I ran back out into the heat, sweat sticking my shirt to my chest and back, jumped into the car and shoved the key into the ignition. The engine came to life with a deep-throated rumble that made my internal organs vibrate. There was power under the hood, 390 horses bucking and anxious to let the steam out of their legs. And I was about to oblige them.
I steered the car out of the lot and onto route 587. I pressed the gas pedal, and the team of horses under the hood snorted and growled. Rubber screamed against asphalt.
About two miles down the road I crested a hill and saw the Malibu up ahead, swimming in the devilish heat-waves rising off the blacktop. Letting up on the accelerator, I tailed him for about two more miles. I knew the tire had to be close to riding on the rim.
Up ahead I lost the Malibu around a bend. I pressed the accelerator and inched the red needle closer to the black 6-0. Rounding the turn, I saw what I’d been waiting for. The Malibu sat along the side of the road, two wheels on 587, two wheels on the gravel shoulder. The rear tire, passenger side, was dipped low, sitting on its rim.
I blew out a breath and gripped the steering wheel with damp palms. My heart jackhammered in my chest and an aching pain settled behind my eyes.
I eased the Mustang off the road and stopped teen feet from the rear of the Malibu, the same rear I’d just pumped gas into minutes ago.
The Malibu’s driver-side door swung open and two tree-trunk-sized, blue-jeaned legs swung out, followed by the mountain I not-so-fondly referred to as Beast Man. He stood to his full height, ran a hand over his head, removed the spent cigarette from his mouth and flicked it toward the road. He then squinted in my direction, pulled his lips back from stained teeth and drew in a long, slow breath.
I could just make out the top of the girl’s head in the back seat. Blonde hair, the color of spun sunshine. She was sitting still, unmoving, head facing the seat in front of her.
After blotting my palms on my pants, I exited the Mustang.
“Looks like you got a flat,” I said, walking toward Beast Man, gravel crunching under my work boots. It was hot. The asphalt road was like a griddle. I could almost hear the heat crackling off its surface.
Beast Man took a step toward me. “You’re the guy from the gas station.” “Yeah. I was just running into town for a part and saw your flat. Need
any help?”
Beast Man walked around to the passenger side of the car, parted his legs, and bent at the waist. He ran a meaty hand over the treads of the tire. “I can change it for you if you want. I’m pretty fast,” I said, hoping to
distract him from the gouge in the tire. Maybe it was smashed between rim and ground and he’d never find it. I could only hope.
He cursed loudly and stood erect, one hand on his low back. “Suits me just fine. Probably picked up a damn nail in your parking lot anyway.” He spun the set of keys in his finger. “I’ll pop the trunk.”
I eyed the girl in the back seat, still unmoving. “Cute kid you got there. Granddaughter?” I’ve never been one for tact. Some have said I have a foot shaped mouth, and I can’t exactly disagree. Hey, it’s a perfect fit. As soon as I asked the question I could think of a hundred reasons why I shouldn’t have.
Beast Man glanced at the girl then moved past me toward the trunk. “Naw, foster kid. We’ve had her about a month now. Damn spoiled brat, too. Can’t wait ‘til we can get rid of her.”
He lifted the trunk and fished for the crow bar, moving rags and blankets, buckets and tools. “Here it is,” he said, lifting the black bar out of a corner of the trunk and handing it to me.
I took it and gripped it with both hands. Despite the heat outside, the metal wasn’t hot. It was heavy, though. Solid. Balancing it in my hands, weighing, calculating, I envisioned what I was about to do. I had no idea how the events of the next couple minutes would play out. I’d have to just wait for the right moment and hope I recognized it when it showed up. I figured I’d only get one opportunity. The thought of it twisted my stomach like a dishrag.
Beast Man looked at me, then at the crow bar. I wondered if he noticed how tightly I gripped the iron. “You wanna get that tire off, I’ll get the spare out,” he said.
I blotted the sweat from my eyes with my shirtsleeve. “Uh, sure. Yeah.” I went around to the side of the car, glanced in the rear window, and
caught an image that steeled my resolve. The girl was looking at me, those big blue ocean eyes looking through me, speaking to me soul, pleading for help. I smiled at her and noticed a single silver track running from her eye to her jaw line. Her chin was tight, and her lower lip quivered like the last leaf of autumn blown by the chilly breeze.
