Black & White Croakies

by Sam Cheever

  Grym made a choking sound. “Rosalee Reportage?”

  I shrugged. “It sounded French. We thought it would seem Big-City-ish.”

  He shook his head.

  “Sure, honey. But you have to order something if you want to stay.”

  “Oh, oh,” I murmured. I glanced at Grym. “Should we abort?”

  “Let’s just see how she handles it.”

  “Okay, then I’ll have coffee,” Sebille said.

  The woman poured a cup of black liquid and placed it in front of Sebille. “Cream? Sugar?”

  Sebille nodded, opening her notebook and poising her pencil over it. “The title of my story is The Heart of the Small Town. Can you tell me in your words what you consider to be Mayberry’s heart?”

  The waitress settled a creamer and a small container of white granules next to Sebille’s cup. “The heart of Mayberry…” she repeated thoughtfully. “Why, I’d guess it’s the people.”

  “Don’t be daft, Daisy,” an old man called out from a stool down the counter. He turned to look Sebille in the eye. “It’s the businesses. Places like this and the Pharmacy down the way. The gas station just outside of town. Even the Sheriff’s Office. Those are the heart of the town.”

  Sebille scribbled as quickly as she could.

  “Aren’t you gonna drink your coffee?” Daisy asked, narrowing her gaze slightly at the sprite.

  Sebille acted like she’d forgotten. “Oh, of course.” She gave a little laugh and dumped a bunch of cream into it, followed by several spoons full of sugar. The waitress grimaced at the amount of sugar. Sebille proceeded to stir it as she looked toward a nearby table, where two men sat drinking coffee and reading the paper. “What do you gentlemen think?”

  Their heads came up and Sebille spun on her stool, pencil poised over the notebook.

  “She’s getting the hang of this,” Grym said, grinning.

  I harrumphed.

  The older man pulled a tidy, gray Fedora off his balding head and looked contemplative. Reaching up to scratch his bald spot, he shrugged. “Money’s the heart of any community, isn’t it?”

  The man with him was younger by probably thirty years. Like his companion, he wore a suit and he had his dark hair slicked neatly back. He shook his head, giving the older man a disgusted look. “That’s not even close, Frank. Love is everything. Love and affection are the heart of any community.”

  “Pshaw!” said the man down the counter from Sebille. “Love, schmuve. I say it’s the businesses. And that means money’s important too.”

  “Respect!” yelled a woman from a back booth. She wore a tidy cap over her smoothly styled light-colored hair and had short gloves on the hands that clutched a small patent-leather purse. The remains of her lunch sat on a plate in front of her, looking like it had barely been touched. “A community’s nothing without respect.”

  “Miss,” said an insistent voice behind Sebille. “You have to drink that coffee.”

  Sebille looked from one to the other of the people in the restaurant, her lips twitching into a smile as the argument grew heated. The two men at the table stood up, and Love strode angrily to the man at the counter, finger stabbing the air as he screamed his arguments into the room.

  Money had left his fedora behind and gone to try to get in between the other two men. He was roughly shoved for his troubles.

  Meanwhile, Respect had abandoned her uneaten lunch and was stomping toward the battle, a dark gleam in her heated gaze.

  “Oh, oh,” I said to Grym. “This has taken a turn.”

  Abort, abort, abort! Yelled a voice in my ear.

  On the tiny screen I was holding, the waitress had grabbed Sebille and was trying to pour the coffee down her throat, dodging the flailing notebook and the jabbing pencil.

  We started to run. If Sebille accidentally stabbed the waitress in the throat, there’d be a full-on manhunt for her within minutes.

  A breeze blew hair from my face as someone passed us going fast.

  Really fast.

  Hobs fast.

  The door slammed open and then closed, the bell jangling from the wild treatment.

  A shrill whistle filled the air.

  Hobs was inside, standing in front of the door. He wore a cowboy hat on his head and a leather vest covering his tiny chest.

  He was chewing on a long piece of grass as Otis had been and held something fat and bug-eyed in his hand.

  Slimy?

