If that were true, it made sense the reverse must also be true. When something’s not coming, when the coast is clear, you must be able to sense that too.
So Elizabeth just lay there, letting him sit on the bed. And David just sat on the bed, watching over her.
The next morning Elizabeth awoke before she even knew she’d fallen asleep. She made slow movements beneath the covers. When her brain began to think again, she realized she might very well touch her father by stretching, since the last thing she remembered was him sitting beside her. Still pretending to be asleep, she edged her head from under the covers, peeped beneath her eyelids, and looked around the room as best she could without giving herself away. But she didn’t see her father.
He must’ve left while I was sleeping.
“Good,” her 3V voice answered. “And if he’s gone from the house, maybe we can go pay Mallus a visit before he gets home. I feel the need to kick some ass.”
But Elizabeth ignored the voice, which pouted in response, and stretched in her bed, enjoying with sinful awareness the luxury of not having to run to the bathroom, get dressed, and be at her computer for webschool at eight A.M. sharp.
Saturdays rock! she thought, smiling to herself.
She thought of the night before, her conversation with the old man, and her father’s behavior. She had been genuinely afraid of him then. She had known—not sensed, not hoped it wouldn’t happen, but known—he was going to hit her in that moment. If the dog hadn’t shown up when she had, this Saturday morning would feel very differently.
Elizabeth wondered about that. She had heard him speak, even as she ran away, a quiet, fear-struck phrase. It repeated in her head using her 3V voice in as serious a tone as that voice had ever used.
“Never again.”
And then he had come and sat on her bed. Had he spoken at all last night, she would’ve screamed. Elizabeth was sure of that. Had he touched her, she would’ve retreated. But he hadn’t spoken, hadn’t touched her. He’d just sat beside her. And she hadn’t—after all and perhaps most unbelievably—minded him sitting on the bed beside her. And then she must’ve fallen asleep.
Shrugging off the strangeness of it all, she decided it was a waste of a good Saturday to lie in bed. So she got up, went to the bathroom, got dressed, and went tentatively into the kitchen, where she found her mother viewing Web Report.
“How are you this morning, Elizabeth?” Susan asked.
Elizabeth could sense the hesitation in her mom as well, as if she weren’t sure how to form the sentences she needed to talk to her daughter. Susan had been relieved beyond words when she’d come home, and that had segued quickly into anger and worry and a speech about how harsh the world was and wouldn’t she please be more careful and let her mom know where she was going from now on? Elizabeth had responded at first defensively but then was genuinely sorry she’d caused so much worry. “I’m fine.”
“Your father told me about that old bum you were hanging out with.”
Elizabeth considered her response, wanting to jump to Rocky’s defense, but then decided to avoid the conflict altogether. “‘Hanging out’? Mom, you are so out of the language loop.”
“Elizabeth.” Susan stopped, reining it in. “I don’t want you doing that anymore. Your father thinks he might—might do you harm, and I agree with him.”
“Now there’s a first.” It spit out of her, and she immediately regretted it.
“Elizabeth. Promise me.”
Elizabeth made a show of it. Slumped body language. Slightly whining tone. Dejected, end-of-the-universe look on her face. “All right, Mom. I won’t . . . hang out with him anymore.”
Susan Jackson nodded her head like a judge’s gavel signaling the case was over. “Breakfast? Sausage and eggs and toast?”
“Maybe. Where’s Dad?” She asked the question nonchalantly.
Her mother cleared her throat. “He went into the office this morning. But he said he’d like us all to go out to a movie tonight, if you’re up for it.”
This time Elizabeth didn’t have to fake an astonished look on her face. “Go out? Dad? Aren’t outhouse movies expensive?”
For the first time in as long as Elizabeth could remember, her mom laughed out loud. “Well, they’re certainly more expensive than inhouse ones. You know, when I was your age, kids used to love to go to the movies. Anything to get away from Mom and Dad.”