I looked back at Beast Man. He was bent over the bumper, busy wrestling the spare from the trunk, his jeans riding low enough that the top of his crack peeked out over his belt. I turned back to the girl and placed my right hand, fingers spread, on the glass of the window. Her eyes shifted to my hand but she didn’t move. She just sat there, on her hands, a pitiable look glazing her eyes.
I jerked my hand away when the jack landed on the ground next to my feet. Beast Man was glaring at me, his gray eyes like daggers aimed at my heart. “You’re gonna need that, aren’t ya?”
I diverted my eyes from his deadly gaze and bent for the jack. “Uh, yeah, I guess so. Thanks.”
Five minutes later the car was sitting cockeyed on the jack, the flat lying on the shoulder next to the car.
Beast Man rolled the spare over to me and let it drop on its side. It toilet bowled around until it finally settled like a coin does when dropped on a hard surface.
“Let’s see what we got here,” he said, bending over to inspect the flat.
I stood up and watched as he ran his hand along the outer wall of the tire. This was my chance. Fate. Destiny. Providence had delivered this moment to me, dropped it on my porch step, first-class mail. It was mine for the taking.
I’d never been the athletic type but I did know how to swing a bat. Of course, a crow bar was a little different from a bat and it had been a good twenty-some years since I’d taken a swing at anything.
While Beast Man was bent double examining the tire, I took my best baseball grip on the crow bar and reared it back over my right shoulder. I had to do it without thinking because if I thought too long about it I knew I’d change my mind and chicken out. Remember, I’m not the violent type. Wally Winemiller proved that much.
I swung hard, aiming for the back of Beast Man’s thick head . . . and missed. Not totally missed. I didn’t whiff like I had done so many times in Little League. I landed a glancing blow off the left side of his head that didn’t feel like it made much of an impact at all. The weight and momentum of the swinging crow bar carried me forward, and I would have lost my b a l a n c e if not for landing against the side of the Malibu.
Beast Man grunted and I saw his head snap forward and to the right. He dropped to his knees and landed on all fours, one hand on the flat tire. “The hell you doin’?” he yelled, sweat and spit spraying from his mouth.
He grabbed my ankle with an iron grip, like the jaws of a bulldog. Bright crimson blood was seeping from a large gash in the side of his head, just behind the ear, and ran down the side of his face and neck, mingling with the wiry hair of his beard.
I swung the crow bar again, this time at his arm. Looking back on it now I should have just swung at his head while it was so exposed, but adrenaline was clouding my reasoning skills, and I was in a full-out state of panic. The bar landed on his wrist, just above the hand that gripped my ankle, and I heard it snap like a dry branch.
Beast Man let out a howl-roar, released my ankle and grabbed his wrist, rolling to his side.
My heart was banging so hard I was certain it would jump out of my chest. I was no longer thinking, just reacting. Rage had overtaken me like a demon. Came in and possessed my soul. It was in charge now, my master, my god. I’d never known emotion like that before, never felt the flood of fury wash through my essence with such
force and power, and in some wicked place in my heart it felt good.
Beast Man kept rolling, no doubt trying to get enough space between me and him so he could climb to his feet and use his size as an advantage. But I wasn’t about to let him do that. I followed him, jumping over the tire, taking large steps until I reached him, then swung wildly. No aim. The crow bar landed on his side, and I heard a rib crack, or maybe two.
He stopped rolling and came to a halt on his side, arms covering his head in defense mode.
But I was determined to finish what I’d started. He’d never molest my little angel again, never grope, never prod, never run his calloused hand over her milky white skin, never violate her with such perverse malevolence. I raised the bar over my head and brought it down hard. It landed on the back of his head with a sickening, wet yet solid, thwump, like smashing a pumpkin. I stood over Beast Man, crow bar at my side, panting like a dog. He lay motionless on the ground, a dark pool of blood growing around his head.
