Black & White Croakies

by Sam Cheever

  If my energy didn’t bring anything back, I was in trouble.

  Ice slid along my spine and spread through me. A beat later, I realized I was shivering, my teeth clanking together from the cold.

  I closed my eyes and tried to pull more energy forward, hoping it would make me warm.

  But nothing came. The piddly little worms of magic had been everything I had.

  And they’d brought nothing back.

  Fighting despair and quaking with the cold, I closed my eyes and tried not to give in to the raging fear climbing through my chest.

  Something clattered to the rock covering my chest.

  My eyes snapped open.

  The pig-pimpled, never-ending pie plate sat a few inches from my nose, a sweet, creamy scent mingling with the dust and mold.

  I sneezed and the plate shifted off the debris, toppling to the rock below. With a soft, cracking sound, it broke, and the slimy sweetness of chocolate cream oozed into the cracks.

  A beat later, I felt it hit my arm and dribble over my skin.

  “Awesome-sauce,” I muttered, tears burning my eyes.

  I lay there a moment longer, giving in to the tears. I became gradually aware of something poking into my side and shifted away from it.

  My arm slid easily along the rock covering it. My eyes went wide. I shifted again, rubbing the slimy pie filling over the rock and using the lubrication it gave to move my arm until I managed to free it from the rocky prison.

  With hope soaring in my heart, I dug for another glob of pie filling and lubricated my other arm with it, eventually working it free with the help of the sweet lubricant.

  But that was as far as a slice of pie could take me. My thighs were still firmly pinned.

  The air shifted on a sigh, and I winced as a rectangular object flew toward my face.

  I yelped, my hands snapping up to catch it before it connected. Squinting through the dark at the object, I tried to figure out what it was. The front was dominated by two big dials, and there was something attached to the back, like a fuzzy snake.

  I ran my fingers over the snake and realized it was a cord. I was holding an old-fashioned radio. A lot of good it would do me. Unless it ran on batteries.

  Or magic.

  As my fingers found the plug on the end of a badly frayed cord, the dials lit up and a rusty song filled the air. “What the?”

  I settled the radio onto the rocks and turned the dial, looking for something besides old country songs.

  Another object sighed through the air and clattered to the ground next to me, sending chips of rock and a puff of dust into the air.

  I sneezed again, my hand spasming on the dial, and an old-timey news guy’s voice suddenly replaced the music.

  “Sheriff Andrew has instructed everyone to remain calm. The tornados have moved on and he and Deputy Fiff are organizing rescue squads as I give you this report. If you are lost or trapped, the Sheriff wanted me to tell you that he will find you.” The voice on the radio deepened and turned louder, sounding as if he’d pressed his lips closer to the microphone. “That is a promise.” I shuddered as I realized he was talking to me. Or maybe to my friends.

  The Sheriff was creating search parties all right. But they weren’t to rescue people from the chaos the artifact had created. They were to find and extinguish the small rebellion Dugan and his gang had begun.

  I needed to get out of there and warn them.

  It didn’t matter that they might hear the radio announcement too. I doubted they’d recognize the significance of it.

  I turned to see what had flown into my prison after the radio. The soft glow of the radio’s dials illuminated something long and skinny, wider on one end. By moving the radio to illuminate it better, I was able to finally identify the object as a pitchfork.

  My heart palpitated a few times as I realized how easily the thing could have skewered me. But it hadn’t, I told myself. And it could be very useful.

  Shoving the radio to the side, I strained against the rocks piled over my hips and legs and reached for the pitchfork.

  My fingers couldn’t quite touch the handle. If I risked pulling all my limbs out of their sockets, I could just about get my fingertips on the smooth surface. I pressed with my fingers, sweating from the effort, and the fork moved a fraction of an inch closer.

  I collapsed back, gasping. It was still too far away to grab.

  I strained again and managed another quarter of an inch. It wasn’t enough to grab the fork, but it was enough to allow me to pull it closer.

