaturally low and gruff, inserted into his throat by someone else.
“Lords of blood.”
“Elders of the plain.”
“Goat suckers.”
As morning approached, Jeb could no longer bear the hunger. It had risen above the pain in his stomach and sapped strength from every inch of his body. He waited until Augustus was unconscious, then crawled toward the man’s battered pack. Jeb found dried beef and water, and devoured these without thinking. He was about to return to the shadows when he caught the moonlight glinting on metal. It was a revolver, fully loaded. Jeb took the gun into hiding and kept it cocked, waiting for the creatures to fly over the crevice. He vowed to take six of them with him.
They did not come.
Perhaps he slept. Eventually, the sky went purple and pink. The sun crawled toward Augustus’ feet, climbed up his body and touched upon his face. Augustus was an ashen gray. His lips still moved though he had been silent for hours.
Jeb rose. Pain from the fall rang through his body. He crawled to Augustus, who gripped Jeb’s wrist in a heroic expenditure of strength.
“I’m sorry,” Augustus said. “I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“The voices!”
“Tell me,” Jeb said.
“The voices,” Augustus said. “They told me to poison you.”
Jeb swallowed. The dust made a giant stone that forced its way down into his stomach.
“They told me how to poison you. They told me how. So you would not see them.”
Jeb squinted. He stepped away from Augustus.
“Save me,” Augustus said. He reached for Jeb. “Take me with you.”
Jeb stood still for one moment, feeling nothing. He pointed the revolver at Augustus’ forehead.
“No,” Augustus said.
The sound of the single shot bounced from wall to wall of the crevice and filled the plain above. As Jeb climbed, he could still hear it locked in the ringing rock. When he reached the surface, he was not afraid, not thinking of what might be watching from the cave. There were now only five bullets, but it did not matter.
Jeb walked through the camp, past the two dead cattle. He imagined the shot skipping ahead of him, bouncing on the caked, crunching sand.
He put the mesa at his back. Walking east, with the sun in his eyes, he thought he might die. Or, perhaps someone would find him. He did not care. He walked as fast as he could, only to get away from the cave, away from Augustus.
*
I Love Your Mind
By Keith Latch
Jonathon Harp had writer’s cramp and it was getting worse. He set the ink pen to the side and began to flex and twist his right arm, circling his wrist like a carousel. With his professional and practiced smile he looked up to an unending line consisting of housewives, college students, local high school teachers and just a few riff raff thrown in for good measure.
This was his first book tour and he had somehow expected it to be a bit more…well…maybe glamorous was the word. So far, though, except for his first appearance which held all the unyielding excitement of a first experience, the whole tour had been dull and had even begun to tax him.
When Artie, his editor, had first approached him with the idea of a multi-city book signing tour, Jonathon had been quite taken by it. He had published his first work over a decade ago at the ripe old age of twenty-three. It was a short story about a serial killer armed with only an umbrella. The story itself wasn’t very ambitious but Jonathon was. He had persevered even after the rejection slip pile seemed to grow larger than his manuscripts. In then last three to four years his novels had begun to receive considerable attention and he was now well regarded in the world of commercial publishing. Hell, he’d even sold a short story to the tune of two grand around Christmas of last year. A book tour seemed to be an excellent idea or at least at the time it had.
Jonathon’s head rose to the sound of the beeping noise of the entrance door as a couple of college-aged kids walked through the door with his latest hardcover, Unmasked, in tow. They joined the healthy line of autograph seekers. Jonathon selected a fresh pen from the desk before him, “Next please.”
A burly lady with bleached blonde hair stepped up and shoved her copy of All the King’s Men in front of him. “Could you please make it out to Marge,” the lady said. Her eyes were glancing back and forth from Jonathon to the poster behind him. The poster was a tasteful advertisement of Unmasked with the dates and locations of his appearances at this specific chain of booksellers. Below his itinerary was a studio photograph of him with the Pacific Ocean as a backdrop. Jonathon couldn’t tell if the woman was only shocked to be meeting a real semi-famous author or just plain disappointed in his real life appearance. He handed the book back to her. She grasped it with one huge hairy hand. “Thank you, Mr. Harp,” she said with a smile although Jonathon couldn’t quite tell if it was genuine or not.
“You’re very welcome, see you next time. Next.”
She stepped up to the table and it was if Jonathon were a lost soul catching a glimpse of the Gates of Heaven. She was tall and lithe. Her tanned skin resembled the shade of almonds. Her gorgeous straight dark hair cascaded past her shoulders and complimented her green, almost emerald, eyes exquisitely. Dressed casually, she wore a blue button up blouse and khaki slacks.
Jonathon pushed his glasses back upon his nose as she placed her copy of Unmasked onto the table. With pen in hand he opened the book and looked up to meet her eyes.