I don’t remember much of what followed that final assault. Mr. Crosby later told me I skidded into the Texaco’s lot with the girl in the Mustang. My jeans were spattered with blood, and I was bawling like a newborn. Mr. Crosby called the police and, three months later, I found my way here, to Cell Block D in the Pennsylvania State Pen.
Beast Man lived, with some brain damage, but he’ll never molest anyone again. And he was molesting the girl. During the trial all the gruesome, perverted details came out. Some lauded me as a hero, some a would-be murderer, a danger to society, a maniac. But because he survived my rage, I only got fifteen years for attempted murder.
I don’t regret what I did. I’m not proud of it, but I don’t regret it. I truly believe if not for me that little girl, whose name turned out to be Annabella, would not have lived to see the sun set that evening. I saved her life.
Anna visits me every month. She’s sixteen now, was adopted four years ago by a loving couple from Warren. She calls me her guardian angel. She calls me a hero.
Maybe I am a hero. Maybe I am a would-be murderer. What scares me is that both reside somewhere inside me, side by side, brothers in constant conflict.
I believe my story would will end here, in Cell Block D. Though I only have five more years of my sentence to serve, I’m sure I’ll never walk with a free stride again. Last week I started having another dream—another recurring dream-nightmare. I dream I see myself lying on the floor of this cell, face disfigured, neck slashed, eyes blank and hollow, my cellmate, Lou, standing over me.
BAVEL
JENS RUSHING
From: Inspector Goussard
To: Inspector General Atkinson
28.09.2145
Dear Sir,
Attached please find the documents relating to the case of the Marie Belle, the mining ship found in the Carvasa sector. Due to the extent of the devastation wreaked on the ship, most of the central computer’s memory banks were destroyed, and a good many private records lost as well. However, enough survived to piece together a rough approximation of what happened—what caused the death or disappearance of every last member of the crew, and what force may have torn the ship end from end. The damage to the ship is not consistent with the potential hazards of asteroid mining, nor any catastrophic engine malfunction. Unless new evidence is forthcoming, that factor may remain unknown.
Bureau of Vessel Registration
Marie Belle
VIN: 2907262
Owner: Jarvis Neill
Class: Medium-weight mining scow
Engines: Four Pratt & Whitney XV560s
Crew: 6
Flight Plan: (filed 16.05.2144) Departing Luna Station, destination Carvasa sector (coordinates: 34.362, 47.345, 112.536), there to harvest and process nickel and iron ore from S-type asteroids Cassa 1135, 1136, and 1137.
Approximate duration of journey: 2 years
From: Jan Neilson, Carvasa Sector, G.3 Councilor’s Office
To: Inspector Goussard
Re: Coroner’s Report, Subject 53609, Doctor Jeffrey Theophorus
15.09.2145
Vital Statistics: Caucasian male, age 46, black hair, brown eyes. 198 pounds.
5’8”.
Personal Effects: Two ballpoint pens, eyeglasses (broken), wallet, Greek
Orthodox icon.
Cause of Death: Massive bleeding resulting from a gunshot wound to the chest. The bullet fractured the sternum, pierced the aorta, and exited through the back.
Verdict: Powder burns on the subject’s clothing and the presumed velocity of the bullet (acc. to Forensics) are consistent with a self-inflicted wound.
LOG OF CAPTAIN JARVIS NEILL
26.08.2144
We have finished processing the ore harvested from Cassa 1135; Moss estimates our take at over a hundred tons. The iron vein was considerably thinner than first estimated. 1136 should produce a higher yield, according to Baker, who has just completed a preliminary geological survey. He reports a markedly greater concentration of minerals. He is currently preparing to embark on a second survey, this time with the intent of finding blasting points.
Despite initial disappointment, morale remains high. Baker was noticeably agitated upon return from his survey, but that’s nothing out of the norm for him.
DIARY OF ELI BAKER
26.08.2144
Back from my spacewalk! I still have to shut my eyes when I move or I risk tumbling to the floor. God, the vertigo! I can’t ever quite get used to it. Lifeline or no, floating out there, just a thin metal skin between me and that infinite nothingness—it’s terrifying. I can’t ever get used to it. And when I come back, not even the ship seems safe. I can feel the deck under my boots, or my bed under my back, but it still feels like paper, just waiting to give way, and I drop through it (gravity or no), and then I’m gone, hurtling out into nothingness, going and going, and not even screaming because there’s no air. Just my lips forming a little silent O, and everyone gets a good laugh before I disappear forever, a little spinning shape spinning out to the horizon. God, I hate it! Why did I take this job?
