The Not

by A. R. Braun

  Once again, he thought of his band — all dead because of Pishuni. A metalhead’s thoughts were always on the group. No getting around it.

  He yanked the coverlet from his face and sat up, throwing a pillow at the wall behind him and another at the ceiling. “Oh God, you faker — give it up already!” Getting a vital memory now that he was defiant enough to think, he rose from the bed and reached into the right pocket of his long jean shorts where his trusty earplugs waited. Without these babies, I’d be half deaf by now. He stuck them in and, smiling, put his hands behind his head as he lay back down on the bed.

  “What now, wannabe god?” Rick yelled, hearing his voice as if muffled and in a tunnel. “You killed my band! I wouldn’t worship you to save my life!”

  He fell asleep and dreamed of his group — miraculously still alive — playing the L.A Forum.

  CHAPTER 32

  Don stripped out of his wet clothes, which Fay hung on the shower rod after she’d pulled the curtain back. He lowered himself into the hot tub, then enjoyed the warm caressing jets that soothed his welts like nothing else, massaging out every ache and pain. Rick was right. This is the only thing as good as sex. He rested his head on the edge of the Jacuzzi. Fay lay next to him, running her fingers through his hair.

  “Ah,” Don said. “This is paradise.”

  A knock came at the door.

  Don’s eyes snapped open. He grabbed his Rolex off the edge of the tub and stared at it. He placed it back, resisting the urge to slam it down. “Jesus Christ! It’s midnight! Who could that be?” He rose, dried off and made his way to the hotel room proper.

  Her hair wet and clad in a towel, Fay followed. She dried her mane with another towel as the knocking turned to pounding. “Are you gonna get that?”

  “You mind if I look through the peephole to make sure it isn’t bloodthirsty killers?”

  Fay shrugged.

  Great, now he’d spooked himself. He had to force himself to look.

  Fuck me doing gymnastics.

  “Wonderful,” Don said. “It’s a couple of men in suits.”

  “What the hell?” Fay asked.

  “I’ll answer it,” Don said. “Get your clothes on.”

  Wide-eyed, Fay passed him as she shot him a help me look. Don pulled into his clothes as quickly as possible, finding his hands were shaking.

  “Don and Fay Rack,” a husky, bass voice cried. “Open up! It’s the FBI!”

  “Somebody shoot me.” Don opened the door.

  Holding out credentials, the two well-built clean-cut men stood before him: one with short raven-colored hair and the other’s crown speckled with gray.

  Now fully-clothed, a wide-eyed Fay moved out of the bathroom’s threshold.

  The black-haired fed bore an unwavering frown. “I’m agent Templeton, and this is agent Paranoles. We need to ask you some questions.”

  Don looked over the credentials, then moved aside as he gestured inward. The two agents walked in, glancing at the drab room, then fixing their eyes on him.

  “What’s this about?” Don asked.

  The agents shot each other sharp glances.

  Templeton faced Don. “Mr. Omeda downstairs said you two are from Rio Rancho.”

  Panic sent shock waves through Don’s brain.

  That old dick-flicker.

  Templeton said, “You told him something about being from there when you checked in, while offering condolences about what happened to the three cities in New Mexico because he’d had family there. And now you’re here — the only ones on a field trip in the area since the tragedy.”

  Don looked at Fay, who gave him that I told you so glance. He faced Templeton. “My wife figured he was calling somebody.”

  Templeton cocked his head. “And you didn’t run.”

  Don shook his head. “No reason to.”

  “I see. Then why don’t you tell me why you’re in Pueblo — along with the elderly couple and your friend of the long-haired persuasion — and why you were so privileged to be the only survivors of Rio Rancho?”

  Don’s legs would no longer hold him. He sat on the bed. Fay walked over and sat beside him, rubbing his back. It would’ve been a comforting gesture if he wasn’t knee-deep in manure.

  They’re going to think I’m batshit crazy.

  He faced the men. “I’m actually from Illinois…”

  “Oh.” Paranoles brought out a mini recorder and set it to record. He placed it on the desk with a lamp. “On vacation?”