  Another five minutes of struggling and I wrapped my fingers around the heavy implement.

  I held it above me, looking up at it, and realized it was long and really heavy. Too heavy from my half-buried position to get much leverage.

  But I didn’t have any choice. I had to try. So I worked my hands along the handle until they grasped the wide metal head and then flipped it over, settling the tips underneath the biggest rock holding me in place.

  Then I began the nearly impossible process of trying to burrow the prongs underneath the thick slab of concrete.

  16

  Makeup!

  Whether an hour or several hours later, it really didn’t matter because, however long it took, it just about destroyed me. I shoved at the last rock holding me down with shaking arms and lay back, panting. My arms quivered with weariness. My head was pounding, probably more from dehydration than anything else, and my hands were bleeding so badly the pitchfork had slipped from my grip and clattered to the ground on my final effort.

  I needed to move. But all I wanted to do was lie there, praying for a miracle. If I closed my eyes and knocked my heels together three times, would I wake up at Croakies?

  The thought brought tears burning in my eyes. I missed home.

  I missed my friends.

  I missed comfort and tea and…brownies.

  Yeah, that last part might have been inspired by the residual scent of the pie-making plate. I glanced toward the broken remnants, the first soft rays of dawn bathing the spot in a jagged, pale light and showing two equal plate halves, holding two perfect triangles of pie.

  I grinned. Well, at least something had gone right. I reached over and grabbed the first succulent slice of lemon cream pie and started eating. By the time I’d finished both slices, I had the energy to climb to my feet. I grabbed the plate pieces and shoved them together, trapping the 2 fresh slices in the middle, and slipped it inside my shirt for later.

  I grimaced as cool peach filling slid from the sides. I’d be a sticky mess. But at least I wouldn’t be hungry.

  I grabbed the pitchfork and carefully picked my way through the broken concrete and clay debris that was all that was left of my prison. As I stepped through the fractured wall, the sun broke over a distant line of trees, bathing me in a pale gray light.

  I inhaled deeply, relishing the first dust and mold-free breath I’d taken since the Sheriff had imprisoned me there, and turned toward a low line of buildings in the distance. It didn’t look like Mayberry. But that might be a good thing. I’d locate shelter, get my bearings, and find a way to notify my friends where I was.

  Feeling much better for having a plan, I set off toward the town on the horizon.

  Only a few minutes had passed before the air sighed and split an inch from my nose, making me jump back with a yelp. A slender column of painted wood smacked the nearest tree with a “thwuck”.

  I instinctively ducked, my gaze going to the tree and widening. “Holy fish fingers!” An arrow quivered there, embedded in the dense bark, and I realized it had been meant for me.

  Another arrow soughed through the air and hit the dirt inches from my feet. I jumped straight up in the air with a yelp and scurried over to the skewered tree, diving behind it for protection.

  Two more arrows hit the ground around the tree. I clutched my pitchfork in sweaty palms, feeling as if I’d entered a gun battle clutching a butter knife.

  The ground thundered beneath
my knees. With a pounding pulse, I glanced up to the sky, expecting more bad news to be roiling there. But the sky was still light, with wispy layers of white clouds.

  Realizing the current trouble was situated much lower, I peered cautiously around the tree. Three horses galloped my way, dust flaring around their hooves. Perched easily on their bare backs, three shirtless, dark-haired riders sent feral screams into the dawn sky. The two on the outside carried long spears above their heads, their screams warbling aggressively in their throats. The rider in the middle nocked an arrow on the fly, piercing the tree mere inches from my face.

  I slammed backward. “Indians? Really?” My achy breaky heart thundered in my chest. I didn’t want to be killed and scalped by men wearing too little cloth and too much war paint. I liked my hair right where it was, thank you. And I preferred my men fully clothed.

  Well…mostly.

  I scanned the area, looking for an escape route and seeing nothing.

  I took stock of my defensive options. I had two. I could either distract them with pie or try to poke them with my pitchfork.