More—why do I have to be so good at this job? What’d the Captain say? “Rocks talk to you, boy.” Well, yeah, I guess. They render up the secrets of their own destruction, is all. A charge here, a charge there, and they come drifting free in this beautiful quiet space slow-motion. It’s a ballet, is what it is. The ship dances with the rocks, scooping them up, all with “Waltz of the Flowers” blasting in lo-fi over the intercom. The asteroids, the partner, consumed—inevitably! Surreal. But then you think—quiet, beautiful in their bareness the boulders may be, but each one with enough sheer ponderousness to crush a man—or a ship, if things go wrong—into component molecules.
Now who’s playing the flute at this hour? And playing it badly, I might add. Seems like it’s coming from Luce’s cabin. That dizzy dame.
EMAIL FROM DR. JEFFREY THEOPHORUS TO MRS. ALISON THEOPHORUS
(Indianopolis, Indiana, USA, Earth)
27.08.2144
My dearest, sweetest Alison,
I can’t send this until we stop at Demeter Station to sell our ore and take on new supplies, but it seemed prudent to go ahead and begin the missive; I can append it as necessary.
I hope my letter finds you and the girls well. I sometimes regret signing on for such a long cruise, my dear, but it can’t be helped now. Hopefully, the financial benefits will go a long way toward salving the pain of our separation. We have already taken over a hundred tons in ore, I am told. I assume that’s a great deal.
The crew is a cordial bunch, though rather informal in their dealings with one another. They seem to have sailed together for quite a few trips before I joined. The captain seems competent and fair; Moss and Luce Gill, the foundryman and engineer, respectively, seem to know their business, and Jake Brooke, the pilot, has steered us safely and well so far. Among the crew, I am particularly fond of one lad, a sensitive-seeming youth named Eli Baker, the ship’s geologist. After myself, he is the most junior of
the crew. He’s just out of college, about the age that Jackie would be by now. He’s got these wide curious eyes that seem to absorb everything he sees (and he sees a lot of wondrous things, I’m sure, on his spacewalks).
They’re calling me to “mess”; I’ll finish this letter another time, my dear. Don’t worry for my safe return; I say a prayer to my little icon of Saint Christopher every day.
FLIGHT RECORDER TRANSCRIPT
Recorded 27.08.2144 (11:45)
BAKER: (via radio) Charges set. Clearing the surface. (A pause of several minutes.) Cleared. Ready.
NEILL: Blow it.
BROOKE: Roger.
(A muffled explosion.)
BROOKE: There she goes!
BAKER: Defragmenting nicely.
NEILL: Good job, Baker. Get out of that suit and take a few hours. BROOKE: Deploying scoop.
(A brief rattle as the ship scoops a fragment of an asteroid.)
BAKER: (excitable) What is that? BROOKE: What is what?
BAKER: That! Holy Christ, man, see it? BROOKE: What . . . ?
NEILL: Baker, what are you talking about?
BAKER: That! Don’t you see it? It’s there, those lines—sulfur vein. Right, there!
BROOKE: I don’t see it.
NEILL: We aren’t all geologists, Baker.
BAKER: It’s plain as day! I’ve seen it before, too. NEILL: What? Seen what before where?
BAKER: (growing more excitable, his speech fragmented) . . . the three crooked swirls . . . the center eye, the yellow eye . . .
BROOKE: He’s crazy. Didn’t I always say he was crazy? NEILL: Shut up. Baker, head back and suit out.
(A long pause.)
NEILL: Baker? (Another pause.) Baker! Report! NEILL: Where is he?
BROOKE: Captain! He’s outside. He’s just—floating! I think he’s unconscious!
NEILL: (Indistinguishable mumble) You have the helm. BROOKE: You’re going out?
MIdnight Diner 1: Jesus vs. Cthulhu Page 30