  Don shook his head. “I heard about Intel hiring for their testing facility in Rio Rancho, which had dynamite perks. I was tired of the snow and ice storms in Illinois. I’d heard about the dry heat.”

  “Go on,” Templeton said.

  “Fay and I met in Rio Rancho. We started dating. Then she got called to Albuquerque to visit a dying uncle in the hospital. That’s her mother and other uncle — Jim’s his name — in the room across the hall. He lived in Albuquerque. That’s why they survived when Rio Rancho went up in flames. Rick, the buddy you speak of, is from Santa Fe.”

  “Ah, the rest of the members of your entourage are from the other two cities that were destroyed.”

  “No, my mom’s from Rio Rancho too,” Fay said.

  Templeton brought out a pad and pen as he nodded Paranoles’s way. “This is just in case that gadget fails. Why did you survive the devastation in Rio Rancho, Don?”

  He schemed for a lie clever enough. “I was already on my way to pick up Fay in Albuquerque. We were to leave the hospital together to go to a concert there: Testament, Anthrax and Death Angel.”

  Templeton nodded, seeming appeased. Fay breathed a laugh, probably relieved.

  Paranoles said, “So you and your friends have ties to all three defunct cities.”

  “Not in the way that you think,” Don answered. “Is that what you think?”

  “We don’t know what to think, at least until we get the facts.”

  Don gestured toward the desk and two chairs. “Would you gentlemen like to sit?”

  Paranoles ignored the question. “We’d like you to tell us why we shouldn’t suspect you of working with terrorists… or are they terrorists?”

  Shaking, Fay put her face in her hands.

  Don glanced at his feet. This is what happens when we reject Pishuni. He looked Paranoles in the eye. “What I have to say will sound crazy.”

  Paranoles shot him a grim smile, the kind you’d expect from a wolf. “Try me.” The agents pulled back their dress jackets to reveal side arms in holsters.

  Don drew a deep breath. The room’s bright lights seemed to be weakening. “It’s not a terrorist plot or anything. It’s the wrath of… well… of an American Indian deity, Pishuni.”

  Templeton chuckled, and Paranoles seemed to be waiting for a punch line. The former returned the stare. Don felt like the man was looking through him.

  “This some kind of a joke to you?” Templeton asked.

  “It’s true,” Fay said. She was glaring at the men.

  Templeton stepped toward them. Paranoles followed.

  “The insanity defense won’t help you if you have something to do with the destruction of those three cities,” Templeton barked. “Tell me what’s going on and make me believe it.”

  Don said, “I know it sounds insane, but I swear I’m not making it up. When I came here, I was an atheist, but things strangely went my way like never before. I began to suspect someone was helping me. After a while, the deity revealed himself, saying he wanted me to invoke him over Rio Rancho so he could bless everyone else too.” Don noticed his voice cracked a bit. Beads of sweat erupted on his forehead, though he tried not to show any signs of nervousness. “Well, he lied. I saw the city go up in flames in my rear-view mirror as I drove to Albuquerque to be with Fay. In turn, he did the same thing to Albuquerque and Santa Fe. Luckily, we, including Fay’s mom and uncle, were always one step ahead of him. Then we made friends with Rick as we were leaving Santa Fe. He’s a Christian, and
he showed us how to be shod of the evil deity. My wife and I just recently got rid of Pishuni by refusing to worship or invoke him.”

  “If we have to take you in to get the truth out of you, we will,” Paranoles said.

  Fay whimpered. “You’re not going to try to force a confession out of us, are you?”

  “I don’t think they want to torture us,” Don told her.

  “Unfortunately, President Obama banned waterboarding,” Templeton answered tersely. “I guess you can thank ‘Pishuni’ for that.”

  Don said, “I told you we got rid of him.”

  Fay stood. “You don’t have anything on us! We didn’t do anything. We were just lucky to survive. If you torture us, we’ll say the same thing. We’re Americans, for Christ’s sake!”

  “They’re just kooks,” Paranoles sighed.

  “Maybe that’s what they want us to think,” Templeton said. “We could find out the hard way.”