  I was pretty sure they’d be much better with their spears than I was with my pitchfork. And while I poked at them, the guy with the arrows would put more holes in me than my favorite tea infuser.

  Sometimes my life sucked a bushel of lemons.

  The three horses slammed to a stop not far from the tree. I gripped the fork, taking a deep breath for courage. A beat later, I jumped from behind the tree, crouching with my weapon in front of me and trying to look fierce.

  The three men stood straight and tall, their black eyes hostile in their broad faces. One of them flared wide nostrils and frowned. “Where’s your pretty dress? The parasol? You’re a mess.”

  I blinked. “Huh?” Way to dazzle Naida.

  The one with the bow sighed with irritation. “Makeup!” he shouted.

  The horizon moved and a young woman wearing jeans and a tidy checkered shirt stepped out from behind it. I realized I’d been looking at a backdrop. She placed hands on hips. “What is it now, Fonzie?”

  Fonzie?

  The bow guy flung a hand in my direction. “Why isn’t the damsel in distress in costume? She looks like something from a deserted island episode. I’m not taking that prisoner. She’s a mess. And she smells like a prisoner of war movie.”

  The girl glowered at me. “You were supposed to get into costume. I’m not your mother. I’m not dressing you. Now get your butt over to makeup and see if they can fix you up. Maybe visit the Contagion set and have them give you one of those disinfecting showers. I’m pretty sure you need more than just soap and water.”

  I scowled back at her, my dignity in tatters around me, and then realized she’d given me the perfect out. Biting back an instinctive defense of my condition, I lowered my head and stumbled in the direction she’d pointed, leaving them all arguing unhappily behind me.

  The line of buildings I’d seen in the distance were definitely not Mayberry. It reminded me of the western town I’d seen in Behind the Scenes.

  I stopped in the middle of the dusty street and stared at the buildings. They were built of rough wood and their windows were sans glass. The building in the center, the Okay Saloon, had a covered wooden porch containing a rustic pair of rocking chairs and a lot of mud. Two people rocked slowly in the chairs, giving me slanty-eyed looks filled with disgust. The woman was dressed in a risqué bustier that showed more than it hid and a ruffled black skirt that frothed around her slender calves, just over a pair of leather lace-up boots. Her long legs were crossed and the uppermost boot bounced on the air as she scowled in my direction. “You look like something the Native Americans dragged in.”

  The person in the other rocker, a long, lean man wearing a white cowboy hat he’d pushed back on his head, laughed. He gave me a crooked smile, his teeth perfectly white and straight around the piece of hay he was chewing. “Honey, you’re gonna give Mabel a run for her money.”

  I frowned. “Mabel?”

  The swinging doors of the saloon slammed open, and a bony blonde stood there, her small face mutinous. “Finally! I was told you’d be here an hour ago.” Her pale eyes flashed with rage. “And look at you. What have you been doing?” She narrowed her gaze. “Did they send me the heroine for the prisoner of war episode instead?”

  I opened my mouth to respond but never got the chance. Mable shoved a swinging door open and screamed back the way she’d come. “Hey! Lance, did you grab the wrong list of acters again?”

  A disembodied male voice emerged from the darkened interior, the response more swears than actual words. Suffice it to say it didn’t bear repeating.

  Mable rolled her eyes like she’d been doing it all her life. Her eye muscles must have been spectacular. I was wondering if she’d be willing to do a roll-off against the sprite, and had opened my mouth to ask her as she stomped out to the street and grabbed my arm, dragging me toward the building. “Come on. We only have a few minutes to get you ready. Those Indians are charging by the hour, and they’re costing us a fortune.”

  I barely had time to take in the interior of the Saloon as she dragged me past wooden tables filled with men dressed in Western gear, complete with long-barreled guns shoved into leather holsters strapped around muscular thighs. Several more women dressed like the one in the rocker outside lounged among the men, drinking something frothy from heavy glasses.

  Saloon girls.

  I grinned. I’d never met a saloon girl before.