  I started forward in a panic. Grym grabbed my arm, stopping me. “Let’s give this a minute to play out.”

  We retreated to the alley and watched as Hobs lifted a long-fingered hand and tipped the cowboy hat back. “Howdy, folks,” he said in his high-pitched voice. “Me and my pardner are lookin’ to wet our whistles.”

  Sebille extracted herself from the waitress’s suddenly nerveless grip and stumbled away, tugging her ugly dress straight.

  Hobs tipped his hat. “Hello, Miss.”

  Sebille’s brows spiked upward. “Hey, Tex.”

  Hobs placed Slimy on the table and People the waitress, made a horrified little sound. “You can’t put that frog on the table.”

  Slimy hopped forward and I finally got a good look at him. I gasped. “Is he wearing a cowboy hat?”

  Grym snorted. “This is better than the circus.”

  “That’s no frog, Miss,” Hobs said very carefully, nodding his head as he spoke. “This here’s Dark Bart the Bandito. He’s a gunslinger. We don’t want no trouble, but we’re prepared to shoot this place up if’n you don’t answer one question for us.”

  The woman had started nodding along with Hobs. Around her, Love, Money, Business and Respect had all begun nodding too. Their eyes glazed over and their mouths started to droop.

  “Yes? What question?” asked People.

  “Ribbit?” Dark Bart belched, his little six-shooters quivering.

  Sebille looked at the camera and lifted her brows, clearly asking us if Hobs was really using chicken hypnotization against the people in the diner.

  “Yeah,” I murmured. “I think he is.”

  “Ask your question,” Love droned out as drool slid from his lips onto his shiny shoes.

  “What is the Heart of Mayberry?” Hobs asked in a monotone voice.

  They all stood there for a long moment, heads bobbing rhythmically and lips shiny with drool. And then, as if spurred by the hand of an invisible puppet master, they all said in perfect unity: “LoveMoneyBusinessPeopleRespect.”

  “Okay, they all just repeated what they’d already said,” I complained. “I always knew hypnosis was hooey.”

  Grym expelled a sigh.

  “It’s a bust. Bring it in, people,” I said into the little microphone on the cell.

  “Ribbit!” said Dark Bart, his squishy little form taut with anger.

  Hobs yanked what looked like a toy gun from the holster at his narrow hips. “You’ve gone and done it now. You’ve angered Dark Bart. You give us no choice but to shoot up the joint.”

  “Excuse me, please, sir?” A small voice said.

  Hobs turned to find a small, freckled-faced boy entering the diner. It was Opie, the Sheriff’s son.

  Hobbs spun around and pointed the gun at the newcomer, before quickly jerking it back. “Oh, hello.”

  Opie studied him from under a thick fringe of bangs. “Isn’t it ’lectricity?”

  Hobs frowned, “Lectricity?”

  Opie nodded, looking ever so serious. “That’s what Pa says. ’Lectricity makes the world go round. I reckon that would be the heart o’ anything. Ain’t that right?”

  Hobbs opened his mouth to reply and…the world erupted into noise and pain.

  I dropped the phone to cover my ears, doubling over into a ball as small as I could go, given my inherent lack of bendiness. Beside me, Grym shoved to his feet and started to run, his voice a weak murmur against the air-raid-siren blaring through the artifact.

  I forced myself to reach for the phone and stand, stumbling after
Grym with my hands pressed to my ears.

  He’d disappeared from sight by the time I rounded the corner at the end of the alley. I figured he’d gone to help Sebille and Hobs in the diner, so I started off in that direction.

  I never made it to the diner.

  An enormous, rectangular car slammed to a stop on the street next to me, and a dark-haired man with a black, hostile gaze threw the door open and jumped on me, riding me to the concrete in a decidedly hostile takedown maneuver.

  Sebille’s phone flew from my hand and clattered away, falling toward the gutter.

  “I finally got you, ya varmint!” the man exclaimed, yanking my arms behind my back and cuffing them together. “Maybe you can help us find the rest of the trouble-makers.” He yanked me up by my arms, wrenching them painfully enough that I cried out, and all but threw me into the wide backseat of the big police car.