It dawned on Elizabeth that her mother was making one of those laughable but lovable attempts to connect with her. Despite the seeming ludicrousness of it, it genuinely warmed her heart to think Mom was at least trying. “But you just said you two were going. So much for getting away from you.”
Her mother’s face clouded. “So you don’t want to go? Your father will be disappointed.”
“Screw him! Let’s ride in Rheanna!” shouted the 3V voice.
“I was kidding, Mom!” said Elizabeth. “I’ll think about it.” She grabbed a piece of toast and wrapped a sausage and some eggs in it as she headed out the door.
“And where are you going?”
“Oh, sorry,” Elizabeth said, turning around. “I’m supposed to meet Michael at his house. I want to see how bad he got it last night.”
“Elizabeth, that’s not nice. But I want you to stay away from the old man!” shouted Susan as the back door slammed.
Elizabeth cut across her backyard and then the neighbor’s to make her way back to Old Suzie’s house. She used this route, which wasn’t as direct, in case her father happened to be driving home from the office already. Walking along, she kicked stones every few steps and wondered what she’d say to Rocky. Her father had really embarrassed her, and she had no idea what she should say. Her 3V self reveled in the thought she was making a beeline for Old Suzie’s house in direct violation of her mom’s rule.
“If we can’t go to Rheanna, at least we can visit with Rocky,” the voice said. “Better’n nuthin.”
Elizabeth looked up and noted that the first day of November, with its blue sky and pillow clouds and cool breeze, promised to be a good day. She passed Michael’s house and thought about stopping to see how he was doing, to maybe help explain to his mom about what had happened yesterday. But his house looked shut up, battened down, and she assumed they were doing Saturday family things and that her visit might just make things worse for him anyway. So she walked on.
She’d taken the route to come up behind Old Suzie’s house, the way she’d followed the dog, without even realizing it. So she made her way up the weed-grown driveway, past the unkempt gardens, and up to the back door, its screen still hanging limp. Carefully sliding her way through the back door, she called out for the old man. No response.
“Dog?”
She had never thought to name the dog or ask the old man what he’d named her, and she felt silly calling for her like that. But it didn’t seem to matter anyway because there was no answer from the dog either. Not even a pant-pant.
Elizabeth moved through the kitchen. The house was shady inside despite the sky-blue sunlight shining through the broken windows. She heard the scurrying sound of dozens of tiny legs as the roaches retreated to their hiding places, making way for her giant, deadly feet. Trying to remember they feared her more than she feared them, she walked straight into the parlor.
Elizabeth called again for the old man to no avail. There was Rocky’s chair and the fireplace, which had been dutifully doused. The dust and cobwebs in Old Suzie’s chair looked undisturbed, which was weird. But there was no old man. There was no dog.
Now she began to worry. Had her father returned here and taken his wrath out on Rocky after all?
“If he hurt that dog . . .” warned her 3V voice.
But Elizabeth dismissed the idea. The man she’d run from last night wasn’t her father of today. He wasn’t even the man who’s sat beside her as she’d fallen asleep. At least, she was pretty sure he wasn’t.
She found herself in the entryway, staring at the open front door.
<
br /> “Rocky?”
Elizabeth stepped onto the porch.
creak
“Dog?”
With her hands on her hips, she crossed the front yard and walked all the way to the road. Calling and looking, looking and calling. She walked up Elm Street toward the two-lane highway and stopped at the intersection. Traffic was sparse, but then, it was still early on a Saturday.
Elizabeth looked left and saw a car coming. She looked right and saw the old man and the dog. He was using a tree branch for a walking stick, ambling slowly but surely up the highway toward the slight hill that led out of town.
Then what she’d seen a moment ago registered in her mind, and she looked left again. It was her father’s car coming. It slowed down as it neared her, and she knew it was too late—he’d seen her. But she wasn’t concerned about that now as she looked back to the right. Quite clearly, and strangely at this distance, she heard the old man beckon the dog to his side, away from the carcass she had gone to sniff.
“Come on, Elsbyth, this is the way we’re headed,” his voice said, carried on the wind.
He named her after me!