  Mable shoved me through a door, and I found myself standing in a plain room with a narrow bed and a curtained-off area that had a makeshift shower. “Strip and clean up. There’s soap and stuff in that basket. If you’re not back out here in five minutes, I’m coming in after you.”

  She tugged the curtain closed and I hurried to strip. But only because, at that point, I would have killed to be clean. I wasn’t afraid that the scrawny tyrant would yank me naked from the shower.

  No. I. Was. Not.

  The pie plate slipped down my belly when I removed my shirt and I grabbed it before it shattered on the ground. Looking around, I found a spot behind the basket to hide it, figuring I could come back to get it once I was dressed again.

  I took the fastest shower I’ve ever taken, the water only warm but still feeling wonderful against my griminess. I watched as a semi-solid clump of pie filling globbed off me onto the rough wood floor and got caught in the drain. I smiled. Let them try to figure out what that was when they went to clean it later.

  Light, rapid footsteps on the wood planks beyond the curtains warned me just as I tugged a towel around my body. I stepped through as Mable lifted a bony hand to open the curtains.

  She looked at me, seemingly annoyed that she hadn’t gotten to roust me and said, “Hmph.”

  I followed her to the narrow bed and she tugged a lacy white concoction from the top, handing it to me. I held it up with one hand, the other hand busy clutching the towel around my dripping nakedness. “What’s this?”

  Mable frowned. “Are you serious? They haven’t taught you about all the parts of your costume?”

  I shook my head, not having to fake my cluelessness.

  Mable repeated one or two of Lance’s creative swears and grabbed it back from me. “Dry off. I guess I’m going to have to dress you like a baby.”

  A half-hour later, feeling bruised and traumatized from being threatened and bludgeoned into a light-gray cotton dress with lace along its way-too-low neckline and around its short, puffy sleeves, I stumbled through the door back into the saloon.

  A chorus of wolf-whistles filled the room at my arrival.

  The three Indians who’d tried to skewer me with arrows and spears were standing at the bar drinking firewater. They turned and gave me an appreciative look. The one with the bow and arrows waggled his brows.

  I blushed. I’d have felt good about the positive attention, except I was pretty sure it was just because my boobs were all but hanging out of the stupid dress
. I tugged on the neckline again, gaining nothing for my efforts except another slap on the hand by Mable.

  “You clean up pretty well,” said a feminine voice I recognized. I turned to find the woman from the rocking chair sauntering in my direction. She reached out and tugged on a shiny curl Mable had used her magical powers to create in my long, brown hair. I had to admit, the woman had a way with recalcitrant, bossy brown hair. “I would have never believed that was under all the filth,” said rocker lady.

  I stared at her, recognizing a back-handed compliment when I heard one.

  Go me.

  She smiled, glancing toward Mable. “I’ll get her to her mark and make sure she’s got her lines down.”

  Mabel’s glower softened. “That would be very helpful, Donia. Thank you.”

  Donia hooked her arm through mine and sashayed toward the door as if her hips were attached to a rowing machine. Her firm flesh bounced against mine as we reached the door, and I would have stumbled sideways from the contact if she hadn’t been clinging to my arm.

  Grinning widely, she released me and sashayed gracefully through the door. I followed her through, feeling like an ungainly oaf next to her supple beauty.

  The sun drilled into my eyes as I stepped outside. I squinched them to slits, reaching up to tug on my neckline again as sunlight threatened to bake the pasty white flesh there. Expecting Donia to lead me back to the copse of trees where I’d been set upon by the painted-pony-riding natives, I was surprised when she tugged me down the street. Glancing frantically around, I tried to come up with an excuse to escape.

  I didn’t get the chance. Donia yanked me sideways, into the shade of the faux buildings. “Come on.”

  I stumbled over my shoes and fell into her wake, trying to yank my arm from her iron grip. “Where are we going?” I was pretty sure she wasn’t interested in helping me with my lines. But I wasn’t getting a good vibe about what she did want to do with me. “Are you friends with Sheriff Andrew?”