  I rolled painfully to my side and shoved myself to a seated position as the Sheriff of Mayberry’s car eased away from the curb. “What am I under arrest for?” I asked, my voice embarrassingly whiney.

  The dark-eyed man turned in his seat, the signature sweep of his dark hair still perfect despite his overly-rough handling of yours truly. He gave me a mean smile, his homely face darkening with TV effect as he did. “You’re under arrest for whatever I say you are,” said Sheriff Andrew. “And we’re taking you where nobody else is gonna find you. So you’d better cooperate, or you’re gonna have a very unhappy ending.”

  “Boy,” I said in the face of all that oily evil. “You’re mean. I feel sorry for Opie having you for a dad.”

  He gave me a villainous laugh and turned back around, leaving me to my thoughts and despair.

  Way to go, Naida, I grumbled to myself. You really set him straight with that one.

  Sigh…

  15

  Television lies so hard

  I huddled in the dank, dark corner and looked around, my nose twitching under the dual assault of mold and dust.

  My wrists were raw from the pair of iron cuffs that were bolted into the concrete wall. I jerked on them and frowned, wishing for the comfy TV jail cell with the key within easy reach.

  Television lied so hard.

  Sheriff Andrew wasn’t kind and harmless. Not even close to the friendly country bumpkin television portrayed him as. If only bumbling Deputy Fiff were around. I could probably talk him into letting me go. He wasn’t any nicer than the Sheriff, but he was much dumber.

  The only door in the building opened with a creak that made me jump. Sunlight speared across the space, highlighting a mildewed dirt floor with lots of suspicious little black pellets that made my skin crawl.

  The hulking form of the Sheriff truncated the sunlight, casting an elongated shadow across the floor. He didn’t speak for a long moment, making it impossible to judge his mood. His expression was hidden in shadow. But his hands were fisted at his sides, and the set of his shoulders was rigid.

  I glared back at him, clinging to defiance like dog spit clings to paint. “My friends are going to find me and you’ll be sorry.”

  I doubted that was true since even I had no idea where I was. But I was proud that my voice didn’t quiver on the empty threat.

  He continued to stare mutely in my direction.

  I jerked the cuffs again and tried to climb to my feet, feeling at a disadvantage sitting there. It was no use. The cuffs were bolted too low. Even if I managed to get to my feet, I’d be hunched over with my butt in the air.

  Not exactly an intimidating posture.

  Unless he was scared over how wide my butt was.

  The sheriff came into the room, his face moving from the shadows. I was surprised by his pleasant, harmless expression.

  It was his lying television face.

  “Now, now. There’s no call to get hostile. I just wanted ta ask y’all a couple of questions. There’s no harm in that, is there?”

  I jerked the cuffs again. “There’s definite harm in these cuffs. Take them off, and I’ll answer your questions.”

  He laughed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pale uniform pants. “Now that ain’t gonna happen.” He cocked his head. “Why don’t you tell me what y’all are up to?”

  I jerked the cuffs again, glaring at him.

  “Now, Miss, you’re just gonna bruise yourself all up. Why don’t you just tell me what I want to know and we can go have some of Aint Bee’s fried chicken and mashed potatoes?” He gave me the goofy TV smile. “Y’all’d like that, wouldn’t ya?”

  “I’d love some chicken and potatoes. I’d even love some pie. But not at the expense of all my friends.”

  He expelled air on a sigh, shaking his head. But he was still smiling. Unfortunately, the smile didn’t reach his black eyes. “We’re gonna find out what y’all are up to and we’re gonna stop ya anyway we can. You’d best tell me now, and maybe we’ll spare yore friends.”

  “How about this, instead? You let me and my friends go home. Problem solved.”

  He looked down at his dusty boots. “You’re tryin’ my patience now, gal.”

  I shrugged. “I’m sorry about that. But that’s the only deal I’ll take.”

  “Well, then I guess you leave me no choice.” He rubbed his hand over his chin.

  The ground beneath me rumbled. Dust sifted down from the rough clay ceiling above my head. The light beyond the door dimmed, and dark clouds filled the once-blue sky. “What are you doing?” I asked, fear tightening my chest.