“But he’s leaving!” her 3V voice responded, sounding for the first time in its life as if it might cry.
“Rocky!” she shouted, but the wind was blowing the wrong way. He didn’t turn and wave or give any sign at all he’d heard. She considered running after him, but then the wheels of her father’s car popped rocks as it pulled up next to her. She heard him get out, saying something about going to the movies later.
Elizabeth ignored him until he stopped speaking and followed her gaze, staring after the distant figures on their way out of town. She felt his hand come to rest lightly on her shoulder. Neither said anything to the other. Feeling the cool wind on their faces, they watched together as the old man and his dog crested the hill of the highway and faded from sight.
###
Acknowledgments
Few creative works are actually produced by just one person. In the case of Shadows, I’ve had a number of first readers who gave me feedback along the way: Michelle Benoit, Mary Cearley, Alison Cohn, Noel Garza, John Groppell, Michelle Hoelscher, Leslie Janac, Dorothy Pourteau, Courtney Prince, Ravenna Romack, Bridget Young, and Lauryn Zepeda-Groppell.
I’d particularly like to thank Valerie Yaklin-Brown for the photograph on the cover. I’d bet good money you felt a sense of foreboding or isolation when you first saw it. That’s Valerie’s skill at work. Fun fact: Valerie is old school and still prefers a Rolleiflex TLR camera to the digital kind. Check out her photography. If you’re like me, you’ll come away feeling like you’ve just toured a gallery on your desktop.
Also, a big thank-you goes to Kim Miller, an old friend and colleague from our work together at the Texas A&M Transportation Institute. Kim designed the wicked cover that fronts the novel. Kinda creepy, eh? (The cover, not Kim.) She’s applied her considerable talents for the past few years as creative director for marketing and communications at Texas A&M University. I’m just glad she was available to lend me those skills for a while. Kim, I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else putting the final touches on this. I owe you a drink at Veritas.
I had two excellent proofreaders—Marcus Trower and Dawn Herring—who helped me purge as many mistakes as humanly possible before carefully placing my newborn in your hands. Sometimes I didn’t take their advice, so any flaws, errors, or cases of “why the hell did he say it that way?!” are entirely my own.
Thanks also to the writers, classical and modern, who use their words to inspire my imagination. This list is representative, if not exhaustive, and I’ve learned something from every one of them: Suzanne Collins, Glen Cook, Bernard Cornwell, William Faulkner, David Gemmell, Ernest Hemingway, Washington Irving, Stephen King, Sir Thomas Mallory, George R.R. Martin, Toni Morrison, Edgar Allan Poe, Gene Roddenberry, John Scalzi, William Shakespeare, J.R.R. Tolkien, Mark Twain, and Chelsea Quinn Yarbro. And here are a few relatively new authors just starting out in digital publishing who’ve also inspired me through their excellent storytelling: Roberto Calas (the Scourge series), Nick Cole (the Wasteland books), and Manel Loureiro (the Apocalypse Z series). I highly recommend you try their stuff.
The lyrics at the beginning of each of Shadows’ three sections are by James McMurtry, a fellow Texan and singer-songwriter based in Austin. I’ve listened to his music since he released Too Long in the Wasteland, his first album, in 1989. McMurtry is one of the best wordsmiths on the planet, an opinion Stephen King seems to share: “The simple fact is that James McMurtry may be the truest, fiercest songwriter of his generation” (quoted from Entertainment Weekly). I urge you to give his music a listen—but only if you value superior storytelling. Thanks, James, for many years of incredible music.
And finally, to you, dear reader: Thank you for taking a chance on this novel and giving me the gift of your time. I hope you enjoyed it.
Chris Pourteau
September 2013
About the Author
Chris Pourteau has been a technical writer and editor for over twenty years. He’s published numerous technical articles and several literary essays and short stories. This novel is his first foray into the world of long fiction. He lives in Bryan, Texas.
If you’d like to let him know what you think about Shadows Burned In or just want to say howdy, feel free to email him.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part 2
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Part 3
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Shadows Burned In Page 25