  Don rose with his finger in the agent’s face. “Don’t you threaten my wife!”

  Templeton backed up and drew his weapon. “Sit down!”

  Paranoles had drawn his handgun also.

  Don sat like a beaten dog.

  Was a booming cackle audible outside?

  “Look,” Don said, “we’re not terrorists. Like Fay said, we’re Americans who are as shocked as anyone else.”

  The men holstered their guns.

  “Or you’re traitors helping terrorists,” Templeton said.

  Don shook his head.

  When it rains, it hails, baseball-sized.

  Fay sat on the bed and put her head on Don’s shoulder. “God help us,” she breathed.

  Don said, “I’d never even met a Native American before I moved here. How the hell would I know any terrorists?”

  “I’ve never even been out of New Mexico until now,” Fay said.

  Templeton sighed, gesturing to them. “Never underestimate the power of stupidity. We’re upholding national security, and they’re talking about an Indian god.”

  Don tried his best to fork him the evil eye. “You ought to know that, as Americans, we’re entitled to any religious belief we choose. If we want to believe an Indian deity did that to those cities in New Mexico, we can. I’m telling you we didn’t have anything to do with what happened. We didn’t plan it, encourage it or sneak behind American authority to help someone do it. And personally, as a patriot, I resent the questioning and the attitude.”

  Paranoles said, “We’re not questioning your religious freedom, but if this… ’god’… worked over New Mexico, then why hasn’t he risen up before?”

  “I don’t know. Why didn’t Al Qaeda strike till 2001?”

  Templeton scowled. “I know one thing. That pastor you went to visit earlier tonight was found murdered.”

  Fay bounded up. “What?”

  Don put his face in his hands and lowered his head.

  Pishuni, you bastard!

  “Know anything about that?” Paranoles asked. “Or did the Indian god do that too?”

  “We saw you on the church’s security cams,” Templeton said.

  About to have a panic attack, Don was speechless. He tried to control his trembling hands as he removed them from his face. Fay was obviously endeavoring to keep calm so she wouldn’t hyperventilate, breathing slowly.

  “I’d answer his question if I were you,” Templeton almost growled.

  Don — with a cracking voice — said, “We went into the church to pray with the minister. I told you, that’s how we got rid of Pishuni. When we were finished, we left.”

  “How do we know you didn’t follow him home?” Paranoles asked. “What we do know is that Pastor Jerry Good is in 200 pieces on his kitchen table. His wife is in the same condition, stuck in a large number of Tupperware bowls in the fridge. Their blood is in milk cartons, orange-juice cartons and water bottles. Thank goodness their daughter was out. The police responded to neighbors’ complaints of screaming. The Goods had to be identified by their dental records. Their upper and lower jaws were in the sink.”

  Don’s heart sank.

  “Their poor kid,” Fay said.

  The two men again stepped forward, removing handcuffs from their back areas.

  “I think you and your little clan better come with us,” Templeton said.

  ***

  Pishuni stirred up a thunderstorm as he cackled. He brought forth sheets of rain that gave travelers zero visibility. Being the light bearer, he conjured a blinding flash of lightning. Then he remembered the FBI had to see to drive and choked off the storm, replacing it with drizzle.

  As three of four other feds handcuffed Jim, Georgia and Rick, Pishuni beamed with pride, knowing the group would never escape now.

  “Palefaced fools! I will destroy the world, and then it will be mine!”

  Pishuni cackled.

  “Just try to escape from the FBI,” the voice of eons thundered harder than ever, shattering the calm of every home in Pueblo. His voice rumbled from the top of their heads to the soles of their feet, the blind puppets thinking it thunder from the rain. Outright gleeful, Pishuni shook his fists so quickly they became a blur.

  “When I get Charles to invoke me over Pueblo, I’ll finally do away with them: Don, Fay, Rick and the whole shitting gang. How dare you palefaces refuse me! It’ll be the last thing you ever do!”