  “What you’re forcin’ me ta do.” He headed for the door and stopped, looking back. “It’s a darn shame too. I grown fond of the people in this little town. It’s a shame ta have ta lose ‘em all. And in so violent a way too.” He shook his head and sighed again. Then he lifted a hand in a wave. “Bye now!”

  The door slammed hard enough to dislodge something from a dark corner. I yelped in surprise as the hard, white orb rolled into view, bumping against my foot. And I screamed again as I realized what it was.

  Black holes in the bleached skull stared accusingly out at me. I scrambled backward as best I could when a long, humanoid bone rolled out to join the skull, smashing myself against the damp, slimy concrete.

  Outside my prison, thunder boomed hard and long, shaking the shed and pulling all the light from the room. The slivers of sky I could see through the small cracks of my prison showed darkness where moments earlier it had been bright daylight. Jagged spears of lightning sheared through the dark, illuminating the shed in bright bolts of white energy that left behind the sound of crashing and screaming in the distance.

  My prison shook more with every boom above my head. Ozone stung my nostrils. Without warning, energy whistled through the air and slammed into the little building, exploding the wall across from me and fracturing my world into ear-splitting, deadly chunks of misery.

  I woke up sometime later, a heavy weight against my chest. I realized I’d been fighting to breathe for a while, dreaming of being underwater and struggling not to drown.

  I came awake with a gasp and a strangled scream.

  Inhaling more dust than air, I choked, coughing and wheezing to pull breath into lungs that felt weighed down by a million pounds and clogged with filth.

  Forcing myself to calm, I lay there a moment, listening to the world beyond my broken prison. The sky was visible above me. One chunk of the wall where the door was had collapsed. It was dark both outside and inside the moldy hut.

  There was silence in the distance and I wondered if everyone was gone. Surely Andrew hadn’t followed through on his threat to kill everyone.

  What would be the point in that?

  I coughed and cried out in pain. Something was digging into my chest…something heavy and sharp.

  I tried to lift my hands to examine the problem and found they wouldn’t move. I was trapped under heavy concrete debris.

  Parakeet pullups! No wonder I couldn’t breathe.

  Panic swirled through me, making it even harder to breathe as my h
eart pounded in my ears.

  Nobody knew where I was. How were they going to find me?

  Small, panicked noises escaped my throat and silvery stars burst in front of my eyes.

  I was trapped! Forgotten! Lost!

  When I realized that I was in danger of hyperventilating, I forced my breathing to slow. After a moment, pushing the panic aside, I was able to form thoughts again. I could try to use my keeper magics. Worst case my efforts would just make a lot of noise. But if that happened, maybe it would help my friends locate where I was. Of course, my treacherous brain told me, it could just call Sheriff Andrew back to finish me off. I shoved that thought away. I had to do something. And best case was that I’d call something useful to me. There had to be some artifacts in Mayberry, didn’t there? I mean, I’d brought that dang, useless pie-making thing with me, hadn’t I?

  I wriggled my fingers free of debris and, with a supreme force of will, managed to wring some of my magic from its core, dragging it slowly through my limbs toward my waiting fingers. It was like shoving sludge through a straw. I wondered if being in the anti-magic artifact world was somehow changing my magic. Turning it thick and slow.

  The thought was daunting and it made me even more determined to get out of there.

  Silvery energy burned the tips of my fingers, the occasional spark flaring into the darkness. I felt better just seeing it there, knowing I had something I could use to help myself.

  It wasn’t much. But it was more than I’d had a moment earlier.

  Closing my eyes, I concentrated on the thick stream of waiting energy. With a thought toward calling artifacts to me, I let it go, my eyes snapping open as the magic slithered slowly away from my fingers like flat, silver snakes, undulating away into the dark.

  I watched the magic slide through the open areas and cracks and writhe away through the night. As soon as the energy was out of sight, panic eased back to claim me.

  Nothing had happened. No screaming sirens filled the night. I hadn’t sent up a magical beacon that my friends could follow.