“Mr. Harp, I can’t believe it’s you. I’ve been waiting for this ever since I heard about it on 102.3. I just knew something would happen and you would cancel or you would leave before I made it through the line or my car would have a flat or…”
Redness filled her cheeks. “Oh my god, I’m babbling. I’m so sorry, Mr. Harp. I’m just so excited.”
“That’s fine.” And it was. He could see that her excitement was genuine and he was flattered. “Have you had a chance to read this yet?” he asked, tapping his finger against the book.
“Oh, of course. I got my copy the day of the shipment. I had my mother pick it up for me. My boss wouldn’t let me leave work to get it, I knew he wouldn’t. I considered calling in sick, but I need the money. I read the whole thing in three days.”
Jonathon realized she was absolutely bubbling over. “How did you like it?” he asked. After all these years of writing he still asked the question with mixed feelings. It was a question he rarely asked. Although he’d become accustomed to the cynicism of mixed reviews from the so-called professional critics, face-to-face criticism
always weighed on him more heavily.
“Mr. Harp, I loved it. I absolutely loved it. Detective Fink is my all-time favorite fiction character. He’s like a knight in shining armor; always there when you need him.” The color of embarrassment had begun to recede from her face, if only slightly.
“What’s your name?” he asked. His pen was finally in the position to write.
“Heather.” As she spoke her own name it was if she realized the conversation was almost at an end. Her mood changed and it was evident all the bubbles had deflated from her bubbly attitude.
In barely legible handwriting (on a keyboard he was king of all he surveyed, with pen and paper he was merely a peasant) he wrote, ‘To Heather, one of the sweetest people I’ve met in a while,’ and in his trademark autograph scrawl he added, ‘Jonathon Harp’
Upon reading the inscription, happiness returned to Heather’s face. She smiled, and he saw that that it was contagious, he also began to smile, as she spoke, “Thank you so much Mr. Harp,”
“Not a problem, Heather. And I had better see you next time I’m here, okay.” He realized he was grinning like a schoolboy.
“I promise. And again, I loved the book.” she turned and walked away.
An overweight man with the three chins stepped up for his turn to meet the famous Jonathon Harp and set down a tattered and stained hardcover copy of The Birth of Genius. It was Jonathon’s first ‘successful’ novel and still had a big place in his heart. The condition of this man’s edition immediately made Jonathon dislike the man. Besides that, the corpulent man stank of horse manure.
*
Several hours later…
Jonathon shook hands with the bookstore manager and walked to his rental. The night was cool and a gentle breeze was stirring. It reminded him of his younger years growing up on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi. The days were hot and smothering, the nights refreshing and mild. It had been quite a while since he had thought of home. Honestly, he couldn’t remember the last time he had. This soothing night brought back those memories, however. A slight chill ran up his spine.
He sat behind the steering wheel and felt his stomach start to grumble. He had chosen to forego lunch in lieu of signing more books. It had seemed like a reasonable thing to do at the time. Now his stomach begged to differ.
Jonathon glanced at the clock on the console, 9:20. He realized by the time he made it back to the hotel and got a table, the in-house restaurant would be closing. He pulled onto the highway choosing the opposite direction.
By the time he had the Toyota up to speed he spotted a Waffle King. It was just the greasy spoon, smoke-filled kind of place he was looking for. It was places just like that where he had penned most of his fiction. The neon sign which was usually in the door of such places that read ‘OPEN 24 HOURS’ was like an old friend. It was usually a beacon to the oddest assortment of clientele imaginable. And it was within that night-time mixture of cigarette smoke, greasy hamburgers, drunks trying to sober themselves with gallons of hot, black coffee, amidst prostitutes and other urchins of the late hour that Jonathon felt most comfortable.
The aroma of frying grease greeted him as he stepped through the door like the handshake of a best friend. Chatter of patrons and a classic rock radio station registered to his ears as he looked around for a place to sit. The counter by the register was packed and it looked as if almost all the booths were full as well. He decided to use the restroom before placing his order to eat.
Returning from the restroom he saw a familiar face. He walked up the booth, realizing it had just the one apparent occupant. “Well, hello there.”
The woman’s eyes darted upward in shock. It took less than a second for her gaping mouth to transform into a wide smile, confirming recognition.
“Mr. Harp, what are you doing here?”
“Trying to fill my gut. But looks like all the seats are taken,” he said. Somehow, he hadn’t even noticed her when he’d walked in. That could have been due to his bladder, perhaps.
“Oh, yeah. It’s crowded tonight.”
“But it was nice seeing you again,” he said. He turned and began to walk away.
“Hey!” she half screamed. “Would you like to sit here?” She motioned toward the empty seat opposite her.