  CHAPTER 33

  Charles Doogan, owner of Pueblo Spa, snickered as he sat in his basement. He still held the murder weapon, a machete his grandfather had pillaged from the gooks in Vietnam. It seemed the handle was welded to his hand. Blood trickled from the blade onto Charles’s wrists, the drops now cold and thick.

  Good luck finding my fingerprints. I cut mine off.

  Charles had taken that much-needed two-week vacation. Afterward, he’d hacked at his fingertips with the machete.

  No pain, no fucking gain.

  The nubs lay in a jar in the drawer, rotting away like his conscience. He’d also worn two gloves, just to be smarter than the pigs. A “model citizen,” Charles wasn’t ignorant about how clever law enforcement could be.

  He shivered with excitement in the cool, dank basement. One exposed light bulb — still bobbing after he’d pulled the cord — cast a wan light over him as he sat on a stool at his workbench. Charles now lived for the darkness, but of course he’d need a little light to perform his insidious acts. He’d installed bolt locks on the inside of the basement door. It wasn’t like his family was still around, but he wasn’t taking any chances. You never knew when a nosy neighbor would creep in or if his grown kids would visit.

  Being a fifty-five-year-old man, upsetting events had become harder and harder to take. His nerves of iron had turned into plastic.

  His wife, Shirley, had left him a month ago. She’d said she could no longer take his long hours, coming home late wanting nothing but a beer, a ball game and a little sex, the latter once a week. “I’m not dead yet,” Shirley had said, and left him a Dear John on the fridge. Word at the pub was she’d been frequenting the country club, looking for a richer and younger model. Ironically, she’d yet to file for divorce. But Charles knew it was coming, like Grim Death waiting around the corner. The Dear John had made it clear that she harbored no intention of coming back. That’s what stirred his wrath. He was in the process of taking it out on the other denizens of Pueblo, one by one. He’d work his way up to her, because she’d always terrified him. Baby steps.

  A woman could make or break a man. She’d busted him into tiny splinters.

  Since his wrath had started, things had been strangely going his way. He’d won the lottery. As far as he was concerned, Pueblo Spa would never see his bald, chubby ass again.

  Last night, the deity had shown up, instructing Charles to call him “The Not.” Though the creature had frightened him, the deity possessed all the malevolent qualities he was seeking in a god. The Not had let Charles know he was the one who’d made him strong enough to take vengeance against his enemies. Toni
ght, the deity was coming for payback. His Highness said he wanted Charles to return the favor. He’d not only die for the The Not, but also he’d be all ears for future commands. Charles was nothing if not loyal.

  He grabbed a rag and wiped the blood from the machete. He snatched his box of silver cleaning rags, took one out and went to work. Then he walked across the basement and sharpened the blade up, sparks coming off the whetstone.

  The deity was some Injun god. Charles loved the library, where he studied ancient religions and folklore. He had a good idea whom the deity was, but if his lord didn’t want his name known, that was all right with him.

  More important, The Not had said he’d make sure Charles never get caught and convicted for murder. Therefore, all the men that had fucked his wife — even the women, the dykes they were today — were going down. End of story.

  He knew what hypocrites the church leaders were. Shirley had taken Pastor Jerry Good in her first affair two years ago. Charles had never forgotten about that. Having an affair on her hadn’t even crossed his mind. Charles barked laughter when he mused over how he’d just killed Pastor Good, along with his wife. Nostalgia was as the Holy Grail to him now. The flesh he’d eaten was the sacred wafer, and the blood he’d drunk not only the wine, but also the panacea — a communion of sorts to his Injun god. That fake pastor paid as he burned in hell. Talk about music to Charles’s ears. Shit, this was a goddamned symphony. The members of the churches first, then the honest dogs. After he’d killed the home wreckers, he’d branch out. His wife loved to travel.

  Whatever the heap-big god wanted, he would have — something about going after a group of troublemakers.

  And an invocation.

  ***

  Sitting in a folding chair, Don leaned on the metal table. He glanced at the door, and he sighed. The light cast an amber glow over the room. Walls of square paneling with a myriad of dots stared back at him. The worst was being separated from his wife.

  God knows what they’re doing to her.