“Well, I don’t mind if I do.” he said exhibiting his professional smile. “I thought you would never ask, Heather.” She seemed both stunned and pleased he had remembered her name.
For several minutes both said nothing. Jonathon scanned over the menu and ordered a patty melt plate with hash browns and coffee. As Heather finished her meal of a southwestern omelet and toast he realized how very pretty she was. Still dressed in her previous attire he could now smell her perfume. He had never encountered it before but found himself drawn to it.
“So, a beautiful girl like you accustomed to eating alone?” he said. And as soon as it escaped his mouth he realized how lame it sounded.
“I had read somewhere that places like this are where you do a lot of your thinking. I just thought it would help me too.”
“What are you trying to think about?” he asked.
“Nothing. Everything. Nothing and everything all at once. Anyway, how do you like our fair city?”
“Actually I’ve only been in since this morning. As soon as I checked in at the hotel and freshened up I had to be at the bookstore. But I will tell you this; it has its share of beautiful women.”
Realizing that he was complimenting her, that all too familiar blush rose in her cheeks. “I still can’t believe I’m sitting in a Waffle King with Jonathon Harp. No one’s gonna believe this.”
Looking into her eyes he saw utter adoration.
After both had finished their meals and a long conversation, on everything from Heather’s job at the tanning salon (where she did most of her reading) to whom the best writers in America were, Jonathon paid the tab. Heather protested that a famous author shouldn’t have to buy a fan’s dinner, that it should be the other way around, Jonathon protested and produced a twenty dollar bill and handed it to the cashier before Heather could even get to her purse. They walked out together into the still night.
“Well, Heather that was a nice date,” he said with a smirk on his face.
She smiled. “If I only knew you would be here. I would have brought my paperbacks and hard covers.”
“You buy both?”
“Anything I can get my hands on, either by you or about you. I…I just love your mind,” she said. Her face was not the most crimson he’d yet to see.
“I’m flattered,” he said. Closing in on her he realized how strikingly beautiful she looked underneath the moonlight. He touched her gingerly on the face and leaned in to kiss her.
The kiss lasted a long time. He felt a stir in his pants.
After it was over, “Would you like to get out of here?” she asked.
“I thought you’d never ask.” he said. He disengaged his arm that he had unconsciously wrapped around her waist.
“Just follow me; I don’t live too far from here.”
“Just don’t speed off and try to lose me, okay,” he said.
Heather realized he was joking and began walking towards her car, an early ninety’s model Nissan. He jumped into his rental and followed her out to the highway.
Jonathon looked into his rearview mirror and saw that he was grinning to himself.
*
He followed the taillights of her Nissan through several miles of heavy traffic. They were now entering a section of the city that seemed a bit…seedy. The buildings they passed were run down and traffic was light. On the sides of the road Jonathon saw a few hookers and pimps dressed in their distinctive garb. He checked his door locks.
Heather pulled up to a building that looked like something even a slumlord would have been ashamed of owning and parked. Jonathon followed suit. He got out and hurried to join Heather. In the distance, sirens were piercing the night and for a brief second Jonathon wondered whether or not he was
making a mistake.
He immediately felt a twinge of guilt. It wasn’t so long ago that he had been living in the same conditions. And at the time he had been chronicling the experiences of an umbrella-wielding psycho he had been fortunate to even have a roof over his head. It had seemed like a lifetime ago before, but now being faced with this environment it seemed like only yesterday.
“It’s kinda a rough neighborhood,” Heather said as she noticed Jonathon’s eyes darting around. “It’s only temporary.” Jonathon couldn’t quite tell if she was talking to him or to herself.
He followed her into the building and up the stairs in a remarkably comfortable silence.
They reached Heather’s apartment and upon entering Jonathon was almost as nervous as Heather had seemed at the book signing.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Yeah. A beer if you got it,” he said.
“Sure, have a seat, I’ll be right back.”
He flopped down into a huge recliner. It almost swallowed him up and he found it was immensely comfortable. The day had been long and he was exhausted. He felt he could fall into a deep sleep a chair such as this.
“Light beer okay? I haven’t had company in a while and it’s all I drink,” she said.
“That’s fine,” he said taking the cold bottle from her. She took a seat on the sofa and began to drain her beer. “I like your place.”
“Thanks. They say home is where the heart is and at least for me that’s true,” she said.
Sitting together on the sofa, each with a fresh beer in their hand, he put his arm to her neck and gently began stroking it with the tips of his fingers. His very touch seemed to relax her and she dropped her head as he began to rub her shoulders.
He looked around the place for an ashtray and found one. “Mind if I smoke? Drinking always makes me crave a cigarette.”
“No, please go right ahead,” she said.
He pulled a pack of Marlboros and a gold Zippo lighter from his pocket and lit up. She got up and walked over to the small table that held the ashtray and handed it to him.